Plunder

You push through the broken gates of what clearly is a gated community for the people of affluence. The rich and famous clearly used to live in this place. But now the air thick with smoke and the stink of blood. Your boots crunch over shattered stones and fallen bodies. The civil war has torn your country apart for 3 years now, brother against brother, village against village. Fields burned, families scattered. And here you are, in the heart of it, with the rebel forces claiming another town. Plunder is the order tonight. Take what you can, they say. Gold, food, weapons. Whatever keeps you alive for the next fight to find your sister.

You move down the narrow streets, kicking in doors. The first house yields nothing but empty shelves and a dead old man slumped in the corner. You riffle through his pockets anyway. A few coins, a rusted knife. I wonder why choose a rusted of all possible weapons. Worthless, but you take them. The next place is better. Sacks of grain hidden under floorboards, a silver chain tucked in a drawer. You stuff the silver chain into your pack maybe you could exchange it for a few ciggarates. Distasteful I know but this is survival. The war made you this way. No mercy, no regrets.

Shouts echo from nearby alleys. Your comrades dragging people out, claiming their prizes. You ignore them, heading deeper into the town. A bar stands half-collapsed, its sign swinging loose. Inside, tables overturned, bottles smashed. You grab what liquor remains, pour some down your throat to steady your nerves. Then you hear it. A muffled cries from the back room. A girl's voice, pleading.

You creep closer, peering through the cracked door. Three soldiers from your side have her cornered a young woman, clothes torn, backed against the wall. One grabs her arm, laughing low. The others circle in, eyes hungry. She's fighting, but it's no use. They outnumber her, and the war has stripped away the rules and laws.

You stand there, hand on your the rusted knife. If I intervene it's better to use the the non-issued weapon. So you hid you AK47 behind the cracked door. If you intervene, you risk your own skin, those men are allies, quick to turn on anyone who spoils their fun is a good way to wake up buried underground. Walk away, and you keep looking for your sister, keep surviving. But her eyes meet yours through the gap, wide with terror.

Monsters this people are monsters, but are you?