The Citadel

The Citadel

Jorge Hurtado

04/19/2023

“She was dying anyways. She’s out of her misery, now” he told himself.
“It’s okay. Reaffirm how you feel.” It took him a few moments to kill his conscience before he came up with a quick plan. He would turn against his comrades and aid in their demise.
“Why?” the voice in his voice asked.
Because according to him, Julian’s existence was just the byproduct of evil. The only person that he loved, kept the truth away from him. No loyalty, No dignity. “All those people should not exist.” He thought.
After stepping out of the shanty house unto the ever-wet dirt road. He swam his way into the barracks of the School. Slid the throat of the guard, grab his semi-automatic, and rushed his way inside the armory. He killed two militiamen more before he arrived at his objective. The disillusioned monster opened the crate and synchronized the detonator to the explosives before he taped them one by one to his body. He was ready to give up his life.
However, the weeks that preceded this event are nothing but bliss and good feelings for our friend Julian.
Ten weeks ago, Julian was fired from his job at a little shop at the Presidente town’s market. The owner was not satisfied when the 18-year-old started missing workdays to instead train for the foot drill at the Southridge militia camp. “It's for your good, son. You are meant to be a fighter, not a smelly greengrocer,” the owner said as he gave him his last check. The “School” was the camp’s nickname given by the residents because the local tradition says that a hundred years ago that place was a high school that served the residents of South Miami Heights. The market was crowded all the time. It was situated at a high altitude, so water could not reach many of the shops. People visited in their loud motorboats, sometimes carrying a bicycle or two to cross large stretches of land. Since there was not a working sewage system, garbage was piled up near the shore weekly just to be released into the sea.
“If it wasn’t for our commanders that refuse to enforce the citadel’s charter. There must a sanitary code somewhere in that rotting town hall” he thought to himself.
But Julian was really happy that he finally got to leave that smelly place for good. He could focus more on his training. However, he still had to make ends meet.
He had to find another way to help his mother financially support their shanty boat. Good thing that the port for their shanty boat was shallow enough and did not see any more water level rise during rainy days like the older streets in the citadel.
The twelve-foot-tall walls that delineated the boundaries of the community were bricks and cement layers. These were on top of an artificial hill that with a canal on both sides for drainage purposes. In one sector, the walls were about 200 yards away from the Ronald Reagan Turnpike, controlled by the South Florida Military. Patrol militia guarded the walls day and night, with hidden sniper rifles aiming at the highway. People would place wooden boards on the driest areas of the dirt roads as a way to create an artificial bike lane for the commuters. Julian was biking down SW 112th Ave to the lake where his shanty boat was located. Because of his family’s history in the citadel’s militia, his residence was right in front of the School.
“Katy! I’m home! Where’s my food?” he says as he dumps his bike outside the boat. The greeting woke up his mother who was resting in the hammocks attached to the portico.
“Why so early? Don’t you come out of work at 2 PM?” said Katy.
“Yeah, but not anymore. I got fired,” said Julian.
“You are not even good enough for that fruit selling of yours. What’s your problem Julian? Don’t you see where are trying to make a living here?”
“It’s not your problem to figure out what’s my problem, Katy. I’m 18. I’m an adult now. Besides, at least be a bit grateful about the fact that I’ve been supporting this hellhole for about two years just so that the militia won’t take it away from us?”
“You petulant rat! You stubbornly want to kill yourself in battle like your father did. How many times have I told you to quit the training? I know you lie and instead choose to go to boot camp training when you said you are working. And don’t you forget that I work too to keep this place literally afloat. Idiot,”
“Don’t you dare disrespect my father! Everybody in this great citadel looks up to me to be a great hero and leader like he was. There is no other reason to live in this cruel world than to fight for an ideal. Not even water will interrupt with my desire to kill those who will threaten our community!”
“Julian…” Katy starts coughing profusely.
Julian darts out of the room without looking back and crosses the dirt road for his afternoon training.
The next after his firing, Julian started looking for another source of income that would satisfy his needs and the needs of his shanty boat. Some people at the School were talking about a retired militia fighter named Jose. He had contacts with the friendly citadels that trade with South Miami Heights, such as the Three Lakes Independent Republic. Larry and Penny Thompson Forrest was an alternative route taken by black market traders trying to evade the official gates of entry, which are heavily guarded by the militia. Julian told one of his friends to arrange a meeting between the two.
