War Merchant

WAR MERCHANT

  by

  Wilde Blue Sky

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  War Merchant

  Copyright © 2010 by Wilde Blue Sky

  The author would like to thank Louise, Kate and Lynne for their support.

  Note to reader - if you appreciated this short story please, if you are able, make a small donation to a charity of your choice.

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  War Merchant

  Orr slumped on the cell bed and surveyed the reddish-brown stains on the concrete walls and floor. A single light bulb flickered and buzzed. The air stank of urine and defeat. His fall from grace had been dramatic.

  Only five hours ago he'd returned from banqueting with the State President to find troopers manhandling his distraught daughters and wife into the back of a prison van. Two troopers had restrained him, forcing him to watch and listen to their cries for help. Passers by momentarily stopped to look, but paid no real attention to the pleas for mercy.

  The heavy iron cell door opened with a loud clang, immediately followed by the metallic clicking of the guard's heels as he marched in.

  Without thinking Orr demanded. 'Don't you know you should knock before entering?'

  The huge, stony-faced guard strode across the room. A trickle of sweat ran down Orr's back as the guard leaned forward and spat out the words, ‘Am I interrupting something?'

  Orr silently held his breath, trying hard to control his fear. He had always been a dreadful coward and, more painfully, he knew it.

  The guard methodically drew his baton and tapped it lightly against his palm. He prodded Orr’s chest and stomach. Then a light tap to the head. Then crack! Orr felt the side of his head explode as he was knocked to the floor. A sharp spasm shot up his neck as he hit the concrete. He lay there, not daring to move.

  'Anything else I can do for you?' The guard sneered as he swung the baton from side to side an inch above Orr's head. 'Things have changed. I have the power now. You're just a prisoner. Next time you try and be clever with me, I’ll put you in with the lifers. They like fresh meat. Understand?'

  The guard marched out of the cell. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place. Orr pulled himself up and slumped on to the bed. His head and neck were throbbing, but what really hurt was his wounded pride. Checking the guard had gone, he muttered to himself, 'If I'd met you yesterday I would have had you and your entire bastard family strung up.'

  Orr was left alone in his cell for days and quickly became bored with the monotonous prison routine. Every morning and evening an inch square block of stale, ashen-grey bread and a cup of vile tasting gruel were shoved through the small flap at the bottom of the door. At first Orr didn't eat the food, but soon hunger got the better of his taste buds and he forced down the fodder. The stinking slop bucket, which he used with great disgust, was removed once a day. His clothes became engrained with dirt and sweat, as his odour became just another part of the prison stench.

  Orr escaped his windowless cage by recalling vivid memories of past glories. Sometimes he even managed to believe he was still a captain of industry, taking his fill of everything; prostitutes, drugs, champagne; men standing to attention, his every order obeyed. But always terrifying screams brought him back to reality. At first the screams frightened him, but after a few days he simply buried his head in his pillow to block out the agonised sounds; grateful it was someone else who was suffering.

  The door banged open. The guard marched into the centre of the room. It was days since Orr has seen anyone. Why was the guard here? Orr stared at the ground. His skin felt hot and prickly; he sensed the guard sizing him up. He’d learnt to be quiet, to avoid the attentions of the guard and his baton.

  ‘I see you’ve learnt some manners.’ The guard sneered.

  Orr waited silently, heart racing.

  'What was it like? Being in charge?'

  Was this a trick? Orr tried to find words. 'It was fantastic,' he whispered.

  ‘Speak up. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  'It was fantastic working for the state, providing the state with what it needed.'

  'No. What was it really like? What was the power like? I used to work in one of your factories.'

  Orr was dumbstruck.

  'I'd see you when you visited, surrounded by guards, rubbing shoulders with our leaders.' The guard paused for a few moments then asked, 'you had loads of stunning looking secretaries. Did they taste as good as they looked?'

  Orr smirked. They'd all tasted sweetly innocent.

  The guard looked, with a certain admiration, at Orr. 'Lucky bastard.'

  An image of his wife and daughters forced itself into Orr's mind. His heart felt heavy. He hesitated, but had to know. 'What happened to my family?'

  The guard cleared his throat. 'They've been…dealt with.'

  Orr felt an icy stab of pain. He clutched himself and rocked. The words could only have one meaning. He understood that he loved his family and they were gone. He was lost

  'Better to be dealt with than end up in one of the camps. You wouldn't want your daughters to be in one of those?'

  Orr knew what he meant. He remembered laughing at the horror stories from the camps. He shuddered. It was true; death could be a blessing. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the floor.

