Welcome to Gehenna

Somewhere in Columbia, a woman named Marta was chewing furiously on a stick of mint-flavored gum. Even though she was on the verge of quitting smoking for good, she really wanted a cigarette.

Por orden del Presidente, se le ordenó abandonar sus armas y rendirse! Someone with a loudspeaker outside was broadcasting a warning to her comrades, Esta es su última advertencia!

Marta knew this day would come, she just didn’t want it to come so soon. The corporations had succeeded in reclaiming control of the government from the people, and now they were arming the rightist paramilitaries with the weapons to destroy what was left of FARC. The same people who had killed her father for trying to organize the workers were now largely part of el Presidente’s official army.

FARC used to be worth something, until they had slowly been sapped of their will, thinking that they could somehow change the government through passive resistance. How could they possibly change the government when it was controlled by an entity that respected no boundries, laws or even people? This was a time for action, not words.

Gunfire erupted somewhere outside the bunker, her comrades were shouting, screaming curses and firing back at their oppressors. Those bastards were serious, but so was Marta as she waited, firing off one last message to her son before checking the safety on her rifle. She had to fight on, for the sake of her son, her dead father, and her country. When the military stormed in, she would go down fighting, AK-47 in one hand and a grenade in the other.

As the military blew down the door to the bunker, she began to fire from her position. She hoped that God would forgive her for this. As she felt bullets piercing the cheap, worthless body armor the rebels had acquired, she continued praying to her God for repentance before a bullet struck her through the head, and she ceased to dwell among the living.

______________

A man in a stylish Victorian-era suit bobbed and weaved through the corridors of the sterile, white building, dodging all sorts of angels, healers, and lesser demons along the way. In one hand he clutched an umbrella that held a large sentimental value to him. In the other was a sticky note with a name and a room number scrawled in a formal cursive penmanship, just as he liked.

He enjoyed a good afternoon constitutional every now and then to stretch out his legs and keep his joints limber. Even so, it would take him five whole minutes to reach his destination in this so-called Hospital, not to mention the various undesirables who kept clogging up the hallways or the angels who were there to do their own business. He was supposed to be a special agent from the Protection/Oversight/Enforcement Division, and they couldn’t give him a hovering stand like his boss had, or at least clear the hallways a little in advance of his arrival? It didn’t seem right, but then few things were right about this land anyway.

Nonetheless, the man learned long ago that such mundane tasks would become part of his repentance, so he took them all in stride. After a few more minutes of walking, he finally reached the correct room. He then walked inside and sat by a chair placed at the opposite end of the Hospital bed. On the bed lay a tan-skinned woman wearing a loose sheet.

The man composed himself appropriately, glanced at the note to remember her name, then spoke in a calm tone.

“Hello, Marta.”