Copperheads - 12 by Joe Nobody Page B

of the porch. She was older now, a teen who was beginning to understand more of the world.
    A man joined her on the verandah, his uniform resplendent with patches and medals awarded for military achievements. Her brother … off to yet another posting. Despite Mexico being at peace with the world, a war raged internally. Bella didn’t understand violence, couldn’t grasp the existence of the cartels that flourished outside the protective bubble of her plantation world. Her father forbade all discussion of the topic. Dialog on that subject in her presence would have drawn a harsh reprimand.
    Again, the crisp image blurred. When it cleared, she was a young woman contemplating the world before her while unwinding in the rhythm of the swing.
    The workers were closer now, gathered around the big house with heads low, humble hands clasped in remorse. There was a spotless hearse at the head of the massive, circular driveway, the courtyard overflowing with family and friends garbed in black and dabbing misty eyes with brilliant white handkerchiefs. Muted sounds of sobbing and that special hush of voices trying to show respect drifted on the soft breeze. Her father’s funeral. The passing of the plantation to yet another generation.
    As always, Bella Dona’s nocturnal visions began rushing at an ever increasing pace. Now, the sage hills were cast in a different light. Gone was the innocent beholding of a child’s mind. In its stead responsibility, fiscal concerns, and the keen eye of a manager. Were the limes getting enough moisture? Was that a brown patch in the avocado field?
    The dream-people looked at her differently now. There was a smidge of fear in their eyes. The hint of respect. A pinch of trepidation. She was authority. The one in charge. And she liked it. The air, however, still felt cool on her cheeks as the swing swayed back and forth.
    Then a darkness appeared on the horizon. It was far more daunting than any storm.
    Rain was always welcome. It cooled the air, nourished the soil, and turned the hills green. But this was something more … foreboding … evil … massive.
    Bella Dona knew what was coming but was powerless to stop it. The horrific images of her sleep were as inevitable as the rising sun. Coursing faster and faster, they were streaming by now. Harsh. Loud. The dream was changing into a nightmare, and she was helpless to do anything but watch and endure.
    Next, thunder roared, followed by her brother’s voice shrieking in a frantic pitch. She knew that no storm clouds were responsible for the rumblings, fully understood that her sibling’s cries were of life and death. A battle was raging. Tanks, cannon, artillery, and bombs made the ground shake under the porch. Men screamed, prayed, and withered in pain. They were dying by the scores, their throats filled with agony, competing with the concussion of explosions and walls of fire and hot metal.
    The precious emerald fields were replaced with rolling waves of white-hot flame, machines of war, and the crimson of blood. Aircraft roared overhead. Helicopters banked, hovered, and darted, all the while breathing a dragon’s fire of missiles and machine guns from their bellies.
    At first, a trickle of red appeared beside the porch, soon building to a stream. In just moments, a river of purple blood was flowing beside her refuge, its copper smell fouling the breeze. Arms, legs, torsos, and the heads of men and women soon polluted the runoff, the appendages bobbing like flotsam as the crimson torrent passed by. 
    Some recess of Bella’s mind realized that no battle had taken place at the plantation. The food riots and anarchy had erupted in large urban areas like Mexico City and nearby Monterrey. Millions had died in the brutality, overwhelming the military in a matter of days. Once the government had evaporated, the starving, desperate throngs had turned on each other. Yet, her dream was accurate in a way – her brother had succumbed to the violence.
    When