Kenneth Whitfield is a writer of dark tales and has had scripts published in several comic horror anthologies, as well as prose stories in books and magazines. He's been told he has the heart of an eight year old boy -- which is not necessarily true, as the age of the organ in the jar on his desk is unknown. He does have his father's eyes though...

kenneth whitfield

We Win

We've won the war. It's just that a few holdouts refuse to accept the inevitable. Looking at that building in the valley below us as we prepare to advance, I think of those Japanese soldiers in WWII that were found on islands years after the war, still fighting. But that doesn't quite fit either; these people we find now in these so-called houses of worship are even more diehard. They know we've won. The media reveled almost orgasmically in spreading that message to the world. These people know that their country and political elite have acquiesced under our relentless onslaught. These heathens just refused to accept it.

Sweating in the heat, awaiting the order to advance, I clean my weapon, pondering the mind of such people. What drives them to die for such misguided beliefs? For a lost cause? Didn't they realize they were more nuisance than threat and we would soon wipe them out utterly? They were ridiculously easy to find -- we just searched for their temples with them inside praying and singing to their false gods, and then eliminated them. Sometimes quick and clean with mortar and rocket and machine gun fire; sometimes more personal, one-on-one. Depending on our mood.

Hard to believe it had been close at one time; this war. There had been a time when we were actually concerned about being able to beat these savages. When they seemed determined and forceful. But our determination and willingness to do what we must prevailed. Standing firm as the tide of public opinion turned in our favor. Slowly at first, then faster, the media finally carrying us along as a mighty river in our conquest.

And now -- we sharpen knives and oil weapons, preparing to get up close and personal making examples of these holdouts for others to witness our strength and righteousness. With TV news crews standing by for live broadcast showing the world that resistance is futile, I find myself smiling broadly and joining in with my comrades in a song of praise and thankfulness. We drown out the weak hymns coming from that little country church as we march forward, blades and guns gleaming in the summer sunshine.

Allah be praised.

END