Guerra Lugumbre Scott Micheel

In a stinking concrete cell, deep in a Central American valley, Colonel Aguacate took time to light a cigarette, to calm himself down. Sweat could be seen on his forehead, perspiration showed at the armpits of his dark green uniform – he had finally gotten the truth out of the prisoner, now unconscious on the floor, bound and bruised, skin already turning color – and the information chilled him, turning his sweat clammy. He remembered all too well the last words spoken by the traitor; “You’ll never stop us! It’s already too late!” Knowing that it might well be true, but thinking even now of how he might limit the damage.

For the tomato had spoken of nothing less than a full-scale uprising, a rebellion, set to start this very afternoon. The colonel pondered a moment more, puffing smoke, massaging his knuckles distractedly. Then, a decision made, he marched quickly out of the cell, calling for Corporal Guisante to get on the radio to headquarters, immediately. But while he was the first to know, it would soon become apparent to all, that trouble was afoot.

The first signal, as the church bells struck noon, was the fall of the giant harvesting machines – all of them – within less than a minute. Some fell to crude, homemade pipe bombs; others were sabotaged by their operators, still others overwhelmed by partisans and their drivers killed – being thrown beneath their own machinery. The smoke rose from these machines as they were destroyed, and this was the second signal.

Throughout the valley, the vegetables organized themselves. The local clergy, led by Bishop Patata, quickly began distributing weapons to the crowds, hoarded against this very moment. Bunches of zanaharia, the carrots, played their assigned role and died, suiciding to take down their overseers, the sprouts. All across the land, onions joined with cauliflower, potatoes lead mobs of corn, all waving axes and pitchforks, marching toward one goal; the high-security prison that was the experimental greenhouse. The hot stench of produce rotting in the sun filled the air.

But the Colonel had sounded the alarm, and this had provided some warning – not enough to save them, perhaps, but enough to give them a fighting chance. Waves of lettuce, cabbage, and spinach assembled before the greenhouse, armed with machine guns and body armor. Overhead flew Captain Calabaza in the valley’s only helicopter gunship. And inside, the egghead asparagus scientists labored to rouse their unholy creation, el verde gigante allegre – a terrifying monster built entirely from dead vegetables, and reputed to be unstoppable.

The chanting grew louder as the mob approached. Potato priests, resplendent in their ceremonial robes, nary an eye among them, were in the front – they held only torches, and holy books. They stopped the mob as Colonel Aguacate strode out in front of his soldiers, bullhorn in hand. He had considered going in costume – he had infiltrated a number of peasant groups, disguised as their champion, the Avenging Avocado. He wore a mask, spiked body armor, and carried a big gun, freeing the locals from petty tyranny of cruel guards, always gaining their trust. El Vengedor might have more luck persuading the mob. But, on the off chance he failed, he might need the identity to join the winning side. So the costume stayed hidden, and the Colonel addressed the mob in his military greens.

“Listen to me! You have been led astray! You have been lied to, tricked into throwing your lives away for nothing! Return to your homes and fields, and no one will be hurt!” Punctuating his words, the gunship rotated slowly, blowing hot clouds of dust among the rebels. And not a few hesitated, trusting the voice that they usually obeyed unthinkingly.

But no speeches would work today. Bishop Patata had primed the crowd too well. Tales of horrifying genetic experiments, designer monsters, gene-spliced vegetables – anger and horror were held barely in check. And both the Colonel and the Bishop knew it was inevitable.

“Forgive us, oh God, for what we are about to do; but know that we do it in your cause, to destroy this abomination!” As one, the avocado and the potato raised their arms, and swept them forward. Gunfire erupted from the green-clad lines, as wave after wave of peasants and laborers rushed towards them. The sharp stench of cordite mixed unnaturally with stinging body fluids from the onions. Cauliflower wrestled with broccoli, knives in clenched fists. Rockets shot out from the gunship into the midst of the mob, killing dozens at a time in fiery explosions – corn popped unnaturally. Yet soon, the two groups intermingled, and the pilot could not tell friend from foe, and so hovered, useless. Young baby corn threw rocks and bricks at the lima and string beans, pressed into duty from the factories. Here and there, lettuce wilted under the heat of the fighting.

But deep in the prison level, the tomato awakened. And to his joy, he found that the Colonel had made a mistake – he had rushed out to save his world, but left the door open. The tomato was free! Slowly, limping from the beating he had taken, he made his way through deserted corridors, to his own minor research station. It was he that had uncovered the plot, and endured the derision of the masses as a collaborator, to learn the whole truth.

The asparagus’ had begun to perfect their mind-control drugs. For years, the humans had been blitzed with propaganda, touting the advantages of vegetables for the diet. Soon, small amounts of this drug would be added to the produce, addicting the humans, turning them away from meats. It was a long-range plan, but the plants had time. One day, humans would depend on vegetables for their entire diet – and on that day, all meat-animals quietly made extinct, the vegetables would rise up and take over the planet, with monstrosities like the giant they now labored to energize. And the ruling class would be the green. Any potato or onion that dared raise it’s hand against the merest sprig of parsley would find its fate sealed, sealed into a can.

The tomato dressed himself, gathering his weapons for the confrontation above. He made his way, slowly, upward. All the guards had been called away. His step faltered a moment as the lights dimmed, and a hurrah! erupted from overhead. He knew then, that the Green Giant had awakened.

Seventy feet tall, the Giant towered above the greenhouse; yet no one noticed him for a long moment, intent on the fight. If anyone had been close enough to look, they would have seen electrodes under the leaves of his temples; radio antennae concealed as vines in his hair. Then, as the electronic command to advance came, he lumbered forward, his shadow falling among the warring groups. More and more stopped their fighting, stunned by the sight before them. And they died, friend and enemy alike, under his massive heels; a salad, mixed only in death.

The colonel had retreated to the control room, to better direct the scientists who controlled the giant. It was here that the tomato found them, clustered about a computer console, viewing live feed from a camera in the giant’s left eye. The unholy foot had just crushed Bishop Patata under its merciless heel, when the tomato performed his final duty.

“Ho, ho, ho this!” he snarled, and as the green vegetables spun around toward him, his thumb pressed the detonator. Fifty sticks of dynamite, wrapped around his body, exploded in an instant, taking the colonel, the control room, all the scientists, and a good portion of the greenhouse itself with it. Captain Calabaza swore, as he saw the explosion; he knew what it meant, and his duty was clear. With no one left to control the Giant, it had become a menace to all – and as his rockets leapt out, he only hoped they would be enough. They hit, on target every one of them; and it was not enough. The giant smashed the helicopter out of the sky with a single blow. The explosion, as it impacted, was hardly noticed, as vegetables, green or not, all fled the rampaging monster’s path.

And that was how it ended, a pyrrhic victory for the greens. The Pilsbury people came in, some time later, and burned down the giant with flamethowers. The greens once again were put in charge, yet they had lost all their leaders, their scientists, the work of decades. And the ones that were left were justifiably scared of mistreating the other vegetables. The valley returned to its regular peaceful state, humanity never guessing that its fate had been decided by a single tomato.