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A to Z of a Terrorist. 1 of 4. Adult, War Action. 2,000 (1 Viewer)


Senior Member
A simple farmer turns to terrorism.

Perhaps it began in Kandusi, Jakerstan and perhaps not. But it is known that Kandusi was attacked, and violently, by the Intricias under their General Thoros.

I'm awakened by being thrown upward in my bed, dropping down into the same position. As I rub my eyes the bed jumps again, banging into an adobe wall of my room. Eyes barely opened, they are blinded by a blazing red light that penetrates the very wall itself. It's accompanied by an unseen force, shoving me, bed and all, over onto a packed-dirt floor.

I try to stand but can't, due to further shaking. The thatch roof eventually falls on me, exposing a sky alternating between flashes of intense red light and darkness. The ground rolls and ripples with shock. It knocks everything in the room over onto both the floor and myself as I huddle under a feather mattress.

I hear sirens and people screaming in the distance, enforcing a feeling of hell on earth. Dust billows into the room through what was, moments ago, a sturdy roof and new tears in the walls. Cattle offal falls through the ceiling as the family corral is shelled or bombed, I don't know which. The cries of cattle and terrified sheep mimic my own. Fear and terror is so thick it seems, somehow, as a protective force, shielding my mind from frantic thoughts. I neither can nor want to think, simply to exist, to survive.

Eventually, sirens fade into the background as the sound of a powerful engine seems to curdle my brain, causing me to cover both ears in panic. I watch a shadow pass over me, that of some sort of noisy aircraft. After it passes, I smell a strong odor of petroleum.

Without warning, there is almost complete silence, broken only by the sound of screaming -- which is, I find, my own. As I notice the otherwise silent night, my own cries become whimpers. They compete with other dim sounds that I don't recognize as human, coming into a ruined bedroom as overburdened ears adjust to the change in pressure; all the more terrifying in that they signify the pain of others. My family?

My family! I grab at the nearest ruined wall, trying to rise. Its surface crumbles at my touch. Luckily, there's a wooden strut still strong enough to hold my weight as I manage to get to my feet. Heedless of my own injuries, I stagger to a wide hole that used to be a doorway.

I find my father lying on his stomach, covered by debris. He isn't moving. Pulling on his shoulder, I turn him over -- to find his face gone. Entirely gone, a bloody mess, one eye drooping over a cheek, held on by a strip of muscle or gristle.

My mother and one sister took cover under Aunt Kussi's sturdy oak table, now collapsed with half a wall and a hind-haunch torn from a cow half-covering it. After, with a lot of effort, I topple cow and wall, I see them crushed together, covered with dirty blood and ... lifeless.

Although I search, frantically, I never do find sister Taki. The barn and shed are toppled and on fire. Two lone sheep wander the front yard, quietly eating varicolored blooming flowers that had previously been denied them.

Tired from searching and still in shock myself, I sit under the one remaining tree in our yard and cry. Somehow, my mind fades into sleep.


As I later find, it was the Intricias that attacked and almost wiped out our town of Kandusi. As explained in the international press, it was a righteous and successful attack to wipe out a band of terrorists. My own government doesn't even protest.

The Intricias are applauded for the illegal bombing. No matter that dozens of innocent people died, including my own family. That was classed as "unavoidable" collateral damage.

Well, I survive. And within a month, about the time I heal, the rebels are back. While before they were vilified in our town -- in fact physically thrown out for our own safety -- this time they're welcomed. This time, they promise to bring in Land-to-Air Anti-Aircraft rockets to protect us.

I'm now the owner of four cattle, three sheep and a dozen chickens; no house or other buildings. With the only factory in town destroyed, there's no work to be found. And, of course, I am an angry, very, very angry young man.

I try to keep busy as a way to avoid thinking of my family. But I can't help noticing their graves in a splintered olive grove behind where the house used to stand. Life becomes a shadow, a dim existence without reason. Without hope or ambition, only a day to day attempt at survival for survival's sake.

There is no compensation for my losses, financial nor emotional. The government, once a fatherly figure, ignores my, our, status. As weeks go by, the rebel movement sounds more and more enticing … something to live for. A reason to exist, even a source of income. They're known to pay well.

Before the attack, I was never political, having enough to do in helping out at our farm. Although it wasn't a rich life, I'd been fairly content with its simplicity in a complex world. I'd never held, much less fired, a firearm. But I can learn, with vivid visions of slaughtering Intricias in my mind.

As a reason to continue living, and as revenge, I join the rebels.


"The Intricias must be stopped," Mikos, our political instructor, tells us. "Before their friendship with the Ubama, our ancient feud has quieted down since WWII with both our countries briefly battling at the border, a handful of deaths every year.

