Vic's Freedom

Vic's Freedom

"Moving back instead of forward seems to me absurd": - Eye of the Beholder, Metallica.

Vic never could understand what had allowed the present state of his country to come about, although he often tried to figure it out, tried to make sense of it all. Sure, he knew the events that had taken place, but how was it that no one could see what was happening, or what was going to happen? Why had they been so blind? He could remember the economic and social turmoil rampant through the country. The people had demanded change.

When the new leadership took over, they promised this change. They began their change, he could remember, with the establishment of a multitude of regulations, all promising to lift their country out of its immorality and set it above all others in the world. The people accepted these laws blindly because, with the state of things the way they were, they had believed that it could not become any worse.

They were wrong.

Vic woke with a start. What was that, he thought, wondering at the bustling coming from other parts of the house. Slipping his arms carefully from around his wife, so as not to wake her, he sat up, trying to shake the sleep from his groggy brain. He became determined to investigate, even as tired as he was from his long night. As he removed his bed covers, exposing his mostly nude body to the cold air of the house, he wondered what argument his son and daughter were having now, especially at this time of night. With a sigh he put on his slippers, which were on the floor next to his side of the bed, and stood up. He began to put on his robe. It was then that he heard the shouts of his son rise to a disturbing volume, coming from the front room of the house. Though muffled by the plaster walls of the structure, his tone seemed urgent.

"What's going on?" his wife said groggily, propping herself up on her elbows. Just then, there were sounds of people running through the house. The sound of a lamp being broken. The word, "Father!" came clearly from the throat of his son, just beyond the door. Then Vic heard the sounds of partially silenced, automatic gunfire.

Before he could react, they were through the door. "Run!" Vic yelled to his wife once he understood what was going on. He hoped she could get away as he half-ran, half-dove for his night stand, inside of which was his pistol. Almost there, even touching the handle of the night stand's drawer, he felt the dull blow of the stock of a sub-machine gun on the right side of his face. Knocked off balance, he fell, crashing headlong into the corner of the night stand and then uncontrollably to the floor, where he lost consciousness.

"Fuck," he mumbled under his breath a few seconds later. He could feel, almost instantly as he came to, the warmth of blood as it oozed from the gash he felt in his forehead. Even in the semi-darkness, he could also see the small pool of blood and saliva slowly collecting on the wooden floor as it dripped from his mouth, the warmth of the blood flowing around his tongue telling him, contrary to his hopes, that this was no dream.

Pressing his palms to the floor, as if to do a push up, he started to get up, wanting to dismember his assailant by hand if necessary. As he did so, however, he felt a knee press down into his back, the weight of a large man constraining him to the floor. He heard his wife start to scream. Those fuckers, Vic thought, and began to struggle to free himself. No matter what happened to him, he did not want her to suffer. It wasn't her fault.

Just as he felt he might wrestle loose from beneath the restricting knee, he felt the efforts of several more men helping the man on top of him. Using his own loosely fitting robe to restrict his movements, they brought his hands up and behind his back. As the small gang of men thus held his limbs in place, Vic first heard the mechanical clicking, and then felt the brutal cold, of a pair of rough, metal handcuffs being slapped around his wrists. Then, after gaining control of his flailing legs, they bound those just as easily with two painful smacks of cuffs wrapping around the ankles. Then, evidently feeling he was no longer a threat, his assailants let go of him and left him to himself on the floor.

Noticing the extreme cold of the handcuffs around his wrists and looking at the night stand's clock, having been knocked to the floor, Vic concluded that they must have been waiting outside, even as he had come home an hour earlier, and had probably waited until they believed he was asleep. "You fuckers," he growled, "take me. Leave them alone!"

A powerful, painful boot to his ribs was the immediate reply. "Shut up," said a cool, gruff voice. Trying to regain his breath, Vic still heard his wife screaming. Then suddenly her voice was muffled, as if a hand or other gag was being placed over her mouth, and the same gruff voice said, "You too, bitch."

Rolling over onto his back, a position made none too comfortable by the handcuffs now digging into the flesh of both his wrists and back, he was just in time to see his wife being fondled roughly by several men. "Fuck - argh, shit" Vic grunted violently as he tried hopelessly to get up, to break his bonds, "leave her the fuck alone!"

