In a nutshell, this is about an island revolution and immigration. I posted this story about six months ago, but it has undergone so many changes since then that I'm reposting the entire thing (in parts of course). Enjoy!
Running down his brother’s ornately decorated hallways, Ramon Perez reaches a pair of doors. Pausing a moment to compose himself he enters to take his place at his older brother’s deathbed. A dichotomy of grief and ambition fills Ramon’s brain with undesired ecstasy. He leans down to take Carlos’ shaking hand, straining to replace the gleam in his eye with tears. “Ramon,” whispers Carlos in a raspy voice, “Cambia is yours now. Carry on my legacy. Keep control.” Without another word, the feared yet respected leader of Cambia releases his fragile hold on life.
The grieving family exits the room with bodyguards in tow, leaving a middle-aged lawyer alone with Ramon. He holds a folder of considerable bulk. “There is no time to be lost, Mr. Perez. Cambia must have a president.” Ramon remains silent, his heart beating out of his chest with anticipation. “The last page is all we should concern ourselves with today.” The paper reads: “I, the undersigned, willingly accept the position of undisputed leader of Cambia and all the rights and responsibilities this entails.” Ramon maliciously smirks with the thought of the unconditional power this simple paper grants to its signer. The lawyer presents Ramon with a pen.
Before the ink hits paper, a gunshot rings out, and the document becomes spotted with blood. The limp body of the lawyer slumps to the ground. The supplier of the gunshot springs out from behind the oversized draperies, his cohorts coming out of the woodwork. Every one of them is filthy and slightly pale, evidence of an extensive stakeout. One of the more robust men restrains Ramon in a chokehold.
The lawyer’s shooter approaches the struggling Ramon. “Hello Mr. Perez.” The man raises a pistol he had concealed within his cloak. “Let’s cut the negotiations and get right down to business.” Grinning a yellow tar-stained smile, he positions the barrel of the gun in front of Ramon’s eye, as if to let him stare down a dark hallway of inevitability. “Give Cambia back to its people.” Ramon responds with dialect as cold as a snake’s underbelly with the sting of a scorpion:
“Never,”
The man lets out a guttural laugh in hearing this anticipated answer. His laugh is piercing, yet not quite loud enough to drown out the quick blast that shatters Ramon’s skull. Stepping over the recent victim the man picks up the document from Ramon’s cold clutch. Signing the paper, he turns to his followers.
“My friends,” he announces, “the rebellion has begun.”
As he pockets the article a weak ray from the setting sun illuminates his fresh signature: Javier Gonzalez.
“¡Perez está muerto! ¡Perez está muerto! ¡Cambia es libre! ¡Viva Cambia!” These constant cheers rejoicing the newly gained peace have been playing on a living room radio for hours. Margo’s father adjusts the knob to phase out some of the static that inhibits him from hearing more about the current situation.
Eager to escape the confusion, she logs onto her computer to check her mail. The profile page cheerfully reads: “Hello, Margo.” Margo laughs half-heartedly. The computer is the only cheerful one today. Hesitantly she glances at the recent messages. One reads: “Have you seen him?” Instinctively glancing at the date she realizes the message is only two days old. Her mind tells her not to click on it, after all no news is good news, but her body disobeys and clicks the letter open. “Please, if you see this boy IM me or call me right away. He has been missing ever since the uprising. I think he might be dead. I…I tried to stop him. I didn’t want him to leave. I’m so worried… I should keep this simple. If there is any information, please tell me ASAP” -Rachel. Attached is a familiar picture of a Latino youth staring into nothingness, oblivious that he is the photo’s subject.
Suppressed tears rise up. Soon, Margo is weeping, the warm droplets of water spilling across her mahogany desk. How could this have happened? Was freedom really worth the lives of so many innocents? The radicals certainly seemed to think so.
Margo’s thoughts return to Rachel’s bulletin. Rachel and Julio have been dating for nearly a year. She finds it odd that he would leave her, but at the same time nationalist’s blood flows through his veins. Julio disappeared shortly after the rebellion had broken into full swing. Her only guess at his whereabouts is that he is in Cambia’s capital, Amer, joining his fellow young rebels, or on a cheap fishing boat to some similar destination.
She sighs. He always was that type, the one who would pick up and leave when adventure called. A mental picture forms. Julio, the minute he found out about the NR, throws what little clothes he owns into his tattered school bag - with bike chains and old combination locks attached - and catches the first fishing boat out, ninety miles south, to the chaotic center of the uprising. The fishers were the first to sail out of the harbor, past the docked cruse ships, under the seven mile bridge, and well beyond all signs of Mainland territory.