The smell of weed mixed with the smell of South Florida pine trees was not uncommon in Larry and Penny Thompson Forrest. For some that smell reminded them of the black market, for others, like Julian, the smell reminded them of an opportunity to make living out in this unjust and terrible world. He already met with Jose a couple of times in the past two weeks. His merchandise is good, and the demand was growing. Jose parked his truck once again, ready to unload the four crates.
“By any chance, is your last name Castro?” he asked. Julian was perplexed by the question since no one had ever cared about knowing his full name before.
“Yeah,” Julian said.
“Well then you must be Jonathan Castro’s son,” said Jose.
Julian quickly reached for his side pistol. Jose quickly aimed his .50 caliber AR-75 at Julian’s crotch.
“That attitude gives it away, kid. Just say yes next time,” said Jose. Julian grinned. They both lowered their weapons.
After being yelled at every single day at “School,” being told that life is meaningless as a way of conforming young people that is okay to take someone’s life for the slightest quarrel, an 18-year-old in such a place is not used to commonplace introductory interactions. He knows Jose is going to be useful for him in terms of making money, but it would not but terrible if he is someone nicer than average.
“Kiddo, you don’t expect me to give you all this of this supply right.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Well…no. You don’t even have a motorboat or a way to transport all of this weed around.”
“I don’t need much supply right now. As long as your cut is reasonable, I will not be taking much from you for now.”
“For now?” Jose laughed. “So, if I understand correctly, you think you can sell this stuff without getting shot in the town’s square, and that you will ask for more?”
“I know a lot of disillusioned teens that hate the citadel and would love to escape the reality of this cruel existence with a few puffs.” In his idealistic mind, Julian was also trying to prevent a revolution by keeping the youth subservient to drugs. “And you can trust that if I get caught, I never knew you. I bet your name is not even Jose.”
“It is not. I’m not even Hispanic.”
“Okay, then. There’s no reason to be afraid to make some money.”
Jose was thoughtful for a while. He felt bad for the kid. It is ironic to see how the tables sometimes turn in life.
“Okay, kiddo. I’m going to make you an offer you can't refuse. I will give you only five pounds of weed. If you get to sell it all in one week, I will increase your supply by 2 pounds. When you reach twenty pounds of supply, I will reduce my cut from fifty percent to only twenty percent. How does that sound?
Julian asked for paper and a pen. If the market price is $50 per pound, he would be making $150, and $100 will be paid to Jose. If he reached twenty pounds a week with the same cut, he would make $600 and pay Jose $400. However, with Jose’s offer, Julian would now be making $800 a week and pay Jose only $200.
Julian realized he pitied him. It was a deal from there. Jose also offered to loan his motorboat to Julian by leaving it attached to a tree in the Black River.
“Why do you have so much pity on me,” Julian asked with curiosity.
“I knew your father very well.” Jose answered. “I was under his command when I was your age. I have never met someone as courageous as he was. I was there when he got shot in the head. He was dead on the spot. They whole squadron retreated to rush him to infirmary, but it didn’t help much. They had a week-long mandatory mourning for the entire citadel. He became a notorious model for heroism and pride in our citadel.”
Julian listened attentively. Not even his own mother had told him about a personal experience with his father. His father was almost like a mystical figure, a god that commanded his conscience to embrace the fact that he was eventually going to fall prey to the bullets of life.
Jose continued. “It was at the Battle of the Zoo of 2085, about 2 miles from this place. This area was completely controlled by the South Floridians until 2 years ago, when we were finally able to make them retreat back to the Turnpike. Today this place is a neutral zone, as well as great place for contraband to pass through.”
“Was the militia hierarchy still corrupt back when you were young? Did they ever teach the principles of the citadel and the monstrosity of going back to the ancient American tyranny?” asked Julian, wondering whether he could finally bond with some that knew his father.
“Back then the School was less corrupt,” Jose said nostalgically. “Commanders had a great passion for the cause of independence from the tyrannical constitutionalists. But now the South Floridians are increasingly gaining power in the region. The new generations in other citadels are falling back to old times of so-called democracy, America, natural rights, and an unregulated free market. They even call now for the return of religion in the public square.”
