Boy with a Gun
Kyle Ingels watched two Grizzlies leading a man away, as he scream and flailed in their grip. They both put their pistols to his head, and that shut him up. He was still whimpering as they led him down the street in the opposite direction.
Ingels shook his head sadly and turned to walk the other way down the storefront street. Grove City had many streets like this, full of stores peddling their bric-a-brac to any passersby who would stop and take a browse. Names all hung on signs above them, like Macon Bacon, Artists’ Club, and .50 Caliber Steel; a butcher, art retailer, and gun store, in that order. Weapons dealers had had much better business in recent times than ever in America, since the Party passed a law that every citizen must own at least one weapon for defense purposes. It was illegal to carry loaded firearms in public without a license, though. Unless you were a Grizzly.
As adjusted his black overcoat, he heard what sounded like a metal clang in an alleyway he had just passed. He turned around and ventured into the alley to investigate, and the next thing he knew, a young boy, maybe 14 years old at most, was pointing a gun at him with a shaky hand.
“Give me your money!” He said, his knees violently trembling.
Ingels raised and eyebrow and kept his cool; not one of his neat brown hairs was ruffled. “This isn’t a very good way to make money, buddy,” he said in a smooth, even voice.
The boy’s hand shook even harder. He clearly didn’t have a grasp on the situation. “Give me your money! Or I’ll shoot!”
Ingels chuckled to himself. “If you were planning to hurt me, you would have already done it. Although, even if I’m wrong, there are Grizzly soldiers all around here. One of them is sure to hear a gunshot.”
His calm voice and convincing words had a visible effect on the boy, as he lowered the gun slightly and his threatening grimace changed to a timid frown.
“Besides, that pistol is combat-grade, and the firing pin often resets if not regularly cocked,” Ingels advised him.
Just to see if he was right, the boy pointed the gun at the ground and pulled the trigger. Sure enough, only a click was heard. Ingels knew his guns well.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, sniffling and turning his head away. He tossed the gun to the ground and sat down against a dumpster. “I’m not a criminal, I’m just . . . confused. And desperate.”
Ingels sat down next to him. “I’m very sorry to hear that. My name’s Kyle, what’s yours?”
“Chad. It’s Chad, sir.”
Ingels put an arm around Chad’s shoulder. “What’s wrong Chad? Feel like talking?”
“Well, my parents have been filing for divorce. And . . . my dad . . . I overheard him say to my mom that he didn’t want custody, because I was a burden. Because I can’t fend for myself.” Chad shed a few tears as he recounted his story.
“Were you trying to bring home some money to prove yourself?”
“Yes. I wanted to show him that . . . that I’m not useless!” Chad was crying now, but quietly, as he was still holding on to any pride left.
“Well, you seem like a very passionate young man Chad. Very willing to work and be productive. Have you thought about an apprenticeship?” Ingels asked him. The education and work system was very accommodating in the Party’s new structure. After finishing primary education in grades one through 10, which were always taught in a home setting by certified teachers, a student could apply as an apprentice to gain experience and a work degree in that field. Every job required certain degrees to be held by the student, but with the proper degrees, any job was available to anyone.
“Well, I’ve always wanted to work on guns. I have a workshop in my basement, and I fix my family’s guns all the time,” Chad told him.
“Well then, you should pursue earning a work degree in weapons studies, and engineering maybe. Get a job with a gunsmith. Tell your parents you want to work, and that’ll show your father!” Ingels patted him on the back. “Perk up, my boy! There’s a world of possibilities out there.”
Chad looked up at his unlikely motivational speaker, who he’d tried to rob only moments before. “You really think so?”
“Sure! Why not?” Ingels helped a new energized Chad stand up, and took out his wallet from his back pocket. He took out three twenties and handed them to the boy. “Tell your dad you fixed a gun for a friend, and he paid you.”
Chad’s hand trembled as he accepted the money. “Thank you! Thank you so much sir!”
“No problem.” With a smile and a wink, Ingels turned and walked back out onto the main road.
He had enjoyed the meeting with Chad. Not only that he’d helped a boy plan out his near future, but it reminded him of how he’d met his close friend, and now one of his greatest allies in the resistance movement.
Ingels had had a long and successful campaign so far, coming from a job as a simple primary teacher to head of the ISIF; the Independent State Insurgency Force. A title that represented his goals and ideas. He’d picked up the pieces of the broken revolts and revolutions before his own and banded them together with a common goal and morale. But his greatest discovery, by far, was this man who Chad reminded him of. The false Grizzly, Marko Brahe.
*****
“Thanks Mr. Ingels!” Tanner and Kara Cooper said in unison, before running off to play outside in the backyard. He chuckled and turned to Mrs. Cooper, who had come to remind them that class was over for the day.
“Well, it’s been a good day today,” he told her, standing up from his chair. “We had a very riveting discussion about logic and fallacies.”
“Thank you again for agreeing to come out on a Sunday, I know it’s usually your day off.” Mrs. Cooper shook his hand, and he nodded to her with a smile.