Some still think this might be a peaceful coup. What idiots, thinks Margo. There has already been too much bloodshed. Coincidentally, as if her thoughts are proven correct, the static clears and news of the conflict fades back onto the radio.
“We are here with a member of the 735th squadron who was stationed at Palmero Fort. All we have been told is that something terrible happened there, and it involves Ramon Perez’s murder and the group that allegedly killed him.”
“We found out about Ramon Perez’s murder hours after the fact. Ordinarily high grade murders would be left for the Cambian government to sort out, but the President gave orders for us to settle this difficult matter. Of course, this is all in the interests of peace.”
Peace, Margo scoffs, yea right.
“Our General gave orders to only send a few troops; after all we didn’t want to spark a war.”
They sure didn’t do such a great job at preventing that. She crosses her arms and disdainfully continues listening.
“Could you describe to our listeners the details of this situation?”
“My squadron tracked the group to a small village just west of our base. Most of the guys in my team were new, and they didn’t have much experience with stealth. So, they invoked the effortless strategy of ‘shoot now, question later’.
"We stormed the village to find it abandoned; or so we thought. The village was close to the shoreline. We saw footprints in the sand, and followed them to a rocky beach. It was outrageously sunny, blinding even. I could barely see anything without squinting.
"Suddenly one of the new guys realized why the village was so quiet. He started shouting ‘They’re here! They’re here!’”
That’s stealthy, Margo thinks.
“Nearly a hundred locals stormed out from behind rocks, trees, from under holes dug in the sand - some were even holding their breath in the ocean - and each of them had some type of gun, knife, or machete. The entire village must have been waiting for us. It was the ultimate ambush. We panicked and opened fire.”
“Did you subdue your aggressors?”
“At first we had the upper hand, the locals scattered like flies. But our twenty machine guns with minimal ammunition didn’t last long. When our gunfire ceased we saw that all we had done was open a can of worms. The locals bolted out from their hiding spots and let us have it. We were no better off than fish in a barrel. I’m one of the lucky ones; all they got was my shoulder.”
“Did they give any names?” The reporter asks eagerly, wanting to make a break in this story.
“I heard a few names thrown around. I kept hearing ‘nuevo revolucionarios’,” he says, straining to pronounce the words correctly through his southern accent, “and NR, for short I assume. I think that’s what they call themselves.”
“Was there anything to suggest a leader?”
“Oh yes, there was one man in particular who was obviously the leader. Relatively tall, sinister look, a scar on his left cheek, I believe he’s called Gonzalez. The first name escapes me, but it started with a J…Joe? Justin? Jeremy?” The soldier aimlessly rambles off names as he searches his brain, “It could be anything.”
“You heard the man. Everyone out there keep your ears peeled for a Mr. J. Gonzalez. He’s bound to be an integral part of this issue. On another note, what is going on at Palmero Fort now?”
“As everyone is no doubt aware, they have closed their doors and are defending their premises with the upmost courage and strength.”
Margo clicks off the radio; this is old news. When Palmero Fort received news of their dead there was an instantaneous lock down. No one got in, no one got out. Or almost no one did. There is a rumor that any American whose life is threatened, or who is simply afraid, can come to Palmero Fort and they will be safe. This was six days ago. Everyone figures they’re still in there, guarding Cambia’s last American stronghold.
To Margo, the scariest part is that Cambia is a mere ninety miles away. There are rumors, terrifying stories the widows tell as they rock back and forth on their wooden porches, of a planned invasion of our country.
Alejandro, Margo’s boyfriend, doesn’t believe these rumors. He plans to become a fighter pilot after high school. She can easily picture him in the cockpit of a fighter plane over some wavy ocean; his strong arms tightly gripping the steering, never losing control. The idea of the military failing to protect its people is completely incomprehensible to him.
Margo is not so easily convinced. After all the terrorist threats, murdered innocents, and crime sprees that she’s witnessed, her faith in every protective force has waned. Margo knows even Alejandro can’t fully protect her, contrary to what he says. His mantra is: “I’ll always be there”. Exceptionally cliché as that is she admits it’s cute, in a naïve sort of way. Despite his reassuring, Margo doesn’t trust these impossible promises of security. Julio’s disappearance only fuels her paranoia.