The gruff voiced man, who had gone into Vic's walk-in closet and was rummaging around, tossing personal belongings everywhere, strode out of it. "Forget her," he said in the same gruff tone he had spoken in before. Vic could only watch as the three men dejectedly threw her to the floor next to him, as carefully as if she were a sack of potatoes, hearing a muffled "umf" as she hit the hard wood.

He made a quick scan, looking her over for major injuries. He saw her beautiful form cruelly bound by the same cold, rough handcuffs that had been used on him. It made his heart sink to see her like this. Other than a few scratches, though, she seemed physically okay.

Sadness crept into his heart. He had always loved the sight of her, had always loved everything about her, but looking on her now he felt only the guilt and the pain of the situation he had allowed her to become a part of.

"I'm sorry," he said to her, feeling lower than he had ever thought possible. As he looked at her in the semi-darkness, her eyes caught his, and in their depths he could see a sadness he had never hoped to see there. Looking at her, he saw his children also, and his heart yearned, beyond hope or knowledge, for their safety.

Looking at the gag that had been placed in her mouth, he wished he could remove it. He suddenly and passionately longed to hear her voice. He wanted her to be out of this situation, to hear her voice again in the freedom of their everyday lives, even if it was only so that she could yell at him and tell him how stupid he was for allowing this to happen. He wanted to hear her tell him he was an idiot for endangering the children this way. He wanted confirmation from her about the way he was feeling about himself. Most of all, he wanted her to be free, no matter what might happen to him. That is all he had ever wanted, a desire that had, ironically, brought about her present situation.

"I love you," he said to her softly, knowing he might never be able to tell her again. As he spoke, the cast of her eyes, an expression which he had seen there many times before, expressed volumes to him about the way she felt. She understood. She still loved him. His eyes then followed a single, salty tear running down the length of her nose, reflecting, as a silvery spark, the light of the pale moon cast through the open window of the room. He moved towards her to kiss her, still wishing he could removed the gag in her mouth.

His amorous attention was then abruptly torn from her as men, dressed in their black uniforms and with their German made sub machine guns slung around their shoulders, began tearing the room apart, searching, and from sounds coming from other parts of the house, there were more searching the rest of it. Vic watched as one of them went to the night stand and knocked it over, allowing its contents to spill, clattering loudly, to the floor. "Sir," he called out in a contained, even voice, picking an object up from among the general clutter on the floor, "I've found one." The man checked it over with the hands and eye of an expert, and then suddenly smiled at the gruff voiced man. "And it's loaded."

The gruff voiced man, whom Vic now assumed was a superior, caught the handgun as it was thrown to him. Vic watched as the man with his pistol came over to him, examining the man more closely as he approached. He decided, with wry amusement, that in the right time and place this guy would have made an excellent SS officer, and could almost imagine the SS insignia on his collar.

Squatting next to him, the officer held Vic's pistol in front of him, almost as if displaying it for him to buy. "Where are the rest of your guns, traitor? Tell us, and we may let you go."

Yeah, right, Vic thought. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Vic's suddenly felt the sharp impact of the hard, metal gun on his forehead as the officer slammed it into his forehead, biting the wound already there.

"I ask you again, where are you hiding your other guns? You are betrayed, my friend. You have been sold out. We know you are hiding more weapons. Tell us where they are. You and your family have no hope, otherwise."

Vic almost laughed. Unless they could somehow escape, he and his family were dead no matter what this guy said, and he knew it. They were about to disappear in the night, like hundreds, possibly thousands of other families before them, never to be seen again. He saw no logical reason to cooperate with this asshole.

He spit in the man's face. "I'd rather rot in hell with you, than cooperate with you."

Vic again felt the heavy, sharp edges of the gun crash into his forehead as his consciousness faded to black.

Vic had known the risks. Like most people, though, he thought that he would never be caught (it might happen to someone else, but not him) and he never allowed himself to consider the risks of his actions in regards to his family. All he knew was that it was something he had had to do, something that it was his duty to do.

"Vic," his friend had said, "you know of the underground, right?"

"Sure, uh - everyone does," Vic responded, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable at this sudden turn in the conversation. He wondered what his friend was getting at, and wondered, too, as his heart rate increased, if he had given a dangerous response.

