"Rodrigo, sir! I have no ammo!" Cheron's voice broke with panic as the wood groaned under the assault.
Rodrigo Mundragon stood at the room's center, unyielding amidst the chaos. His face was a mask of grime and blood, his dark eyes sharp, cutting through the haze. Half his life had been war, commanding legions, and protecting his country.
A veteran in his low-twenties, and his reputation was a legend whispered in awe. Yet here, in this crumbling battlefield, that legend was on the edge of oblivion.
"Hold the line, Cheron!" he barked, his tone steady despite the desperation clawing at his chest. "We'll make do with what we have."
But they had nothing. No bullets, and no backup. Outside, the bodies of his soldiers littered the ground, and their blood dried, seeping into the earth, with their faces frozen in death.
Hundreds had followed him into battle, and now only four remained: Rodrigo, Cheron, Pablo, and Avange.
His best men. His brothers.
At the windows, Pablo and Avange fought. Their rifles had jammed, and the barrels were clogged with dust and overuse. Now, they swung broken chair legs, shards of glass—whatever they had there. Rebels clambered through the openings, and the tide was endless. The four of them were only human after all. Their strength was fading.
Rodrigo's gaze swept over them, and his mind was racing. They were cornered, outnumbered a hundred to one.
But surrender wasn't an option. Not for him, and definitely not for men who'd bled beside him through hell itself.
He saw the exhaustion in their slumped shoulders, the flicker of despair in their eyes. Avange's swings grew sloppy, his breath hitching. Pablo's face was ashen, his stare distant.
He wouldn't let them break. Not yet.
"Listen up!" Rodrigo's voice sliced through the clamor, fierce and commanding. "We've faced worse than this and walked away. We're not dying here like cornered dogs."
Cheron glanced back from the door, his brow slick with sweat. "Sir… They're breaking through! This won't hold much longer!"
"Then we fight them up close," Rodrigo said, drawing his machete. The blade caught the dim light, its edge a promise of violence. "We've got steel, fists, and guts. That's more than they can claim."
Avange stumbled back from the window, his makeshift club slipping from his grasp. He slumped against the wall, chest heaving, and let out a jagged laugh that echoed with despair.
Tears streaked his dirt-caked face, but for a moment, he laughed. "It's over, Sir Rodrigo. We're done for."
Rodrigo crossed the room in two strides, seizing Avange by the collar and hauling him upright. "Get on your feet, soldier. We're not done until I say so."
Avange's eyes were wide, glassy with fear, and that same laugh faded. "I can't. I'm sorry, sir. I just... can't."
Rodrigo's trembling hands fumbled into his pocket, pulling out a tarnished locket. He clicked it open, revealing a faded photo of a woman with kind eyes.
His mother, Franca.
Rodrigo's own locket rested against his chest, a twin to Avange's, holding a picture of himself and his own mother. Franca had been his rock, his reason to keep fighting. Now, that weight felt heavier than ever.
"You see that, soldier? You want to give up?"
For a heartbeat, the room stilled. The rebels' cries faded to a dull roar, and the four men stood in a fragile bubble of silence.
Pablo's voice broke it. He leaned against the far wall, a pistol in his hand, its single bullet glinting in the chamber.
"Thank you," he said, soft but clear, and his tone was steady despite the tremor in his fingers. "I'd never have made it this far without you all. You're the best damn family a man could ask for."
He raised the gun to his temple, and his finger slowly pressed the trigger, waiting for the bullet to take him away—
"Don't," he said, his tone firm but not harsh. "You might as well die fighting with us. Take a few of them with you."
Pablo's gaze locked with Rodrigo's. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun. A faint smile tugged at his lips, gratitude shining in his eyes. "You're right, sir," he said softly. "One last fight."
Cheron, still braced against the door, let out a dark chuckle. "Well, we're dead, ain't we? Might as well make it fun."
Rodrigo nodded, his resolve hardening like steel. He pushed himself to his feet, his body protesting with every movement. "We've fought together, bled together," he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his bones. "If this is our end, let's make it count. Let's be the martyrs they'll remember."
He drew his machete, the blade gleaming wickedly in the faint light. The others stood, their own weapons in hand—machetes, knives, whatever they could salvage from the chaos. Cheron kicked the barricade away from the door, and it burst open, rebels flooding in like a tidal wave.
But Rodrigo and his men didn't run. They walked forward, shoulder to shoulder, into the storm.
The battle erupted. Pablo moved like a demon. His pistol barked once before he tossed it aside and swung his machete.
Blood sprayed as he cut through the rebels. His fury was unstoppable. He felled twenty of them, and for a moment, he stood at the center of the field, glancing at Rodrigo. His body was tired, and his hand trembled from a terribly large wound on his wrist.
But he grinned, as if there was a roar of defiance on his lips—
—before a dagger found his chest.
Rodrigo saw him fall, impaled, but his eyes were still burning with fight until the light faded, and Rodrigo's lips pressed into a straight line. He didn't have time to mourn for him. Rebels were charging at him, and he had to endure.
Avange was next. His machete danced through the air, cleaving flesh and bone. Twelve rebels fell beneath his blade before one swung high, severing his head in a single stroke.
Cheron saw it happen, and his eyes widened for a moment. "NO! AVANGE!"
Cheron's body couldn't take it anymore, but his mind thought otherwise. His own weapon flashed in retaliation. "You motherfuckers… YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!"
He charged, nothing to lose. He fought with reckless abandon, picking up fallen rebel blades and hurling them into the fray. His eyes were full of despair, of revenge, of hopelessness, but whatever seemed to cross his mind, he still fought for minutes and minutes more. But—
Bang!
A gunshot rang out, and he stood frozen for seconds.
He wasn't alive anymore, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips before he crumpled, with a bullet lodged in his skull.
Rodrigo stood alone now, surrounded by the sea of enemies. His machete dripped with blood, and his body screamed in pain. Every breath burned, and every movement a struggle. The rebels closed in, their shouts ringing in his ears. Their leader stepped forward, a tall man with a scar twisting across his face. He smirked, and his pistol was trained on Rodrigo.
"You fought well, soldier," the leader said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Any last words?"
Rodrigo sank to his knees, not out of surrender, but because his strength was gone. He looked up, his eyes blazing with unyielding defiance.
"May the gods above give me the arrogance to say this," he rasped, a bitter laugh bubbling up from his chest.
…
"Just go and fuck yourselves."
The leader's smirk vanished.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Bang.
And it went pitch-black. Darkness swallowed Rodrigo whole. The pain, the noise, the weight of the world? It all vanished. For a second, there was nothing, like a void as deep and endless as the night sky.
Then, slowly, sensation crept back. Softness brushed against his hands. Warmth kissed his face.
A sweet, floral scent filled his lungs, chasing away the stench of death. He opened his eyes, blinking against a sudden flood of light.
He lay in a field of flowers, their petals a vibrant tapestry of red, blue, yellow, and purple. The grass beneath him was lush and green, swaying gently in a breeze he couldn't hear. Above, the sky stretched clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. The chaos of the battlefield, the gray wasteland of war, felt like a distant dream.
"What the…"
He sat up, confusion washing over him. His hands patted his chest, his arms—no wounds, no blood. The locket still hung around his neck, its familiar weight a comfort. He glanced around, taking in the serene beauty of this place.
In the distance, a figure moved toward him, too far to make out.
Was this heaven?