MARTYRS TO FREEDOM.
By Dave Turner.
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or the Genesis song The Knife
I write these stories for fun not profit.
Crossover: Inspired by the Genesis song The Knife
Spelling, Punctuation, and Grammar; Written in glorious English-English. American idioms are used wherever possible throughout this fic.
Timeline: 2003 post ‘Chosen’, part of the ‘Untold Story’ series.
Words: 12 Chapters of 3000+ words.
Warnings: Violence and lesbian smut.
Summary: Heading home from South America Kennedy and Willow stop off in the Central American Republic of Choluteca and get themselves involved in a revolutionary war.
Betaed by Rachael.
Authors Note: I don’t speak Spanish so if you have any problems about the translations blame ‘Babel Fish Translation’ not me. I mean I’ve done my best, but when you’ve no idea about Spanish grammar, who knows what howlers you’ve perpetrated?
You may want to listen to the song first; copy and paste to YouTube or your favourite search engine, you may need to remove the http:// bit to make it work.
Jesus Mendoza watched himself in the mirror as he adjusted his pistol belt and uniform, he promised himself that once he had taken power he would have a proper uniform made. He sneered at the old US army trousers and cast off Russian camouflage jacket he was forced to wear…soon it would all be different.
The night before, the Revolutionary Army had driver ‘El Supremo’s’ lackeys out of the little town of El Triunfo with hardly a shot fired. The people poured out onto the streets to greet the victorious rebel soldiers and point out the members of General Herrera’s hated security police. The police who weren’t beaten to death by the crowd, and the town officials that hadn’t run at the first sight of the rebel army; were all subjected to revolutionary justice and quickly hung or shot. The celebrations had gone on late into the night.
Mendoza looked at himself in the mirror again; he glimpsed the reflections of his closest advisors as they stood in respectful silence behind him in the run down hotel room he was using as his headquarters. As satisfied as he was ever likely to be while wearing other armies cast-offs he drew himself up to his full five-foot-five-inches and smiled at himself.
“Tell me my life is about to begin,” he whispered, “Tell me that I’m a hero.”
“General?” Colonel Pedro Delgado stepped forward from the little group of officers and hangers-on who waited for the great man’s orders.
The Colonel, a convert from El Supremo’s forces, was a tall young officer who had reached the rank of Captain in El Supremo’s National Guard. As one of the few men with military experience in the Revolutionary Army he had risen quickly to his present position as ‘Chief of the Army’. He had also genuinely liked Mendoza and his ideas of freedom and reform. God knew Choluteca needed both; but as time had past and the rebel army had made its way nearer to the capital of San Sebastian, a change had come over the General (as he now liked to be called).
Delgado had noticed Mendoza’s increasing agitation as they got closer to the city. At first he put it down to anticipation that the struggle would soon be over. But Colonel Delgado saw Mendoza talking to himself often, as if he argued with some internal demon. There were also the increasingly violent reprisals taken against members of the old regime. To begin with the Colonel put it down to revolutionary fervour, and hoped that it would soon burn itself out. On the contrary, the Colonel had watched as the atrocities had gotten worse.
“Nothing,” Mendoza turned to smile at his followers, “It is nothing, now tell me is everything in place for the next phase?”
“Si, General;” It was Sarita, the beautiful assassin who spoke, “The assassination teams started out for the capital at first light. I expect to receive confirmation reports of their arrival by mid-afternoon.”
“Good!” Mendoza nodded his head enthusiastically, “You have the revised list of those you must kill?”
“Si, General.” Sarita nodded her head slowly her long thick dark hair falling about her neck and shoulders, she smiled and Delgado shivered, “All the teams have their individual targets and your instructions.” The young woman glanced around the room, “Kill the men and the children, leave the wives and mothers alive. Then take the heads of the oppressors and their brats and leave them by the gates of El Viejo Palacio.”
“General, I must protest!” Delgado felt he had to say something, what Mendoza was suggesting went against all his instincts as a soldier. “Yes, kill the men,” Delgado took a step towards his leader but was stopped in his tracks when Sarita held onto his arm, my god, he thought, that girl was strong. Shaking the girl’s hand away he stood in front of Mendoza, “Please, General, please reconsider, at least spare the children they are blameless in this.”
