Its been a while since I posted any original fiction, but I couldn't resist the Conflict Prompt Challenge initiated by 
This piece is based on a real life - after the Spanish Civil War ended many defeated Republicans went into hiding in fear of their life. Fitting what I wanted to say into 750 words was a challenge, and one day I might develop this into more of a 'feature length' short story.
The Last Guerrilla
I wake on the edge of darkness, dawn yet to cut the Andalusian sky, the birdsong faint and strained. December 7th 1976 – I mark the day on the calendar like every other. The dictator Franco has been dead a year. Give me the opportunity, I’d shit on his grave. Its hard to forgive after 37 years in hiding, and this perhaps my last day of freedom. But I’m tired, an old man who just wants to pass his twilight years in peace.
I know some of what they say about me, thanks to Ana, my companion and lover since 1949. Her husband was shot in the war, and she was the one who hid me first, just a broken fugitive, a far cry from the brutal bandit of the sierra. Believe the rags, and I burnt down convents, killed in cold blood. But I won’t let them brand me a murderer – the only crime I’m guilty of is refusing to pledge allegiance and fighting to save my skin, bleeding for my family and long dead friends.
The rebellion occurred while I was working the fields – someone still owes me that week’s pay. I threw down my hoe and took off with four other men, headed to Malaga. When I got there the city was already engulfed by the war. I was given an old rifle and instructed to fire across the street. They shot, we shot back, then we charged the house, but they were gone. Only a family remained inside. One of the daughters unbuttoned her dress and showed us her breasts. I laughed, said we hadn’t come to feel tits. We took them all away and later I found out that a drunkard had killed the girl’s father. That was the first time I was forced to really consider death. It was ugly and pointless, and from then on it never left me, stalking me as a cruel and unshakeable shadow.
I was in Teruel when the war ended. The commander of the 215th Brigade held his head in his hands, haunted and begrimed. “Tell your men to go wherever they want. Get out of here. We’ve been screwed.” We scattered like dust in the wind. I headed for Valencia to hop a boat for Algiers. I couldn’t swallow a bite of food for the poison taste left in my mouth. A rage ate at me and I couldn’t accept the heavy, final disgrace of having lost.
There were no more boats. I’m not a coward, but standing on the docks, gazing over the impassable sea, I was swirling in a vortex of fear. I ran, heading for the sierra of my youth, where in simpler times I had herded goats. Here was somewhere no one would find me. I was alone. I wandered deep into the hills, expecting only to be discovered months later as a carcass picked bare by wild dogs.
Stealing food from farms by night, Ana found me. She saw through the crazed vagabond, recognizing me for what I was, realizing that my war was not over. It was 1941. I met with a small group of wild men. We hadn’t forgotten how to use rifles, and they felt natural and good in our hands, like a long-lost lover. We had frequent clashes with the Civil Guard, they chased us all over the sierra. One by one, over long years, our numbers dwindled. I became the leader. We moved at night, and spent days on end doing nothing but keeping watch. We kidnapped landholders for ransom. We executed an informer.
In 1949 there was an ambush. Seven men died. My father had been told I’d been killed so many times. The Civil Guards took him to identify my corpse, and he said, “Yes, that is my son.” After that it was over – there were only two of us left. We embraced, and were lost to each other.
I went to Ana, who hid me in a hut her parents used for storage. Between death, it was the only choice I had left. Surrounded by chestnut and pine, scented by basil and verbena, I made it my home. In grand isolation, my only human contact was Ana and her parents, who treated me like a son.
Now they are all gone. So today, on this cold morning, I drink my coffee and shave, then I’ll go to town, head held high. I’ll tell anyone who asks – I am Ricardo Perez Arroyo, the Last Guerrilla.
