Shattered

‘Postapo Train’ _{(Credit: 5ofnovember on DeviantArt)}

Truth be told, this city is a powder keg. There is no other way to describe it.

They will say that we took the capital city decisively. That the war is over, allied forces are victorious, and today is the bitter end of the old regime and the dawn of a new era for everyone.

They won’t mention the fear. The fear that all this conflict will be for nothing if the situation isn’t stabilized with more force. The fear that one man hiding in a broom closet with a rocket launcher could shatter the illusion of security in an instant.

In the distance, weapons fire rattles off the skyscraper canyons. For days, friendly forces have been kicking in doors, and clearing entire buildings room by room. Officially, the fighting is over.

I haven’t known a good night’s sleep in days. I haven’t known hot water in far longer than that. The bitter cold is as much a constant companion as the smell of cordite in the air, or the thousand-yard stare in the eyes of everyone who has fired a weapon in the last several months.

The insurgents, battered and exhausted, mill around under orders from their respective leaders. They’re dressed in ragged clothes wielding a hodgepodge of weapons, some dating back to the earliest wars I can remember. They look haggard, strung out. Many of them never intended on fighting this war, but now they have blood on their hands.

In contrast, the tried and true soldiers stand in distinctive camo patterns and well-fitting body armor, wielding top end rifles. Well equipped, seasoned, dangerous. The most dangerous military on the continent. The advantage of the most capable air and ground forces on the continent makes them a party not to be trifled with, but all that firepower won’t help if the remnants go to ground, and we end up in a guerrilla war. If left to their own devices, they can and will light another war off to disrupt the hard fought and sorely won control over this territory.

Many of us, soldiers and insurgents alike, are watching from disorganized positions in the cold winter air. The city center has become the nexus of activity since it saw some of the least fighting, with most of the capital’s defending forces having collapsed or surrendered by the time our armies made it here.

A platoon of battle hardened soldiers still scans the horizon, as if more hostiles are going to pop out of rooftops and windows and attack us. I can’t help but wonder if they’re right.

This is still a war zone.

The ego of leadership knows no bounds. The city was officially captured roughly seventy-two hours ago, and only now do the administrators make their way into the city center with a literal red carpet flanked by an honor guard. And some of the propaganda lackies here to film the grand entrance.

My team is quartered in one of the high rises next to the former head of state’s palace. We have no idea what it’ll be used for now. The war is over, but war is the easy part. Peace is much more difficult. And costly.

The marble floors of the atrium, covered in dust and blown out glass from the battles before, still echoes with every step of my well-worn boots. I fought for three days without sleep. Making it up four flights of stairs may still be the most difficult task I have performed in the last month. My destination stands in one of those marble-floored hallways which is usually well-lit but lacks power at the moment. The only lights are the dull glow of emergency lights from decorative wall sconces running on backup power, and those too are soon to die. The engineers state that power will be restored to this central quarter by sundown today, but I am not so certain. This particular floor is mostly unblemished by the battle that raged outside until recently. Two guards armed with rifles flank the door, and the bust of some important minister from years past rests on the floor as fragments and dust.

Inside awaits no reprieve for my weary soul and even wearier body. Instructions on our next assignments. The rattling gunfire shall continue for some time, as a pocket of loyalist resistance waits for us six blocks over. The war has just ended, and already the residents are upset that their peaceful lives have been disrupted by our war. Sharp reminders are given to use who do not need them. Warnings about sloppiness now will cause simmering resentment to boil over. The entire city remains a tinderbox on the brink of ignition. The warnings are redundant. I don’t think any of us really want to be the one who pulls that particular trigger.

All we want to do is return home with breath in our lungs and blood in our veins.