“Blameless? Mendoza turned hard eyes onto the soldier, “Did they not eat when others starved? Did they not play while others were worked to death?” The general shook his head sadly, “And wasn’t it an American general, one of the ones that you admire so much, who said something about nits making lice?” Mendoza let that thought sink in before continuing, “No, leave no-one alive who will later rally forces against us or take revenge for the deaths of their fathers.”
“But General;” Delgado made one last attempt at stopping this potentially disastrous plan, “The foreigners surely they don’t have to die, do you really want foreign soldiers taking their vengeance on our poor country”
“Pedro, Pedro,” Mendoza smiled disarmingly as he put a comradely arm around Delgado’s shoulder, “The democracies are weak, they will shout and threaten but will do nothing…we have nothing to fear from them.”
Colonel Delgado knew a lost cause when he saw one, he knew that he had lost this battle; he had tried, his conscience was clear. He would remain silent until such time as he thought he could affect a change in the General’s policies. But he was still worried, Pedro had read his history books and knew that although the democracies might look weak, if you annoyed them enough they would strike back like vipers…and they always won in the end.
“General, the people?” Mayor Diaz, the new revolutionary mayor of El Triunfo stepped forward and gestured towards the window that led out onto the balcony, “They wait to hear your words.”
“Of course,” Mendoza smiled. He nodded to his followers and moved towards the balcony.
As he stepped out into the open a great roar came from the throats of the people who packed the market square. They cheered and waved flags, they threw flowers and jumped for joy, years of oppression had been lifted from their shoulders and they wanted to enjoy their new found freedom. They looked up at the man who had driven the forces of the detested Don Julian Alvarado, El Supremo, from their town and farms. They cheered themselves hoarse as the great General waved down to them from the hotel balcony.
“Libertad! Libertad! Libertad!” They chanted almost overwhelmed with joy.
‘See’, said the voice in Mendoza’s head, ‘see how they love you? You can do anything you want with these, all you have to do is give in to all your violent dreams and light up your body with anger…you can have everything!’ The voice faded into the back of his mind as he let the noise of the crowd wash over him. He turned smiling to his staff and gestured for them to join him on the balcony.
The noise of the crowd doubled as they saw the General’s friends and advisors appear next to him. Most of the town’s people didn’t know who they were cheering - but what the hell; they were for the revolution so they cheered. Eventually Mendoza raised his arms and waved the crowd into something approaching silence.
“Now, in this ugly world,” Mendoza spoke softly forcing the crowd to become even quieter. “It is time to destroy all this evil.” He held his arms wide to encompass the whole country, “Now, when I give the word, get ready to fight for your freedom. NOW!” The crowd went wild once more.
“Stand up and fight for you know we are right, we will strike at the lies that have spread like disease through our minds.” The General spoke loudly to the ecstatic crowd as he whipped them to a frenzy. “Soon we'll have power, every soldier can then rest, and we will spread out our kindness to all who our love now deserves. Some of you are going to die – martyrs to the cause of freedom that I shall provide!” Once more the crowd went wild and Mendoza gazed down on them with a faraway look in his eyes.
Many miles away from El Triunfo, Ernesto Torres climbed across his bicycle and pushed himself off, slowly he started to peddle his way towards where he hoped the Revolutionary Army were located. The village elders had spent the previous night discussing the problem before them, eventually around dawn a final vote had been taken; the village had decided to join the revolution. Ernesto had been chosen, mainly because he owned the best bicycle in the village, to go find the revolutionary soldiers and give them the good news.
Kennedy stepped out of the rickety old DC 3 belonging to Choluteca Airlines, and put her high heeled foot on the equally rickety steps that had been wheeled up to the aircraft’s door. She looked out at the sun bleached cracked concrete of the runway and across to the terminal building. She walked down the stairs feeling the hot sticky air enfold her like a warm wet blanket, she was thankful she had chosen to wear a light weight dress instead of her usual jeans and blouse. She slipped on her sun glasses and straightened her wide brimmed sunhat as she looked up into the doorway to see Willow pause for a moment before joining her girlfriend on the runway.