"I'm a part of it, Vic," his friend said, pausing as if to let the information sink into his brain for full effect. "I've got some guns to run for the resistance movement, and I need your help. Tonight."

Vic thought for a moment. He believed in the underground, and what it was purportedly trying to do. He wondered, however, if he could trust the man before him. Sure, they had been best friends all their lives, but these were terrible, confusing times. Lines of friendship where no longer always clear. The rule, he knew, was to trust no one.

Times had changed. Some of the first laws, which had later made it possible for the present leadership to gain control, were enacted, ironically, to control violence. (Their intentions were good, Vic believed, but now he lived in the hell that they had paved the road to). The result of these laws, laws that both Vic and Joseph now had personal, intimate experience with, ultimately made the possession of firearms illegal. In an interest of preserving the peace, it was decreed that private citizens' guns and other weapons were to be confiscated, to get them off the street and out of the hands of criminals. The laws eventually went so far as to give law enforcement the authority to enter homes without search warrants if they believed a home contained guns.

Concurrent to the passing and enacting of these laws, other programs emerged. The most startling of these for Vic was one which the youth of the nation were encouraged by various means to take part in so called youth programs, mostly through money payments and awards of prestige, which were to give them new purpose and new goals. The bottom line, Vic mused, was that they were being encouraged to become informants for law enforcement agencies. They were instructed, as they still were, to report any suspicious or outright criminal activity that they witnessed to the proper authorities.

Soon, people began not knowing who they could trust. The country became a police state, a society of informants, neighbor turning in neighbor, friend turning in friend, and sons and daughters turning in family members. Book burnings soon after became a common sight, a way to protect the people from the "lies" that they contained. Privately owned media companies were closed down, by force in some cases, and a government sponsored national news company was established to report to the people what they "needed to know." Most people, like Vic himself at first, in the face and threat of oppression, stayed quiet, afraid of what might happen if they were labeled a dissenter.

But this was Joseph, for God's sake! Vic decided to risk it. "Joseph," he responded with a smile, clapping his hand lightly on his companion's shoulder, "you needn't ask, my friend. Just tell me what to do."

Vic's vision, as he came to, was at first blurry. He quickly discovered neither his arms nor his legs would move. For a second he struggled in confusion, and then he remembered his situation.

When he could finally see clearly enough to recognize things in the partial darkness, he realized that he was still on the floor of his bedroom. Judging by the moon's position as it leered down at him through the window, he imagined that he had not been out for long. Glancing next to him, he was shocked to find that his wife was no longer there.

"Nice nap?"

The voice, coming out of the darkness, startled Vic. Turning his head, he could see the form of the officer sitting on his bed, looming over him.

"Where's my wife?" Vic stammered, unable to control the horror he was feeling.

"That's no longer your concern, Victor, but mine."

"You son of a bitch!" Vic cried, thinking the worst, "What have you done with her?" Struggling again to free himself, Vic found quickly that he had been chained from hands to feet, along with the handcuffs, immobilizing him effectively.

"Nothing she didn't beg me for, Victor," the officer said with a cold, collected smirk on his face.

Vic let the officer's words sink in. He knew that the fucker was just toying with him, trying to make him lose heart. Even so, he knew that they might be doing only God knew what to his family. He could only pray now that they could somehow escape, somehow survive to see a happier day. Or, at the very least, die as painlessly as possible.

Standing up, the officer smoothed out the wrinkles in his black outfit. "Why do you persist in keeping the location of your weapons secret?" he asked. "You are protecting no one by your refusal. Those who you believe you are protecting are probably those same people who have betrayed you." Picking up a cigar, the officer took a long drag from it. He then pretentiously replaced it where it had been sitting on one of their silver dishes, a set they had been given to he and his wife on their wedding day, the hot cinders marring the finish.

Vic felt the heat of his anger rise in the flesh of his face, but continued to make an attempt to repress it. He did not want the officer to see the struggle he was having within.

With a satisfied puff, the officer finally exhaled and, with an upwards motion of the mouth, sent currents of cigar smoke dancing joyfully in the moonlit air of the room, as if each particle were happy to be free of the captivity of his lungs.

"You know, Vic. It was your daughter, Katrina, who sold you out. Lovely girl."

