The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  The ring of a gunshot that close leaves you disoriented. It leaves you without a sense of where the bullet has originated. I did not feel anything, and I was wondering if this is what death is actually like. I was wondering if it had already traveled through my brain, leaving me with just these thoughts as my last.

  “We must go quickly,” Fatima said.

  I turned to her. Her face was freckled with blood splatter. I slowly lifted up a hand and gently wiped both of her cheeks with the sleeve of my abaya. After that, she knelt to set the gun in the hand of her dead uncle. It should have occurred to me that she may have been carrying more than one weapon. It also should have occurred to me to kill her right there. I know better.

  The three of us exited through the back door of the cafe and into an alley. From there, we cut through the Grand Market, and then finally found a deserted street where my handler and I could drop into the sewers.

  “You cannot follow us,” I said, gun pointed at her chest.

  “And where am I to go after these deaths? You might as well kill me.”

  “If I take you with, a return would not be possible.”

  “I do not want to return. Ever.”

  17th Day of Sha’ban

  I asked my handler to take Fatima to the washing area while I was being attended to by the man. He was dressing the flesh wound I had received. I told him everything. I did not leave out one second. With regard to all I had related, he had only one question for me.

  “How do you know they were her father and her husband?”

  “I suppose I do not know,” I answered, speaking honestly.

  “Then in the story, you should have said you killed one man and she killed the other.”

  “I will watch her,” I replied.

  “And when the watchman sleeps, who then?”

  “You want me to kill her, don’t you?”

  “What are you going to tell the General?”

  “If I tell him all I told you, he will kill her himself.”

  “Then I am grateful he is our general.”

  “She saved my life.”

  “Yes, to enter the gates unknowingly, one does not kill the gatekeeper.”

  The man secured the bandage around my calf and then returned to where he was sitting. He picked up his book to read again. He seemed at ease. To be at ease with one’s self is all that can be asked for in this life. It is the true meaning I have now come to believe. When I was just killing, I was at ease. My mind now though is a paradox. It has shut itself down, but at the same time the synapses are firing off like a fully automatic weapon with an endless clip of ammunition at its disposal. My thoughts are radiating out in every direction so that they have only a beginning and no end. I cannot think. I cannot think at all.

  When my handler returned with Fatima from the washing area, I took him aside. I told him to forget what had happened. I told him it was not necessary to file this in our report. I told him he should consider himself lucky to be alive. I told him protocol was for me to detonate the basket right there at the market. I was not lying to my handler. We should not be alive.

  28th Day of Sha’ban

  “You are beautiful,” Fatima said as she lay beside me.

  “Feral dogs you find beautiful?” I replied.

  “Then if that is how you see yourself, you are the most beautiful of all the feral dogs.”

  I was unsure of how to respond. Finally, I found something to say. Something I had wanted to say when she first kissed me.

  “Is this your first time with a girl?”

  “Of course,” she said. Though I remember smiling as if I believed her, I did feel her answer was untruthful. It did not bother me. Her lie, that is.

  “Do you regret leaving Ayla?” I asked of her.

  “No, I do not regret it,” she said as she put a hand upon my cheek and started to caress my skin. I closed my eyes, her touch was like that of silk cloth. When I opened them again, I brought to her another question.

  “Do you regret leaving your God?” Suddenly, she pulled back her hand from my cheek as if my cheek had become a hot stone.

  “My father has been killed, but when asked if I had a father, I still must answer yes I did have a father.”

  “I am cold. Do you mind if I return to my clothes?” I replied as I felt a shiver run through my body.

  “If you do not mind that I leave my clothes where they had fallen after you disrobed me.”

  I sat up and dressed. Twelve days had now passed since I had taken her into the tunnels. She blended in well. No one questioned her arrival. It meant that neither my handler nor the man had betrayed my confidence. I was grateful to them for that. And for that, I split half of my rations between them. They did not refuse. No one refuses food down here.

  “I have to return to Ayla tomorrow,” I told her.

  “Who is it that you have to kill?” she asked.

  “I am never told until the moment I go up,” I lied. I was going back to the Grand Market for another attempt on the military commander’s life. The General told me that my entrance back into the tunnels depended on Osmani’s entrance into Jannah. Those words were not said lightly. They came like a stern warning from a father to daughter. They came with his finger pointing in my face and his spittle in my eyes as I stood against a wall in the command center.

  “I will be waiting for your return,” she said.

  “And if I do not return?”

  “Then I will go up into Ayla to find you.”

  “That would be a death sentence for you.”

  “We are already dead,” said Fatima.

  “Yes,” I answered, “you are right. We are dead already. It is the suffering that still awaits us, though.”

  “Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.”

  “Rumi,” I said, understanding that Fatima had quoted the 13th-century Sufi poet.

  “You are taught well down here.”

  “One must know their enemy,” I answered her as I knelt to give her a kiss goodbye.