"Now, with the help of the technologically advanced Ubama and their air power, they seek to take over all of Jakerstan. Since the Ubama want our oil, they've armed the Intricias with battle tanks, modern artillery and aircraft against which we have no defense.

"Our own government is sucking both Intricia and Ubama asses. Even though the Rachia's offer us assistance and our own modern weapons, our traitorous cowardly government refuses. The officials prefer to keep their personal estates and wealth safe, rather than fighting for our country and its honor," Mikos exhorts us.

We're sitting in a half-circle in front of a large campfire, Mikos silhouetted by open flames as he tries his best to work us into a rage. Every few minutes, my group leader, standing in half-shadows to the side will raise an arm, bringing rousing cheers from the audience. It serves to urge Mikos into a frenzy which, in turn, does the same for us. We hang onto his every word, while sitting on cold ground, involuntarily twisting and bouncing in response.

"We here, us few, are the only force willing to fight the asshole Intricias and, if necessary, the Ubama. It's a fight for liberty, to save our ancient ways from encroachment. We have our own oil deposits along the border which the Rachias would be glad to help us develop and the Ubama covet.

"Most of the world thinks our efforts are hopeless and maybe they are. But if we put on a brave showing we can topple our corrupt government and accept military aid from the Rachias. With their help, we can win and retain our freedom. Only with a mutual defense treaty can we protect our people and way of life.

"We've tried Democracy. It didn't work. We've tried our present Supreme Ruler. Now the Ubamas from across the sea accuse us of Communism. Why not? Why the hell don't we become Communists? It can't be worse than the other two."

We build defensive bunkers and train endlessly. One day I wake to the sounds of many powerful engines. Strange, since we have only a few pickup trucks and old sedans given us by sympathizers from the big cities.

I look out my tent-flap to see a convoy of huge modern trucks driven by strangers in civilian clothing. Although large, the vehicles aren't new, with many dents but new tires. I can dimly see different military logos from many countries painted over with glossy gray paint on the sides.

The strangers are wearing the same types of clothing as we are, though their skins are of a much lighter hue than mine and I later notice they're taller than my people.

This morning, after breakfast, we're issued new rifles. They, like the trucks, are from several nations, many rusty from disuse. But they are automatic assault weapons, better than our single-shot WWI Mausers. Mine is an AK-47 with what I think are Chinese markings. Although the new people are found to be Rachia, none admit to it and I look, in vain, for Rachia equipment. There is everything but Rachia goods. A truckload of rations are marked “US” from WWII.

We are gathered in a group and given an explanation by Captain Thomos.

"These are your new instructors. You'll find them from every country except," he says, winking, “Rachia. I repeat and you'd better listen well. We are receiving NO help from Rachia. If you are ever captured, even tortured, you WILL deny it to your dying breath.

"They will teach you how to use your new weapons. With their help, we can preserve our precious freedom. Listen to them well and obey them as you would obey me."

Along with the new instructors come an influx of recruits. Our pay is raised, the money coming in from somewhere but not my concern. I'm glad when we move into the mountains, away from my war-torn town. The sight of the town, even from a distance, is depressing.


The mountain camp has many caves which we enlarge with both pick and shovel and more modern machinery. Hidden roads are built, meandering through trees and kept covered with fresh brush. With the new roads, more vehicles are brought in, themselves covered by camouflaged netting, while crews are trained to drive and fight with them. I'm pleased that we're starting to look, act and feel like a real army.

I shudder at the thought of revenge, to have my hands around a Ubama or Intricia throat, squeezing slowly, watching the light of life leave those evil eyes.

One night, an air raid tears up part of a forest near us but we aren't damaged. Obviously the enemy is looking for us. The captain decides to split up the camp, moving many of us to other locations for more safety.

"When are we going to fight, sir?" someone asks. "All we do is train but for what?"

Myself, I take the opportunity to ask, "Can I be taught on one of those tanks, captain? I can kill many more Intricias from in there."

"Don't worry," he says, laughing, "I've picked you for a more personal task. One where you can kill many more of the bastards, face to face. If you have the guts, that is. Just wait until we're moved."

It's a frantic and exhausting few days as we receive more supplies of items such as tents, stacks of lumber and netting. It's loaded onto some of the smaller trucks, along with more supplies.

Finally, many of us move to other camping sites. Although we take some trucks with us, the heavier tanks are left behind. The captain is afraid they will leave tracks and doesn't want to take time to build sturdy hidden roads like we have to our first camp. Any day now, the Intricias might find us. I've learned that our own cowardly government is also looking for us. I don't know, kinda feel queasy, about killing my own people -- but I long to kill Intricias. No matter who flew it, it was their plane that killed my family -- they who will suffer my wrath.

End of part one of four. The next will be posted tomorrow.

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