Vic felt a fresh tear drip from his eye to the floor, his faith faltering for a moment at the possibility that his daughter had turned him in. His emotional side attempted to take over.

"Yes, that's right," the officer said, gloating, "your daughter is to be wed to my nephew; she's been seeing him, you know, for months now. She told me all about you. You should be a proud father, Vic. She shall be very a powerful, very successful woman in the party."

Vic simply remained silent, and looked away from the man glaring at him, the sudden shock from the officer's statement inducing a calming, sobering effect on his emotions. His outward senses went dull. His mind raced. Was it possible, he wondered, that she had betrayed him, betrayed her family. Of course it was, and he knew it. Anything was possible in this nightmarish world. But not his little girl, not Katrina! He didn't want to believe it, even refused to believe it. He tried to think, tried to remember if she had acted strangely in any way in the last few days. He could not think of anything right off, but he knew that that meant nothing. Had that been the argument between she and his son? Had she opened the door, allowing his son's murderers loose in their home? His heart sank.

"They've all betrayed you, Victor. I'm your only true friend now. I'm all you've got. I hope you realize that."

"You're a sack of shit," Vic mumbled matter of factly, but without any strength behind the statement, hearing the tone of melancholy creeping into his voice.

My family is gone, he thought, and if this man before me is the only friend I have left, then I have none. I have only my ideals, my beliefs, he decided, and began to see his sense of duty and the consequences of his actions as much more far reaching and overpowering than his family circle. He knew that the officer had succeeded in disheartening him, but even so, he was not going to give in so easily.

"Fuck your friendship, dick. I'd rather have a hole in my head."

"That, my friend, can be arranged." Then, Vic watched as the officer suddenly and momentarily lost control of his emotions and leaped down towards him, as if driven by a chaotic demon. The officer grabbed him by the collar of his robe, pulling his head into the air.

"Victor, I want you to tell me where your cache of guns are! Tell me, where is Joseph?" he growled in Vic's face, gritting his teeth.

Joseph! The last question had been a mistake, Vic could tell. Even in his sorrow, Vic chuckled inwardly, knowing that he had won this little mind game, at least for now. His friend, if they were asking about him, must still be alive. Chalk up one for the good guys, he thought, feeling his heart lighten ever so slightly at the knowledge that Joseph had escaped this asshole's clutches. So, having the opportunity for the second time that night, Vic spit in the officer's face.

"Eat me," he said.

The officer stood slowly up. Now towering over his Vic, he slowly wiped the saliva from his face with the back of his hand. "Very well," he said, pausing with a curt nod, as if he were glad Vic had told him nothing. "Very well," he repeated, and with an ugly grin, which Vic decided was especially crafted for his benefit, the officer briskly left the room.

Vic, wondering what would happen next, had very little time to ponder the possibilities. Shortly after the officer had left, four other men, all dressed sharply in their familiar black clothing, rushed in decisively. Literally scooping Vic up off of the floor, they started hauling him out of the room. As he was rushed down the hallway, Vic just barely saw the fleeting image of his son as he passed by him. But it was no longer really his son that he saw, for only a corpse and the stench of putrid blood remained to testify that he had ever existed at all.

He had seen the body for only a split second, but had seen enough to know that his son had been brutally torn to shreds by the bastards. They had mown his son down to get to him with about as much thought as they might chew a steak, his chest opened up, ripped and blown to pieces, his head smashed and broken apart like a ripe melon.

"NOoooo!" the father cried out loud as he was carried down the hallway towards the front of the house. Grief struck him like a ten ton weight. For the moment, the will to fight lost, he went limp in the arms of the men carrying him. As he ceased his struggle to free himself from their grasp, he wondered if his fight for liberty would ever be worth the price.

Quickly he was whisked through the house, passing by old family heirlooms. A table and chairs. A china cabinet. An old vase that had been handed down for three generations. All of it smashed, broken asunder in their search. As the images of these objects flashed by, the vision of his son's bloody, mangled corpse continued to pierce his mind. He considered the implications of what he had let happen, feeling for the first time the reality that happiness in his family's life, that in fact their lives themselves, were over. Never again would they spend time together as a family. Never again would they eat at the same table, share their special moments together, hug each other. Build snow people together. He would never again make love to his wife.

Never.