  As I lowered myself, she put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me down so that I fell atop her. With her lips, she was not gentle this time. She was pressing into my teeth. For the first time, her touch was uncomfortable, and so I started to withdraw. And as I did so, she bit down upon my bottom lip. Blood she had drawn from me. I wiped it off and raised my hand to her. She did not flinch. Of course, she did not flinch. Pain and love she had already wedded long before me. I quickly stood up. She pulled a blanket over her body and rolled over.

  29th Day of Sha’ban

  The commander came looking for his eggs again. And I again came selling mine. On our way to the Grand Market, my handler and I came upon a gathering crowd. They were hurrying their steps from all directions. In Ayla, it meant only two things. Either it was for another speech or for another execution. As we were getting brushed and bumped by the rush of people, I tried to reroute our course around them, all the while keeping my eyes straight ahead. I wish now that I never would have stopped to see what was fascinating all of them. For when I did, I saw that three young boys were being strung up on wooden gallows. My handler grabbed my upper arm and squeezed it to the bone for me to keep moving along. It did not work. I was unable to move as if my feet were suddenly in thick mud. I broke from protocol and asked the woman in front of me what their offense was. She said they had been caught dancing. I returned my eyes to the boys who were now fifteen feet in the air with ropes around their necks. I could clearly see their faces. They did not even have the decency to cloak them. The one on the left had tears streaming down his cheeks. The one in the middle had a blank expression. It was the one on the right though that affected me the most. He was holding onto a red ball. A soldier was up there with him, trying to pry that red ball from his grasp.

  A woman then ran up the steps of the gallows. One of the mothers, I presumed. She was immediately shot in the head. And then, as the soldier was finally able to unloosen the ball, the traps below their feet
were released, not together but in some sort of sick sequence. The boys fell one at a time, each twisting in their own ways, each dying their own short deaths. At that moment, I swore the commander would not live another day, even if it meant that I would not live another day.

  He was there, of course. The commander that is. I walked a straight path to him. When I got within ten or so feet, one of his guards held out an arm to stop my progress. I pushed past that guard and was immediately struck in the back by the butt of his rifle. The force of the blow sent me to the ground, but fortunately, I was able to keep hold of the basket. When I looked up, it was the commander himself offering me a hand. I took it, and he brought me back to my feet. His soldiers then encircled me, and he began to pick through the eggs in my basket, examining each one. And each one that did not meet his approval, he crushed in front of me and wiped the yolk on my abaya. I was not humiliated. This is war. In war, there is only survival. In the end, he chose six of my eggs, but not before lifting up my abaya and sticking two of his fingers inside of me. I gave him no reaction. He then pulled his two fingers out and wiped them on me too. The soldiers laughed and off he went.

  “What would you have done if he didn’t select any of your eggs?” the man asked.

  “I would have taken out my knife and plunged it into his skinny neck.”

  The man nodded. I then looked over to Fatima.

  “She has been asleep for hours,” the man said.

  “I told you she is harmless.”

  “It is day. Those who sleep in the day have dreams of the night.”

  “She is in my arms at night,” I responded.

  “Your arms have eyes?” the man replied.

  19th Day of Ramadan

  I woke up just as they were fitting me with a black hood. It had neither holes for my eyes nor one for my mouth. To secure it over my head, they looped a rope around my neck and tightened it so that I had to struggle for each breath I took. I was then pushed against the wall, where my hands were bound and some long garment of sorts placed on me. As we walked, I counted the footsteps and listened to their breaths. There were four soldiers escorting me. I wondered how they would kill me. I wondered if they had already killed Fatima. I wondered if the man would be there to bear witness to my death. I thought of the words to speak if they too thought the man responsible.

  When I finally reached my destination of judgment, I was immediately met with such an onslaught of sound it could have been hell’s battlefield they had escorted me onto. Underneath my feet, the ground shook as if hundreds of horses were galloping by. Accompanying the steeds, a thunderous pounding to urge them on. And while all this raged, I seemed to hear a fury of artillery being fired away in rapid succession that sent my head into a whirl.

  “Goddamn, I don’t think I missed a fucking note this time, did I, Translator,” the voice said, and immediately I knew it to be that of the General.

  “No, sir, you did not.”

  “Oh, you have no fucking idea how good that feels to finally nail that Hammett solo. Got to be up there with the best of ‘em. Better than sticking my tongue in the prom queen. Better than picking off that sniper at the Mannheim Front. And even better than any shit I’ve ever taken. Fuck, I feel like going up there right now and shooting some fucking ragheads. All right, someone take my guitar, I’ve got business to attend to. Sergeant.”

  “Sir, we have—”

  “I know who the fuck you have there, Sergeant. I’m the one who sent for her. Jesus Christ. Take that hood and abaya off of her. Keep her bound, though. She doesn’t deserve the goddamn use of her arms.”

  As my hood was being removed, I was thinking I would have rather had them keep it on. For my offense, I did not want to meet the disapproving eyes of the General. I would rather meet a disapproving bullet from his gun. The man may have been a father to me, but the General was my mentor—a monolith of a man whom I had always looked up to ever since I had started my training. He is the one who believed that I, even at the age of fifteen, could carry out all of the missions that he had conceived. The General was now walking toward me, wiping the sweat from his face and head with a small black flag inscribed with white lettering of the enemy. He handed his towel over to a soldier, and the soldier handed him a glass that was filled with an amber liquid one quarter from the top.

