Chains
Chapter 1
“…Communism, as it is called, [is] a doctrine most opposed to the very natural law. For if this doctrine were accepted, the complete destruction of everyone’s laws, government, property, and even of human society itself would follow.” - Pope Blessed Pius IX (1846)
The breeze feels like the soft breath of a woman after she has just kissed your cheek, and I wonder why my father never told me that the air smells the sweetest when you’re about to die.
Every sense is more acute near that final breath on earth. Yet it is the sense of smell that sharpens the most, as your mind seeks to anchor what you see and feel to a memory that will return every time you encounter that scent again.
For me, a candy-sweet scent rides on the winter wind. It is an exotic mix of apricot mallow, tumble mustard, and sunflower that drifts off the Utah plains like a freshly baked cake. The aroma is so vivid I think I could touch it, wrap it around my finger, and slip it into my pocket. The coming winter cold does little to dull the scent as I breathe it in deep—my last breaths before I meet God and answer for my sins.
The wind shifts and the sweetness wafts between my opponent and me, and I wonder…can the Zhōngshì smell it as well? Zhōngshì Lu. He is dressed in sterling green military garb with ornate embroidered buttons and pins: the height of communist military might, meant to instill fear at a glance. The Zhōngshì stands several feet away with his back turned to me as he talks furiously to his soldiers.
I wonder if the mountain aroma means the same to him as it does to me, each individual scent sparking a sharp emotional association. Do the moments of his life cascade past his eyes? Does the pain of half a lifetime of bondage, mud, cold, and death draw a veil of hyperawareness over his mind as it does mine?
Or are the scents so foreign to him that he makes no association at all? I wonder— does the conqueror fear death like the conquered?
“Wúlùn rúhé dōu yào quèbǎo zhège rén sǐ diào,” my opponent, Lu, whispers in commanding Mandarin, then turns and glares at me. Those eyes are so dark they appear as black as his soul, cold and emotionless, like a soldier just following orders.
One of the camouflaged soldiers behind him replies with something I can barely make out as the rest of Lu’s armed red troopers fan out to form a firing line. The heavy military equipment flanking them makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.
My gaze lifts to the men in the jeep who smoke cigarettes as they lean against the W85 heavy machine gun mount that looks like a black tank barrel aimed at my chest. Their looks of amusement through the rising gray smoke mock me, their laughter at my impending death making my hand shake.
Near the end, your senses become so acute in the presence of death that you can tune out the noise of the world to hear the sad singing of the last grasshoppers of the season, still searching for mates before the winter freeze. If you look hard enough, you can see the minute flapping of a fly’s wings as it makes its way to your ear to irritate you before darting away.
But I look elsewhere.
The dying evening light catches Lu’s uniform. The gold buttons on his green dress coat shine like small suns. The golden chevrons on his epaulets are as straight as his shoulders. His brown leather belt is cinched at the waist, giving his body a strong, angular form. The belt tilts to the left, weighed down by the black CF98 automatic pistol nestled inside its holster.
Sunbeams strike the white flakes of snow that begin to tumble down, making them glitter like falling angels. I breathe that sweet scent in again to steady my knees, bending over to compensate for the cross-shaped walking stick strapped to my back. I nicknamed the stick Nihani, a call to the Shoshone family I would never meet. It was designed by my father and finished by my hands. When I die, I hope it’s an American who claims it from my body and uses it as it was intended.
The thought of my death sends a cold shiver that tickles my spine. It’s a sensation I have ignored all my life, because of its constant presence, like the feeling of raindrops falling on your skin during a storm. But at that moment, the tingle feels like ice lightning that makes my fingers tap against the rusted revolver hanging on my hip holster.
My movement makes Lu’s brow go stiff, and I see the crease in his slacks as he bends at the knees. His hand hovers over his gun, his still fingers closer to the grip than mine. He may not be able to smell the plains, but he senses what I do. He knows that the time grows near when one of us will die.
Shadows from the sun falling behind the clouds move like a sundial between Lu and me. The surrounding murmuring grows with each passing second from my fellow ranch hands. Their moral support buoys my spirit, as no one wants to die alone. Yet even with the circumstances so extreme, I can’t help but notice the absence of one: my friend John, the bartender.
I glance at the double swing doors of the saloon that hang still, which means that he can’t bear to witness what happens next. I know deep down that John wants to come to my aid, to jump into this fight and rip the communists’ throats out after what they did.
But the age of heroes in America is long gone.
The last died during the fall and took the spirit that once made this country great with them. This is New America, the land of the enslaved and home of the coward. I am no exception. Even my current circumstances are the consequence of a series of events and choices made out of fear that escalated to violence.
After I die, people may wonder how a swing rider stationed at a small ranch in a forgotten part of Utah ended up in an old western quick-draw against a communist invader. Perhaps the story will be told as a joke among our captors, or as a tale of caution for new captives before I am forgotten by even those who love me.
If one were to ask me, I would tell them that I hope the story begins days earlier with a prayer—a prayer where I asked the Lord to carry me one more day.