The Fall of General Carver

General E. Carver tried not to look down. He certainly would have liked to hold his head high, to take each step with confidence and determination. But the space station had taken serious damage; there was rubble everywhere. New pieces of wall and splintered furniture came into view with every flash of the red panic lights. He had to look down to make sure he didn’t trip and fall.

The sound was deafening: screams, shouts, crashes, and even the occasional explosion. …But mostly gunshots.

His enemy didn’t stand a chance.

His enemy was the ex-general Joseph Brown. His underground allies were shipping him off to the facilities on Mars, where he could regroup and rally support. The people loved him, and even from Mars he could probably amass a powerful army. The Martians certainly supported him.

It was all very disgusting, Carver thought, that this would be the fate of the ex-general. Killed like a dog running away from home. Still, Carver comforted himself that he would give some last honor to the old man. Carver was not one to shoot his enemy in the back. He was much nobler than that. He would give the old man one last stand, a fair fight, a duel, before he sent him to the grave.

Carver looked up just in time to save himself from hitting a wall. A white door inches from his face was marked “Shuttle”. So this was it. Carver looked at his golden watch. 11:17, five minutes since the attack began. He was right on schedule. Carver took out his silver pistol, and with gun in hand flung open the door and stepped through.

The sounds instantly muffled as soon as the door closed behind him. The room was a pentagon, with the pointed top at his right. The wall to his left was lined with lockers, most of them empty except for the occasional jacket or pair of shoes. There were cardboard boxes of all sizes strewn throughout the entire room. The point to his right, obviously the focus of the room, was an archway reaching all the way to the ceiling. Intense light came from the other side, along with drifting vapor, like fog. It was like the gateway to Heaven.

And there in the middle of the room, holding one of the boxes, was the old man.

“Joseph Brown,” said General Carver, pointing his gun at the man’s heart.

“Glad you could make it, son,” Brown said with searing sarcasm. He put the box down beside him.

“I’m not your son anymore,” Carver sneered, “Right before I came here I changed my name to Elliot Patton Carver.”

Joseph Brown laughed harshly. “You think a name will take away what’s in your blood?” He laughed again, hiding the aching pain he felt. His only son hated him. No matter how many victories in life he had won, he was still a failure at raising a child.

“Draw your weapon.” The new general’s face might have been made of steel.

Brown stopped laughing, suddenly furious. “You just don’t get it, do you? You have no idea what I’m doing here, what I’m trying to do! If you knew, you would never be pointing that pistol at me now."

“You disobeyed a direct order from the Senate. You forsake your-“

“Idiot!” yelled Brown, suddenly. Carver stepped back, shocked. His father had never shouted at him before. “The senate is supposed to represent the people, not suppress them! Look at what this country has come to! Look! Even now your own soldiers are slaughtering civilians!”

“They are rebels.”

“They are civilians, fighting with knives and fists against the most powerful guns in the world!”

“They were helping you escape.”

Ex-general Brown stopped shouting. He stared at Carver, furious and disbelieving, searching his son’s eyes for some small trace of himself. He didn’t find any. Slowly the fury faded, and he sloped downwards. He was a broken, old man.

Carver steeled himself. Again he said, though a bit softer, “Draw your weapon.”

An explosion rang off in the distance, and the panic lights flashed one last time, then went out. The only light now came from the archway. Brown looked down. “This won’t bring you glory,” he said.

“THIS ISN’T ABOUT GLORY!” screamed Carver.

Brown didn’t respond. There was only silence, and the muffled screams.

General E. Carver was crying now, crying hot tears of rage and fury. He despised this man, his father. Look at him. Everyone loves him. Everyone loves this man, and they would cry if they found him here, dead.

“Draw your weapon,” said Carver through broken sobs.

“No.”

“DRAW YOUR WEAPON!”

“No.” His father looked up at him. His shadowed face was regretful but determined, like a fallen hero, or a man who had chosen a grim fate. …He was not going to draw his weapon.

A shot rang through the room. The old man bent double, then fell face first, as if in slow motion. His body hit the floor hard.

Carver did not lower his gun. He stared, transfixed, at the blood slowly seeping out from under the fallen body.

There was no life there anymore.