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חיפוש בבמה

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מדורי במה







נעם בלום
/ In Town

1

April 19th. It's been three years. "Time just flies when
you're having fun" David thought sarcastically. He couldn't
even remember what it was like to have a life; what it was
like to work, to hang out with his friends, to ride a bike,
watch a movie, surf the web. He couldn't remember how to
play his favorite song on the guitar, or what buttons caused
a special killer move on his favorite video game. His entire
mental process was geared towards one thing: survival. He
used to think he couldn't live without a cell phone. He
couldn't even trade one for food.
He climbed to the roof of what used to be a large
"McDonald's" branch in the center of Town. That was his
special lookout sight. From there he could see most of the
activity in Town. He could see troop movements or food
deliveries. It gave him a good advantage. It helped him
survive. To the east he could see all the way to what was
once the old city, presently known as the Muslim sector.
What was left of the gold dome glittered in the morning sun.
To the south and to the west lay the ruins of the city. The
battle left it mostly burnt and black. He wondered if he
could spot his old house. No time for that now.
There was troop activity alright. They were adding a new
branch to the Town today. A new street was being annexed,
and civil order was to be maintained. At all costs. "This is
a pretty good lookout site" David thought proudly. He could
see the soldiers clearly from here. Their blue uniforms and
white helmets gleaming in the mid spring Mediterranean sun.
He could even see the black letters on their helmets. He
could hardly remember what 'UN' stood for...

Soldier incursions into the Town were always a good chance
to build strength: The resistance, better known as the FIDF,
or Free Israel Defense Force, always managed to create
enough of a commotion to acquire weapons and various
military supplies. There was much talk about an impending
counter strike against the Euros. He was approached a few
times by the recruiting officers of the FIDF, some of whom
were former IDF soldiers both enlisted and reserve, but he
never considered himself a fighting man. At 24 he thought he
was on the right track to a normal life when all this hell
started. Now his life was lived from minute to minute, hour
to hour, meal to meal, night to night.
The square was secured from both ends by Hummers with
machine gun turrets. A fence perimeter was set up and an
officer with a loudspeaker was warning the crowd away. His
feeble attempt at Hebrew made even the most fanatical
protestors crack a smile. He made his way through the crowd
to the front of the line. He could see that there were about
ten soldiers guarding the perimeter fence. A couple were
Italian, Some German, and a bunch of other flags; he always
mixed up the French and Dutch ones. It didn't really matter;
he couldn't speak French or Dutch. He watched as the brick
laying vehicles were setting preliminary fences. Tomorrow
they would bring in the prison laborers who would fortify
them and make them permanent. This was a bad sign; it
usually meant that more people would be shipped in. maybe
from Be'er Sheeva in the south or Natanya in the north.
There were even rumors of foreign Jews being shipped in from
Europe. But those were probably just rumors.
The Jerusalem Ghetto was the largest one in Israel. "The
Town", as it was called, covered a large part of what had
been central Jerusalem. It held close to a million Jews.

It happened very quickly. It usually did. The Euro army did
a good job of cleansing the ghettos of all ex-military
personal with combat training. Good, but not perfect. Two
grenades were tossed over the fence and snipers opened up on
two sides of the street. Six of the soldiers were hit by one
grenade. The other went wide and exploded near a wall,
sending shrapnel and pieces of rock into the crowd. Panic
ensued. The snipers took out one of the machine gunners but
the other opened fire at one side, its 60mm caliber dual
barrel machine gun ripping a hole in the building wall and
sending the sniper crew five stories down to the square
below. The second sniper crew changed position quickly and
began to fire again. The ghetto alarm went off. David ran
through the panicking crowd and hid inside a ruined building
to keep watching the battle.
A Molotov cocktail was thrown off a third roof and set the
second Hummer ablaze. "Damn," He thought, "these guys are
good."
Then, suddenly, he saw his opportunity: the remaining
soldiers were falling back to defensive positions until
backup arrived. They left the supply truck and barricaded
themselves behind one of the brick laying vehicles. He knew
it took at least ten minutes for the reinforcement
contingent to arrive in case of an insurrection. He waited
until the Euros paused to reload and then he made his move:
He dived out of the building he used for cover through the
gaping hole in its wall, ran the 50 yards to the ruined
perimeter fence and leapt over it. He ran as fast as he
could, occasionally hiding behind a pile of rubble for cover
and a chance to catch his breath. Finally he made the last
sprint and jumped into the back of the truck. He worked
quickly, gathering what he recognized and knew he needed.
When he gathered all that he could carry, he paused and
listened; the battle was still going strong. "Good," David
thought, "the soldiers will have their hands full." He took
a deep breath and dashed out of the van. But today, David
ran out of luck. The Euros had anticipated an action and the
reinforcements arrived quickly; he ran out of the truck and
into the kill zone of the machine guns. He threw himself to
the ground and rolled quickly to take cover behind an old
burned down car. His mind worked fast. He could see that he
was already quite close to a building on the opposite side
of the square. He could make it. He waited for a pause in
the gunfire and made a run for it. He was fifteen yards
away. Ten yards. And then a riot guard hummer-mounted
machine gun cut a swath across his back. The power of the
shot burst sent him flying against the wall he was meaning
to take cover behind.