“Superstitious apes!” said Julian. “I will kill them one by one before they poison our potential fighters.”
“It seems like the School has not change its doctrine one bit.”
A couple of weeks passed, and Julian had been doing really well with his business. He would arrange a meeting with his clients near the Small Modular Reactor, a remnant from the twenty-first century that would power the entire community. He would take the cargo down the black river on the loan motorboat during aquatic drills done by the militia as a way to disguise himself with the other cadets. They would all gather in the SMR, even to the point of making appointments. And the stoners would indulge in a chill bath after training. Of course, Julian abstained from the events but always paid someone sober to look out for the people smoking.
In the meantime, Julian’s mother had fallen ill with a type of pneumonia. The community doctor said that he might need to send her across the river to Cutler Bay, where they had better equipment to treat her. Julian did not comply with the doctor’s recommendation. Although he indeed had the financial means since Cutler Bay was the rival citadel of South Miami Heights.
One day, before heading to meet with Jose for their weekly cargo exchange, his commanders delivered a letter to Julian in which they praised his high scores in physical training. The letter was an official document that promoted him to field sergeant. It also hinted that intelligence had found South Floridian soldiers camping near the old Southland complex. They requested him to lead a battalion of fifteen men as first in line in a reconnaissance mission.
Julian was elated. His ego is elevated. He had the money, and now he craved glory. Out of sheer emotion, he kicked his trash can, which was full of crumpled paper balls with poetic lines about his father.
He hurried to the forest to tell Jose. When he told Jose, he was happy for him.
“That’s great kiddo! See? You will finally get to be like the father you never had. You will go on and find the purpose you had always looking for,” said Jose. “Make sure you apply what you’ve been training for.
“Yeah. Just wanted to let you know that I have saved up enough money. I’m not going to engage in more illegal activities.”
Julian handed Jose two darkened federal banknotes that had the number one hundred on each corner, the blurry name of “THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,” and a fading picture of a man with a large forehead and long hair.
“I want you to take care of Katy while I’m gone. She’s getting worse. And I refuse to hand her over to the enemy for the sake of potentially saving her. I prefer that my mother dies protected within our walls than her to die away from her homeland,” said Julian, with a warrior's face.
“I know a medic in Three lakes that might help her. He’s loyal to our cause and the regime. He might help her. But anyways, I will look after her. Tomorrow I take her to my cabin,” said Jose.
“Thank you, comrade. It means a lot to me,” said Julian with a half-baked smile.
“Anytime, kiddo. You have found your path. Grab unto the rifle and exterminate the vermin.”
“Hurrah,” they roared.
They parted ways.
Julian signed a loyalty agreement with his commanders before departing. A lot of young people in the community had been defecting to the enemy. The South Miami Heights militia had zero tolerance for offenders of any crime, especially with treacherous acts, such as retreating when they are not ordered to.
Dressed in military uniform, and armed to the brim with AR-50s, Glock 74s, and multiple rounds of ammunition, the battalion went on to the nearest militia outpost to get ready to ambush the South Floridian camp the next morning.
But a letter arrived in Julian’s prepared mailbox. It was Jose.
The letter was short. As Julian was reading it, his first tears in years started to roll down his eyes.
“Hey, kiddo. I know you came to look for someone to trust, so let’s cut down to the chase. I’m your father. Jonathan Castro was a spy from the South Florida military complex in Cutler Bay. I know this because I helped him sell our own citizens into the slave trade, just like I help you sell marijuana today. He was a monster and inhumane creature. Rumors had it that he raped multiple citizens of our own. His death was nothing but the best experience I’ve ever had.”
Julian was angry. Before anybody could catch him, jumped on a motorboat and headed to the citadel.
The South Floridians march inside the citadel inside the city walls. Everybody was taken into slavery to be sold in the northern territories of Mississippi and Missouri. Julian’s sudden defection had scared the camp, which started pursuing him back to the citadel. Julian’s carbonated body lay near the overheated cooling mechanisms of the Small Modular Reactor. Something that gave electricity and life to thousands of people, is now a ticking timebomb for the community. A few feet from there, Jose’s body lies in the town’s pit for firing squad executions.
Sometimes we look up to role models but ignoring the reality of evil in each one of us makes us naïve about the potentiality of destruction.