  The guard continued to reminisce. 'I remember the factory. It was huge, covered hundreds of acres. Ten of thousands of us slaved day after day. Making weapons to defend our country from our enemies. We slaved, while you grew fat and rich.'

  Orr knew the guard spoke the truth.

  The guard spoke again, forcing more words into Orr's thoughts. 'As a party member I was proud to work in factory. Your weapons made the state strong, allowed us to show the rest of the world who was in charge.'

  'You're a party member?'

  The guard looked surprised. 'Of course I'm a party member. All of us are. The party, with your weapons, made the state powerful, allowing us, people like me, to take our rightful place. Just think, once I was someone you wouldn't even talk to. Now I control your life.'

  Orr spoke meekly. 'The weapons allowed the party to take control, to wage wars that killed the youth of a whole generation, while I sat safe in my office.'

  The guard frowned. 'The sacrifices were worth it. They allowed us to claim our rightful place in the world, to rid our society of all those who would make us weak, all those who would make us slaves.'

  Orr mumbled to himself. 'I saw the troopers take all those who had the wrong religion, the wrong name or the wrong beliefs. I never thought to question. I just enjoyed my privileged life.'

  'You did a great service to the state, to the party, but eventually we have to rid ourselves of all undesirables, no matter how close they are to the elite.'

  Orr spoke with painful clarity. 'I saw the state troopers snatch friends and colleagues, never to be seen again. I didn't protest. I didn't care. I never thought the state would come for me, I thought I was too useful. But when they did come for me, no one helped. Everyone just looked the other way.'

  The guard turned away in disgust. 'If you are deemed an enemy of the state it's only right that no one should help you or spare a thought for you.'

  The door slammed shut with an echoing bang. The large central metal flap in the prison door hung open. Orr hesitated. He felt drawn to look at the outside world. He looked left and saw the horrid grey corridor he'd been dragged down. He heard sickening bone-cracking noises coming from the right and instinctively turned his head to look. On the floor lay the naked corpse of a middle-aged man; a prisoner was pulling out the dead man's teeth. Orr felt his own gold fillings, how long would he keep them? He had made the weapons
that gave the party power. He was responsible.

  Orr lay on his bunk wondering why he was still alive. Suddenly it hit him. He cried out, 'show trial! They must be keeping me a live for a show trial. I'll have a chance to make a statement. A chance to make amends!'

  For the next few days all dreams of the past were banished. Orr practiced his speech all day long, speaking the truth out loud. 'I was a war merchant, building guns, planes and bombs for the state. I built weapons that gave the state the power to destroy, manipulate and control people's lives across the world; to turn fear into an everyday currency. I sat back and watched the daily reports of oppression and war, as the death count mounted, safe in my mansion. I knew young people's blood was being drained from their bodies, to be buried and lost in the mud. I know all the blood in my veins isn't worth the blood that has been shed. I know all the money and power, wasn't worth the price I paid. I lost my family, my soul and, shortly, will lose my life. The state has become all-powerful and commits terrible crimes with impunity. I beg you, look at what is happening and rise up, don't simply look the other way; don't let the state crush you and your fellow countrymen.'

  As he finished his speech, the door swung open. The guard's heels made their familiar clicking noise as he entered.

  Orr blurted out. 'When will my trial be?'

  The guard looked at Orr as though he was a dimwit. 'Trial? Trial? You were convicted before you were arrested.'

  Orr felt as though the floor beneath him had opened up, his newfound sense of purpose crushed. 'Why am I still alive?'

  'You've been kept alive just in case you were needed. But the factories run perfectly well without you, so now you are,' the guard shrugged, '...expendable.'

  Orr didn't feel fear; his only sensation was remorse. He had always known the state had used his weapons to crush all those it didn't consider worthy of life. He had just chosen to look the other way.

  The guard continued to talk. 'You were always an undesirable, we only allowed you to prosper for so long, because we needed what you produced, so we could grow strong and take absolute control. We used you. You thought you were in charge, in a position of power, but you were just a means to an end.'

  'When will the sentence be carried out?'

  Orr felt resigned to his fate as he watched the guard reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a small pistol. Orr stood open mouthed as the guard said, 'don't worry. It's a good pistol. It’s one of yours.'

  Orr sank to his knees. For the first time in years he began to pray.

  The cell door banged shut.

  What was happening? He looked up and saw a small pistol, with the word 'ORR' engraved on the handle, resting on the bed.

  Something whispered in his heart. He had helped evil to triumph in return for a few pleasures, for a few pieces of silver. Now it was time for him to pay for his crimes.

  His eyes dimmed with tears.