As he lay there dying, he couldn't help but find the comedy
of it. After all, three years ago, he was a peace activist.
He used to throw himself in front of bulldozers ruining the
houses of suicide bombers. He would sabotage parts of the
separation fence at night with his friends. He sat in a
military prison for six months before being discharged from
the army for being a 'pacifist'. Hell, a week before the war
started he was protesting outside the prime minister's
office with pictures of dead Arab babies. He realized then
that death is the ultimate eye opener; it causes you to see
the errors you've made, lays them out to you and laughs at
your stupid choices, mocks you for the fool you've been, and
welcomes you into its cold embrace. "Maybe there is a god,"
he thought as his world went black, slowly blocking out the
sounds of the insurrection being depressed, "and maybe he's
trying to tell his chosen people something..."

"...wake up already."    


2

Pierre was pissed. It just wasn't his day. He was supposed
to be on leave, on a jet to France to see his family, but
the annexing of a new street to the Town was rescheduled and
the fear of an impending FIDF action caused all leaves to be
canceled and all riot control teams to maintain high alert.
"God damn Jewish bastards," he snarled under his breath,
"They just can't take it sitting down, no, they just have to
fight. Can't they see it's hopeless?"
Pierre surveyed the scene through his mirrored glasses, from
his perch in the machine gun turret of the Hummer he could
see over the barracks walls and into the Town: as always,
there was a silent vigil of protestors standing near the
fence. By now they knew better than to cause a commotion.
They didn't even carry signs anymore; they never knew when a
slogan would be especially offensive to an officer. Officers
from the rank of Captain and up had the executive right to
hold instant field trails on counts of espionage,
disturbance of the peace, and other forbidden criminal
activities. And they usually looked the other way if an
enlisted man took upon himself said responsibilities.
Beyond the small crowd Pierre could see straight through
avenue A of the north sector of the Town: building crammed
together and built high up, boasting makeshift extension,
hastily added to accommodate more residents, looking like
diseased animals with tumors growing from them. It made him
sick.
"Serves those bastards right," he mused, "after all the pain
and suffering they caused others, maybe if our great
grandparents had done things right, we wouldn't be in this
fucking mess, maybe I'd be back in Marseilles with my
family. Maybe Europe wouldn't be crawling with Arabs if they
could just come and live here; the Middle East: the cesspool
of the world."

Suddenly, a woman broke ranks and ran from the crowd toward
the barracks gate. She was yelling something in her filthy
sounding native tongue. The guard at the gate yelled at her
in Polish and English to stay back, but she was still
yelling hysterically. Then, a man came out of the crowd and
got between the women and the guard. He was yelling in
English at the guard, something about her baby being sick
and needing immediate medical attention. The guard yelled at
them to stand back and radioed the officer on call to come
to the gate. Pierre couldn't understand why some of the
soldiers gave these animals the time of day.