  “Do you even know why the fuck you’re here?” he asked as he put a hand to his chin and cracked his neck from side to side.

  My mouth had just opened to answer when he squeezed both my cheeks with one hand, and I had to swallow back the words I was just bringing up.

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare. That was rhetorical. Don’t say a goddamn word until I say you can say a goddamn word. You got that?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Good. Now, I’m going to tell you why you think you’re here. And then, I am going to tell you why you really are. You think you’re here because I found out you felt sorry for some Caliphate cunt and decided to bring her into our tunnels. Am I right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Exactly what I thought. However, the real goddamn reason is that I send you, my number one assassin, on a hit to take out Osmani. And instead of killing that motherfucker that day, you come back with their number one assassin. I mean if that isn’t the perfect goddamn example of irony, I don’t know what the fuck is. But, besides learning the meaning of irony tonight, we are also going to learn the meaning of the word serendipity. Anyone here want to give it a shot before I tell the whole fucking class?”

  The man behind the drums raised one of his sticks in the air.

  “PFC Thomas,” the General said, calling upon him.

  “Sir, serendipity is coming across something fortunate when you least expect it.”

  “Goddamn, Thomas, that was excellent. Not only have you been doing a yeomen’s job on the kit lately, but it also seems you’ve got a fucking brain. Translator, give PFC Thomas a Kit Kat. Oh, I’ve got a joke for you, Thomas. What do you call a drummer who shows up at your door without a girlfriend?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Homeless. That’s what the fuck you call him. All right. Where in the hell was I?”

  “Serendipity, sir.”

  “Thank you, Translator. Yes, serendipity. Coming upon something in your favor when you least fucking expect it. So, not four hours ago, our reconnaissance team is returning from a mission. And lo and behold, as they are about to descend into one of our entrances, they are met by your new friend, who just happens to be leaving with a little souvenir she’s taken from our tunnels. You want to take a guess at what she decided to bring back with her to Shariaville after vacationing down here with us?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, she decided to take back a Jew. Your Jew, to be specific. She had him bound and gagged and ready for delivery. I mean that’s fucking beautiful. Not only do you infiltrate the enemy’s stronghold, but you decide to return with a souvenir. All right. I’m done with this shit. Let’s get on with it. I’ve got one more surprise for you. And believe me, sweetie, I’ve saved the goddamn best for last. Sergeant Martin, bring that Caliphate bitch in.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.

  Fatima was led in. Over her head, in disrespect, they had tied tight a plastic bag. Only a few pinholes they must have poked because I could see her working hard. The bag expanded little when she exhaled but was sucked deep into her mouth as she drew breath. Covering her body, the black and white flag of Ayla.

  “Sergeant, unveil,” the General said.

  From arms to torso to feet, Fatima was covered in what at first glance appeared to be an elaborate design of black lines. I was thinking back to when I saw her body unclothed. But like a chameleon, she had changed her skin. It then struck me that for the last week she had never taken off her clothes. She had said the dampness and cold were starting to bother her.

  “Take a good goddamn look,” the General said as he dragged me by the hair and brought me before her. “Pr
etty fucking elaborate, isn’t it? I mean when I first set eyes on that shit I thought this is the best fucking tattooed chick I’ve ever seen. I mean I got to admit I had a pretty big hard-on looking at her. But then, when I got closer, I realized it was a black marker, not ink. And at first, I thought, yeah, that’s just too fucking cool, she’s tatted herself in marker because up there in the Land of Allah there aren’t too many goddamn tattoo parlors. That was until it dawned on me that what she fucking drew on herself isn’t some fancy Arabic shit, it is actually . . . Anyone, anyone. Go ahead, Translator, you got your hand raised.”

  “It’s a map, sir.”

  “Fucking right it’s a map, Translator. A perfect rendering of our tunnel system. Go grab yourself a Kit Kat from the desk. Oh, and not any of the ones with white chocolate. Those are a bitch to come by lately. Goddamn towelheads seem to have a predilection for them.”

  He was absolutely right. Fatima had mapped out our entire tunnel system on her body. All night while the man and I slept, she must have been walking around.

  “Corporal, grab that board in the corner and have a few of your men strap our guest to it. PFC Thomas, behind Translator I have some cleaning materials. Bring some rubber gloves, a few sponges, and that ammo box. Don’t tilt the fucking box, though. It’s filled with masonry cleaner. Which, if you don’t know, is basically a mix of muriatic acid and water. So don’t be spilling any of that shit. I breathe in enough crap around here as it is.”

  Fatima offered no resistance as they laid her supine on the board and secured her to it. When the plastic bag was removed from around her head, she searched her eyes about until they landed on mine. I expected a look of repentance. Instead, she stared back at me and turned her lips up into a smirk. Not a second later after that, she started screaming, “Allahu akbar.” It was the most piercing and frightening sound I had ever heard.