Suddenly he felt the cool breeze of fresh air, smelling the brisk scent of falling snow, feeling it as it blew lightly, magically against his face. The cold winter atmosphere seemed surreal to Vic. This is a dream, he thought.

Then he saw her, his daughter Katrina, and his hopeful thoughts were shattered. Time stopped for him: She was standing amongst a small crowd of men in black, looking to Vic like an angel in a legion of devils. She had a blanket wrapped around her, and a cup of steaming hot coffee in her right hand. He studied her closely in the moonlight, and saw that her young face looked both sad and relieved, and saw her normally beautiful but now dead eyes follow his as he was carried past her. He studied the pain in those eyes, and wondered who was worse off.

Vic continued to stare at her, and tried to hold his arms out to her, to try to reach out and touch her, but the cuffs and chains hindered him, so he simply extended his fingers towards her. He hoped that she knew he still loved her.

He suddenly lost sight of her as he was thrown suddenly and forcefully into the back of a truck. From where he now lay, on the cold, wooden floor, he watched as a thick, steel door was closed, and everything went dark as pitch.

Where's my wife? Vic began mulling over in his mind this question, among others. Where had they taken her? And my daughter. Katrina, why?!?

Forget it, he thought to himself, shaking his head in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. It will accomplish nothing to worry about her. That's what that fucker wants, to get inside my brain, pick it apart, break it up like he did our house, our lives. "Face it, Vic old pal," he said aloud to himself, grimly, wriggling a loose tooth with his tongue as he felt the truck began to bump along the potholes down the road, "they're dead, all of them, and so are you, and there's not a damn thing you or anyone else can do about it now. Hang in there, ol' Vic. Don't make it worse."

With tears streaming in rivulets down the sides of his face as he lay on his back, he continued his soliloquy. "Don't let them break you. Don't give in. Don't give in," he said, attempting to hold on to the last vestiges of his sanity. As he repeated this catechism over and over, exhaustion and sorrow finally took hold of him and lulled him into the false safety of sleep.

Vic could barely remember how they had met as boys, when his mother had been hired and employed as a housekeeper for a short time in Joseph's household. He did, however, clearly recall his time as a boy from that point on, playing with Joseph on the lands of his family's estate, frolicking in the lush gardens, the dense groves of trees, and the happy, chuckling brooks, the sunshine all the while beaming down warmly on his young face, which was bronzed from the exposure. Now, twenty years later, he and his friend were crouching in the frigid darkness of a moonless night in late December, waiting for their contact to show up, who would then give them directions to find the cache of guns they were to transport to another man.

"I hope you understand the importance of what we are doing," Vic heard Joseph whisper from the darkness next to him.

"Yeah, I think so," Vic said quietly, trying to sound calm as his heart beat rapidly from the instinctual anxiety he felt from the potential danger of their situation.

"Vic, at the many universities I was fortunate enough to attend before it all came to this, I studied the writings of many political philosophers: John Locke, Thomas Jefferson..."

Joseph continued whispering, running off a long list of names. Vic's lower education prevented him from recognizing most of them, but the few that he had heard before he associated with freedom.

"The writings of all these philosophers," Joseph continued after finishing his list of political writers, "contain many common elements, Vic. Each of these writings state that every person has rights, rights which should not and cannot be taken away. These are the rights to life, to freedom, and to one's property. Most importantly, they also believed in the right of revolution as a means of preventing these other rights from being taken away by tyranny. The idea , according to these people, is that a government which becomes tyrannical can be overthrown by a populace which is no longer contented with its rule." After pausing for effect, Joseph again continued, "We, Vic, are therefore providing the most important ingredient of this philosophical formula - the means of revolution."

Despite Joseph's usual lofty speech, which he had adopted while away at school, Vic understood the basic idea that Joseph was getting at. Without the ability to rebel, what good was the right to do so? And without the right to do so, how could freedom be insured?

After that first night of running guns, Vic became quickly and deeply involved in the underground. Soon he was running guns on a regular basis, both with and, once Joseph thought he was prepared for it, without his friend. One night blended into another, and soon his dual life of day and night became second nature. He could barely remember the happy days of his childhood and youth, when he had enjoyed the freedoms which were now terribly foreign to him, and for which he now fought.

Vic was awakened violently to the now familiar sensations of the officer's gruff voice and a boot attempting to shatter his ribs. "Wake the hell up, rebel."