The officer was a Major that Pierre recognized from the
barracks; a tall, broad shouldered Brit. He spent a few
minutes trying to understand what was going on and when he
finally established a rapport with the man he asked that the
child be brought to him. The man yelled something back at
the crowd and two men came out carrying what, from Pierre's
distance, looked like a pile of rags.
The child was badly diseased, Pierre knew what would happen
next and he smiled inwardly: The Major took one look at the
child, drew his pistol, and shot him twice in the head. The
crowd broke into screaming fits and most of them dispersed.
The mother gave a yelp and fainted. The man who was with her
just stood there dumbfounded as the Major spoke to him.
Pierre knew what he was saying: the risk of infectious
disease cannot be risked in the Town. The costs of treating
an outbreak were much too high to spare. The Major finished
talking, did an about face and was about to march back to
the barracks when the Ghetto alarm went off.
The ghetto alarm always reminded Pierre of old air raid
sirens he heard in old war movies, only louder. Much louder.
The Hummers radio crackled to life and Pierre heard the Town
extension team give the mayday call, Looks like a large FIDF
action was taking place, Heavy casualties, all riot
contingents were to report to the scene ASAP. Pierre braced
himself as the driver pushed down on the gas pedal and the
hummer leapt out of the gate. He checked his ammo and cocked
his double barrel machine gun to life and closed the visor
on his tactical helmet: a marvelous addition to his unit
which acted as a sight for his weapon, and provided real
time information about targets. It made him a lethal killing
machine.
The Hummer raced through the Town's streets with its sirens
blazing, many people were nearly run over, but orders stated
that mayday calls were to be answered as soon as possible.
No matter what.
They arrived at the scene in less than five minutes and
Pierre needed to asses the situation quickly: one of the
hummers was on fire and the remainder of the squad was in a
defensive position behind one of the brick layer vehicles.
Pierre counted six uniformed bodies, or at least what was
left of them, sprawled out across the square. The person who
threw that grenade knew what he was doing. The barricaded
soldiers were firing at two buildings on either side of the
square, and sniper fire was hailing down on them. Almost
immediately, fire opened up on Pierre's Hummer, and he acted
with lightning speed, spinning around and ripping into one
of the buildings. Three people fell to the ground with a
crunching sound that Pierre never seemed to get sick of. He
swung his turret back towards the center of the square,
barrels smoking, when he saw a figure run out of the supply
truck with his hands full of MRE's, and various other
supplies. The soldiers opened fire on him, but he acted
quickly, dodging behind the wreckage of an old car. Pierre
hated the looters. Those bastards just wouldn't make do with
what they were given would they? "Leave him alone," he said
over the com channel, "he's mine."
Pierre knew he was a smart one, but not smart enough. Pierre
fired a burst at the car and then pretended to stop and
reload and, as he expected, the kid came running out towards
the wall. "Good night" Pierre said to himself and pressed
down on the trigger, causing the gun to chamber 60mm rounds
and fire them at nearly the speed of sound towards the
looter. He took the burst in the in the back and flew the
rest of the way straight into the wall.
Pierre knew that he wasn't supposed to shoot looters. But
hey, he was having a bad day: He was supposed to be on
leave, and besides, who cares about some fucking Jewish
looter?

Pierre was so busy in self indulgence that he never saw the
man with the rocket launcher standing on the roof of the
building the looter just went crashing into. He heard the
high pitched whistle and already knew that he was dead. The
missile penetrated the Hummer through its bullet proof
windshield and detonated, not before cutting the driver
clean in half. The explosion ignited the Hummers fuel and
the vehicle disintegrated, throwing Pierre a good thirty
five feet across the square to land on his back. The fall
broke most of his bones but he was alive enough to see the
sniper on the roof opposite of him taking aim. "These
fucking Jews," Pierre's dying thought was, "I'm supposed to
be on leave..."

He only saw the flash. He didn't even hear the gunshot that
tore through his twisted brain.        




3

The grenade was heavy in Dan's pocket. He made his way
through the crowd that gathered along the perimeter fence.
He pushed through to the front of the line and looked
around. "Good," Dan thought, "the intelligence was correct."
It sometimes filled Dan with hope that there were still
Euros that knew right from wrong. He took out his lighter
and lit a cigarette, making sure to catch the light with it
and signal the rest of the team. Dan was nervous, he trusted
his instincts completely, but there were some virgins on
this one, and training them was getting to be quite hard.
Dan took a few deep breaths and got himself in the right
state of mind, his military training kicking in. He was
combat trained alright, but his unit was so secret he was
written down as a desk clerk in some base in Tel-Aviv, so
when the military filtration began, he fell between the
cracks.

The officer on the loudspeaker was speaking in
unintelligible Hebrew. "Geez," Dan thought, "they could at
least pick one with decent language skills." But he knew
that they didn't bother, they didn't care enough, in their
eyes, worst case scenario is that they'll have to blow
someone away as a result of a misunderstanding. It made Dan
mad. He made a mental note to look up that officer in his
gun sight later.
Dan waited until the brick laying vehicle had to make a
second pass to make his move; they tended to make a lot of
noise and dust during a turnaround.
He spotted his teammate in the crowd. A virgin. "Great," Dan
said to himself, "I just hope he doesn't fuck this up..."
The turnaround.
The signal.
Dan's grenade is good and takes out a handful of Euros, but
the virgins goes wide and explodes near a wall. "Good
enough" thinks Dan, as he runs to his second position, "the
more chaos the better..."
As Dan is rushing up the stairs he can hear the gunfire and
as he reaches second position, the ghetto alarm goes off.
"Shit," Dan yells, "Way too soon." He knows the riot crews
are on alert and should be there soon.