Helping Willow down from the aircraft Kennedy noted the machine gun positions on and around the Terminal building, the heavily armed soldiers who wilted in the sun as they listlessly patrolled the airport perimeter. The general air of decay and neglect hit them as they walked towards the terminal with its stained walls, flaking paint and broken signs. By the time they had reached the shelter of the concrete built terminal their floral patterned cotton dresses were clinging damply to their bodies, they sighed with relief as they entered the relative cool of the terminal.
Walking across the tiled floor, that hadn’t been swept let alone polished in what looked like years, they presented themselves at the customs desk; here an unshaven, sweaty customs officer regarded them insolently from behind a counter. He leered at them both trying to catch a glimpse down the front of their dresses as he stood at his slightly higher position.
“Passport!” he demanded in heavily accented English as he held out his hand.
Willow passed over both their passports to the officer; he flicked through the pages of each book.
“Americano?” He glanced up studying the two obviously wealthy American women. Willow nodded her head. Kennedy affected to ignore the customs man and continued to look around the arrivals area.
They had been the only foreign passengers arriving at Choluteca airport. The locals had all disappeared leaving Willow and Kennedy the only people on the wrong side of the customs desk. Glancing out from under her hat Kennedy saw two youngish men dressed in black t-shirts and khaki cargo pants. They leant against the grubby wall watching as people joined the queue to leave the country; she noted the bulges under their t-shirts at their waists, no doubt about it they were members of the infamous security police.
The queue for departures consisted of mainly European businessmen or contractors, one or two had their families with them, and there were several local girls, who were probably girlfriends of the ‘gringos’ who were trying to get them out of the country and to safety. Over by the main exit a gaggle of nuns argued with a couple of soldiers that were blocking their way into the terminal.
“What is the reason for your visit to Choluteca?” asked the customs man, he wiped a sweaty hand over his filthy uniform; he didn’t really want to know he asked for forms sake only.
Kennedy felt Willow nudge her arm, realising that the officer must have spoken in Spanish she looked up at the man and using her haughtiest manner replied.
“Pleasure.” she left the ‘you filthy pig’ part unsaid but her eyes gave the officer the feeling that he had just been insulted.
“Huh? Pleasure?” the customs man was obviously non-plused by this answer; no one came to Choluteca if they could possibly avoid it. He raised his stamp anyway and brought it down on their passports with a double thump, “That will be twenty dollars American,” he still held their passports in his hand, “Airport tax…each.” The officer grinned, exposing uneven rotting teeth.
Kennedy glared at the customs man as he continued to hold onto their passports and went back to trying to see down the front of her dress. The argument between the nuns and the soldiers had just gone up a notch in intensity and the two security police were torn between watching the nuns or the two attractive gringo women at customs. Eventually lust won out and they started to saunter over to where the American women stood, maybe they needed to be taken in for ‘questioning’?
Willow looked around, she could feel the panic start to rise in her chest, and she wished she understood Spanish. Maybe there was some translator spell she could use so she could understand what was going on. Kennedy was speaking in a low threatening tone; and from the look on ‘customs guy’s’ face he didn’t like what he was hearing. Turning her head she saw the two nasty looking secret-police-guys heading towards her from the main part of the building. Looking the other way in the hopes of finding somewhere to run to when it all went badly wrong (just after Kennedy hit someone) Willow saw a tall local man in a light grey linen suit heading towards her.
The man was notable for several reasons; first he had bathed and shaved this morning. Secondly his suit was clean and pressed. Thirdly he walked like he owned the place. By now Kennedy and the customs guy were playing tug-o-war with the passports, the two guys in black t-shirts were reaching for the bulges at their waists, and the nuns and the soldiers were really getting into it. The man in the suit spoke.
“Senorita DeSilver?” He asked as he came to a halt by the little group Willow noticed that the two police thugs had stopped and started to turn away as soon as the man in the suit had spoken to Kennedy.
“Yes.” Kennedy turned to confront the newcomer.