“No problem, it’s always my pleasure to work with the kids.” He accepted the fifty-dollar bill she handed to him with ‘thank you’ and left the Cooper farm property to head back to his home farther down the road leading to Chancellorsville.
Ingels sighed as he reflected on his business in the past week. Even though he’d been in charge of the ISIF for nearly a year now, it hadn’t gotten any easier to balance his duties to the revolutionaries with his duties to his students. Being a primary education teacher demanded all of his morning and early afternoon hours during the week, leaving him only evenings, late nights, and weekends to coordinate weapons circulation, look over and approve combat and recon operations and run record management on all of his rebel soldiers. He’d even had to cancel a meeting with a contact to come out and teach today. He wasn’t irritated; he loved his job as a teacher. But it placed a heavy load on his shoulders, in addition to the one he already carried.
He’d not walked very far when he was met with a Grizzly checkpoint. It was a temporary setup, because there was no tollbooth or gate, like at all the entrances to Grove City, miles away. There were three machine-gunner jeeps, two on the left side of the road and one on the right. One Grizzly sat in a gunner seat on the left, and the drivers were reclining in the driver seats of the jeeps on the right. Five other soldiers walked back and forth across the asphalt, one of them, an officer with a steel shoulder guard, was talking into a radiophone.
As he approached the soldiers, he showed his I.D to the one closest to him. The man examined it for a moment, then nodded. Before Ingels walked on by, the officer tapped him on the shoulder.
“We’ve been notified that there may be insurrectionists in the area here. You wouldn’t happen to know anybody suspicious, would you?” The officer asked.
“I can affirm that you won’t find any rebellious individuals within miles of here.” Ingels spread his arms and looked around to emphasize his point.
“We’ll be the judges of that,” the Grizzly responded in a snappy and irritated voice. “If you hear anything, call for enforcers.”
As Ingels continued down the road, he laughed to himself once he was out of their earshot. He hadn’t lied; as long as they were under his protection, no rebels would be found by the Grizzlies, anywhere.
Later that evening, Ingels sat quietly at a small, mesh table outside his favorite café, enjoying the Sunday issue of the Grove City Commons newspaper. He’d just finished his toasted pastrami sandwich when all of a sudden, he found himself on the ground, next to a knocked-over table and a hopelessly skewed newspaper. He reoriented himself, and saw a young man stumbling and frantically trying to get back on his feet. He never got back up to speed though, because in a second, another man came running into view and tackled him from behind.
Ingels quickly hopped up and dusted himself off, checking for any injuries. When he found nothing but a ragged rip in the sleeve of his black jacket, he ran over to the two men, scuffling on the ground. Upon closer view, he saw that they both looked about 18 years old. One of the boys had the other pinned, and was throwing punches, which the other repeatedly blocked and knocked away, but it didn’t discourage his assailant.
“Coward! Fight me you bastard!” The man throwing punches was shouting. He had a Russian accent, by no means thick, but definitely noticeable.
Ingels latched onto the boy’s arms and held him in a full-nelson grip. He’d grown up with an older brother, and the always-regular Saturday morning wrestling matches had prepared him well in defense techniques.
He swung a few more vain punches, managing to clock the other boy on the side of the head as he got up and ran away, but Ingels held firm. After thirty more seconds or so, he stopped struggling and let his arms hang limp.
“Okay, I’m going to let go now,” Ingels said calmly. “Are you calm and ready to talk?”
The boy groaned. “Yes.”
Ingels released him slowly, and although he was ready to defend, all the boy did was stand up dejectedly.
“Disgusting ingrate.” The boy spat in the direction his victim had run off in. Ingels hadn’t noticed it before, but he was wearing a brown coat and brown cargo pants. Not an official Grizzly uniform, but he was dressing the part.
“Those petty criminals, huh?” Ingels decided to play into what this vigilante was going at; it would be easier for both of them, and he liked easy.
“You’re telling me. That fool was drunk threatening a Grizzly officer. I went up to stop him, and he thought I was with them, so he tried to attack me. But I showed him.” With a smack of a fist into his palm, the boy looked over at Ingels.
“I don’t like criminals either. I was keeping you back, otherwise you would have become one too.” Ingels patted him on the shoulder.
“Well, thank you sir.” He kicked at the ground with one of his worn black boots. “I don’t like them, but I wish I had their courage. The Grizzlies are tyrants, and only thieves, murderers, and traitors have ever stood up to them. I wish I could be among those great names.” The boy looked off into space as he spoke.
“Well, have you ever thought about enlisting as a Grizzly?” Ingels asked.
“And become a disgusting, disgraceful excuse for a Russian? An insult to my homeland and my heritage?” His head jerked around to meet Ingels’ gaze.
“Well, think about it. Is it easier to make trouble for an enemy in your territory, or in his? I could use somebody on their side; someone they trust. Such a brave soul would be an incredible asset to me.” Ingels turned to walk away, but stopped himself for a moment. “I’m Kyle Ingels by the way. What do I call you?”