On the roof Dan finds his Molotov cocktail, lights it up,
and tosses it down on the Hummer directly below him, the
erupting fireball flashes heat all the way up to his
position. No time to think, switch positions again.
The dense formation of the buildings in the Town makes it
easy to go from roof to roof and in twenty seconds Dan is at
position three, picking up his rifle and looking for
targets. Primarily that damn officer.
He finds him.
He's dead.

Sirens. The riot crews are arriving. He has to cut his stay
at position three short. He has a minute of running to get
to position four. He throws down his rifle and sets off. He
hopes the cleanup crew will do a good job getting rid of the
weapons. Fingerprinting these days is a bitch.
While Dan is sprinting on the rooftops he once again thanks
god the choppers aren't allowed over the Town anymore, he is
personally responsible for that order. It makes him proud.
He can remember the choppers falling out of the air like a
swarm of flies being sprayed with bug repellent. That was a
good day. One they won't soon forget.

Dan reaches position four and reassesses the situation: one
Hummer burning, the other one immobilized, and the remaining
team hidden behind the brick layer. "Good," he thinks, "I
don't have to waste it on them; they're easy targets for the
sniper crew." And then he sees sniper crew one on the square
floor. He flinches, but only for a moment. "Can't get
distracted now," he reminds himself. He ducks down to load
the rocket launcher when he hears the distinct tearing sound
of the 60mm machine gun; he looks over the side in time to
see sniper crew two on the ground, taken out by a third
Hummer on scene. "Bastards," Dan whispers under his breath,
"that gunner is dead." Just then a man jumps out the back of
the Euros' supply truck, hands full.
"Damn looters, instead of helping us they just get in the
way." Dan thinks the looter looks vaguely familiar. The
machine gunner spots him as he ducks behind a wrecked car.
Dan can see this gunner is toying with him and it just makes
the anticipation of killing him greater. The looter thinks
he outsmarted the soldiers and makes a dash for the building
Dan in standing on top of, but the gunner's ready for him; a
quick burst sends him flying against it's wall. Dead. "What
a pointless death," Dan thinks as he's taking aim at the
gunner, "to go out like a pathetic thief instead of a proud
soldier." Dan pulls the trigger, but distraction gets the
best of him and the launch sends him sprawling on his back.
He can tell he got them though. By the sound. By the smell.

No time to think, Dan jumps up and runs back towards
position three, ignoring the sirens and sounds of screaming.
He gets there in fifty seconds flat, "A new personal
record," he thinks with a smile. Gun in hand, he again
surveys the scene through his sight; the third Hummer's
gunner is across the way on his back, dying. Dan gives him a
nice, hollow point kiss goodnight and looks for more
targets. Then, he hears the blades.
The choppers are back in the Town.
Dan acts on instinct; he drops his gun and runs like a
maniac, away from high ground. But the nearest roof exit is
too far away, and the chopper gains on him.
The miniguns on the Euro choppers fire so quickly they make
one continuous sound, like a high pitch humming. Dan can
hear that humming, and it's coming closer. He has prepared
for the scenario. He just hopes the chopper is close
enough.
Dan thinks of the repercussions against his fellow FIDF
comrades. He hopes they'll be okay.
He thinks of his wife.
He says one final prayer.
He detonates his bomb.
The chopper explodes and crashes into the fourth Hummer on
its way. All in all taking out fifteen Euro soldiers...





...it was barely mentioned in European newspapers the
following day...







loading...
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לשלוח את היצירה למישהו להדפיס את היצירה
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נפש וכיו''ב תוצאות, ישירות או עקיפות, שייגרמו
לך או לכל צד שלישי בשל מסרים שיפורסמו
ביצירות, שהנם באחריות היוצר בלבד.
- איכס יצא לי
פה איזה
הפרשה...
- עזוב בוא נלך
לבמה חדשה.


תרומה לבמה




בבמה מאז 18/6/04 14:27
האתר מכיל תכנים שיתכנו כבלתי הולמים או בלתי חינוכיים לאנשים מסויימים.
אין הנהלת האתר אחראית לכל נזק העלול להגרם כתוצאה מחשיפה לתכנים אלו.
אחריות זו מוטלת על יוצרי התכנים. הגיל המומלץ לגלישה באתר הינו מעל ל-18.
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