“Excuse me,” The man gave the custom’s official a warning look, “I am Hilario Ortega, your father asked me to look out for you, I’m sorry I was not here sooner. I was held up, the rebels you know?”
“Oh thank-you, Daddy!” for a second Kennedy’s face split into a smile and her eyes lit up at the mere mention of her father.
“Yes.” Hilario smiled and nodded his head before turning to Willow, “You must be Senorita Rosenberg.” He gave Willow a little bow as he shook her hand, “If you would like to follow me I have a car waiting.”
“But our passports?” Willow pointed to the customs officer.
Senor Ortega snatched the documents from the official’s hand and passed them with a smile back to Willow.
“Our luggage?” Kennedy wanted to know.
“One of my men has already taken it to your hotel,” Senor Ortega glanced over to where the soldiers and the nuns had almost come to blows, “Please hurry.” He started to usher them towards a side exit.
It was the swirl of black cloth that attracted Kennedy’s eyes as her slayer senses started to warn her of danger. She looked over at the nuns to see them drag submachine guns from under their habits. The soldiers looked down in shock to the where the ‘Little Sisters of Mercy’ weren’t looking so merciful.
As if in slow motion Kennedy grabbed hold of Willow’s shoulders and forced her to the ground as a nun opened fire cutting down one of the soldiers. His partner managed to get off a shot, blowing the top of the first nun’s head off before being cut down by fire from the other sisters. Kennedy landed on top of Willow, knocking the air out of her lungs and making her gasp.
The Security Police had their pistols out and were firing wildly as the nuns sprayed the departure area with fire cutting down men, women and children as they tried to escape the massacre. Kennedy looked up from where she lay covering Willow’s body with her own to see Ortega crouching in the doorway holding an automatic pistol in his hand.
The nuns worked their way into the lounge turning the departure queue into red ruin as they moved. The two police were down, either dead or wounded, as civilians screamed and tried to escape from this scene of carnage. As quickly as it started the firing stopped and Kennedy risked looking up to see the nuns run from the terminal, their black habits flapping behind them making them look like big black crows. Kennedy rolled off Willow and climbed to her feet; she saw the customs man lying in a pool of his own blood and heard the screams and moans of the wounded as they writhed on the floor.
“Quickly!” ordered Ortega gesturing towards the door with his gun.
Willow clambered to her feet her mouth falling open in shock as she looked around at the blood spattered walls.
“Goddess!” she gasped, Kennedy started to push her towards the door, “We should help them…”
“No!” Ortega hurried them out into the sunlight, “It’s not unknown for the rebels to ambush the ambulances as they turn up or shoot at anyone trying to help the wounded…we must go…hurry!”
Kennedy pushed a weakly resisting Willow out of the terminal and towards an old, but well kept Mercedes saloon, Ortega climbed in behind the wheel.
“But those poor people,” protested Willow as Kennedy pushed her into the rear seat.
“You cannot help them if you are dead,” Ortega started the engine and drove the car towards the perimeter fence, “Maybe you can help later…but not now…HOLD ON!” He crashed the car through the perimeter fence and out onto the road.
Don Julian Alvarado, known to his people as El Supremo, he sat at his desk in his office atop El Viejo Palacio and held his head in his hands. He didn’t know what to do, the voices in his head that had told him what to do for the last thirty years remained stubbornly silent. He almost wept with frustration, not only were the voices silent but his own ability to function appeared to have deserted him. This latest atrocity had left him struggling for any kind of response. He looked up to where General Damian Herrera stood waiting for his ‘Master’ to tell him what to do.
“Do whatever you think is best Damian.” Sighed El Supremo shaking his head in sorrow, “But what ever it is…make them pay!”
“Si, El Supremo!” Herrera snapped to attention, “You can rely on me Sir!”
The General turned on his heels and marched from the presence of ‘El Supremo’, as he strode out of the door he smiled to himself and switched off the pocket tape recorder he had placed in the top pocket of his uniform jacket. Now he could do as he pleased, hadn’t ‘El Supremo’ ordered him to do whatever he thought best? He laughed as he walked along the empty corridors towards the courtyard. Yes, he thought, whatever I think best!