"Fuck," he said under his breath, the pain in his ribs subsiding to a dull throb. However, as hurt as he was, he was determined to go out with some dignity. Opening his eyes, partially blinded by the sunlight streaming from outside the truck in through the doorway, he sat up as best as he could. Immediately he was lifted by two men on either side of him, by means of his arm pits, to a standing position.

"This is your last chance, Victor," a silhouette between himself and the doorway before him said, "tell me where you've hidden your supply of guns. The ones you had until last night. No one will know it was you who informed on them. And even if they did, what difference would it ma. . .?"

"No," Vic interrupted flatly, looking directly at the officer's face, right where he assumed his eyes to be.

"Victor, you are going to die. Your wife is going to die. The only question that remains, that must remain in your mind, Victor, is how she will die. I promise you, if you tell me what you know, she will die quickly and painlessly. If not, there's no telling what might happen to her," the officer said, trailing off suggestively.

Vic froze. Both in thoughts and in action he froze. This truly was the only thing that continued to remain in his mind, continued to assail his thoughts. He felt rage building up inside of him as he felt himself beginning to tear emotionally at the seams. Vic felt as if his mind, his loyalties, were being torn asunder. His heart screamed out for his wife, his son - his daughter, too. His allegiance to the Underground and its cause for freedom, and his affection for Joseph, were very strong; yet if he had some guarantee that this officer would actually free his wife, he was not so sure that he would not tell him everything.

What have I done to deserve this, he wondered, feeling tears collecting, expectant of an emotional release, at the rims of his eyes. What have I done? I always obeyed the laws, always believed in doing the right thing. Why am I being punished? Why have I been enslaved? Why has preserving freedom become a crime? "Oh, God!" he cried out suddenly, to his own surprise, "Why, God, why?!?"

"He's lost it," said one of the men at his side.

Allowing his chin to fall to rest on his chest, Vic began to sob. The officer, outwardly frustrated after witnessing several seconds of this scene, threw his hands in the air, and turned to go. As he left, disgusted, he growled to his men, "Get him out of here." After having released the cuffs and chains around his ankles so he could stand on his own, the men led him forcefully out of the truck, once again into the fresh, surreal outdoor air.

Scanning the scene around him, he observed that he was in a train yard. All around him, people were being herded like sheep into box cars by men in identical black uniforms as those who were now escorting him. Several different trains on the several different tracks, with cars strung behind them, were each being loaded with people. As he skimmed the crowd before him, he was certain that he had seen the fleeting image of his wife being shoved roughly, still wearing only her thin nightgown, into the last car of one of the long trains.

"Sarah!" he cried out excitedly. Breaking suddenly free of the two men, who were taken by surprise by this move, he began running, his hands still bound behind his back, trying to see her one last time. "Sarah!" he cried again in desperation as he ran. He swore he could hear her yelling his name back.

Suddenly he was going down, and with no free hands to cushion his fall, he was very quickly sliding face first on the ground. Gravel, sand, and dirt, which covered the entire expanse of the train yard, were ground deeply into the wounds that had already been inflicted there, and cut some new, deep, jagged ones. Vic thought nothing of it, but struggled in vain to regain his feet, wanting nothing more than to see his wife.

Four men had tackled him and were now suddenly lifting him up. Keeping him under control, they began moving him, dragging him backwards toward a car in another train. As he watched and resisted his assailants, he saw the train containing his wife begin to pull out, utterly powerless to stop it. "NOoooooGod!" he cried, and continued to sob, still struggling to move in her direction. "Sarah!"

He felt the salt of his tears slipping down his tattered cheeks, stinging the wounds of his face as the officer ordered the men dragging him, saying, "Let go of him. Let him watch it go," the sound of haughty triumph in his voice.

As the train progressed and finally disappeared into the distance, Vic's eyes were drawn to a flag being hoisted up a nearby flagpole with military dignity and precision. He watched it ascend, angel like, into the air. He could still barely remember the time when the sight of that beautiful flag had sent his heart soaring with pride. Now, though, its stars and stripes, so long a symbol of liberty, no longer carried any meaning. Turning in anguish, he trudged slowly towards the awaiting train car, on his own accord, knowing that soon he would truly be set free.