“Marko.” With a nod, more in thought than in farewell to Ingels, Marko turned and slowly walked away, his head raised in wonder. Ingels didn’t know at the time, but he’d changed the life of this young man, and of many others in years to come.
A month passed him by, and Ingels was surprised to see, or rather, not see the usual petty crimes that occurred every two or three days. The Grizzlies seemed to have really cracked down. His suspicion was confirmed as he rode his bike the five miles from his house into Grove City to pick up his rifle from the repair shop.
As he exited the store, after unloading the gun and paying the gunsmith, he noticed one Grizzly in particular walking down the sidewalk with much more gusto than any he’d ever seen before. He looked all the more menacing with his iron mask and MP5K submachine gun.
A young girl came running around the sidewalk, chasing after a boy carrying a purse, which Ingels presumed he had stolen. The Grizzly was walking directly toward them, so he held out his left arm and knocked the boy over as he ran into in, kicking him as he hit the ground. He tossed the purse back to the girl, who seemed more shocked than thankful, and continued walking until he was around the corner. Ingels raised his eyebrows in surprise; the Grizzlies had always been brutal, but he’d never seen anything so swift and unmerciful.
As Ingels was walking back to the space he’d parked his bike, he thought he was seeing a lone Grizzly pass by behind or in front of him every moment or so. He dismissed it as nothing, and rode his bike the five miles back again to his small house along the road leading into farm country.
An hour or so later, he was deep into mapping out scouting positions for the military stronghold just outside of Grove City. As Ohio’s premier industry city, it had a larger stronghold than most cities, and thus had more guards. Scouts had to placed strategically so, to avoid detection.
After about 15 minutes or so of mapping, he heard a knock at the door. With the speedy hands and thoroughness of a man who’d done it many times before, Ingels hid all of his maps and instruments in various places around his work desk. He then went to look through the peephole of the door. A Grizzly, quite an unwelcome sight, was standing there, waiting expectantly for him to open the door. Ever since the Constitution had been reworked by the Russians, there was no longer protection from search and seizure by uniformed Grizzly soldiers. Nevertheless, Ingels turned away and walked back into his living room, not the least bit intimidated.
There was another knock, harder this time, but Ingels was too occupied with the book he’d just picked up to go answer the door again. In a few seconds, he heard a loud crack as the door was kicked in, and the Grizzly stormed into his living room.
“Now what kind of welcome is that to an old friend?” He asked in a Russian accent far lighter than many other Grizzlies.
If it had been anyone else, Ingels would have been confused, but he had no trouble remembering the voice, or connecting it with the face he saw when the soldier lifted his iron mask.
“Well, good to see you again, Marko,” Ingels said, laughing out loud.
“And to you, sir.” Marko went back and closed the front door as best he could, as the bolt of the lock had ripped through the frame when he kicked it in. He then joined Ingels, seated at the coffee table.
“So, what brings you crashing through my door?” Ingels asked, offering him a mug for coffee.
Marko refused, instead taking from his hip not a flask of vodka, as most Grizzlies carried, but a gray tea bag. He poured himself some water from the pitcher rested on the table and added the bag, taking a sip immediately.
“I have a request, which only you may be able to grant.” Marko put his submachine gun down and looked at Ingels with deadly serious eyes. “I have heard talk from a man about a certain Kyle Ingels, who is the leader of the greatest resistance effort this country ha ever known.”
Ingels raised an eyebrow. “And assuming that this were true, what would it have to do with your request?”
“I want to help you,” Marko said straight out. “I want to be among your warriors who fight for the freedom of this country. I am trusted by your enemies, the Grizzlies. They have given me jurisdiction over my own section of Grove City. Move your operation into my area of control, and I can guarantee your safety and success of operations.”
Ingels thought for a moment. He was aware that there was every possibility Marko was simply bluffing to draw him out. But there was something in the way he held himself, much like he had when they had first met on the street.
Ingels looked him up and down, and he could see that unknown quality that made Marko different than any other Russian he’d ever seen. It was in the way his shoulders were braced and he stretched himself up to full height; always proud, but always ready to defend. It was in his voice with the thin Russian accent; always calm and composed, like he could convince anyone that anything he said was true. But mostly, it was in the way he wore his uniform. His jacket was loose and unzipped, with all the pockets open and empty. The small tears and frayed threads in the legs of his pants had never been repaired like any officer’s would be. Marko wore this uniform as a statement to the Grizzlies, and to all Russians. He hated the Grizzlies, and he hated the uniform that they wore. The uniform that brought only fear and terror to so many Americans in the 43 years it had existed. He was going to wear this uniform as he proudly became one of the Grizzlies’ worst fears, striking at them with the same force they used to control all people.
Ingels smiled at him and shook his hand, proud to call him a friend, and a friend who would save his life seven years later. He nodded to Marko, and asked him one question. “How much trouble can you cause by tomorrow?”
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