The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  “Oh Christ, I am so fucking tired of that ‘Allahu akbar’ shit you have no idea. It’s got to be right up there with ‘inshallah.’ Fuck, if you didn’t know better, you would think those were the only goddamn words in the Arabic language.”

  From his pocket, the General took out a handkerchief, dipped it in the ammunition box, and then stuffed it into Fatima’s mouth. Her body writhed about as if she was being electrocuted. Then, her head slammed back down on the board she was strapped to, and her eyes rolled back into her head.

  “First Sergeant Jensen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When she comes to, wash that map off her body with the masonry cleaner and pour a few cups into her mouth. If she isn’t dead by then, put a bullet in her head. And as for you,” the General said as he looked at me, “I really don’t give a rat’s ass what you do. You want to stay and hold her hand while she dies, be my fucking guest. But she is going to die. Concerning the state of your future health, I’m not sure yet. But now wouldn’t be the time to fucking ask. Understand?”

  I nodded. And then from the corners of my eyes, I saw the man. He must have entered while Fatima was screaming. I only looked at him briefly and then quickly hurried my eyes away. At that moment, I wished for the same fate as Fatima.

  2nd Day of Dhul-Qa’dah

  I was placed in isolation. Complete darkness. No one was allowed to speak to me, and I was given one meal a day, if molded bread and rotten fruit can be considered such. I did not care, though. I welcomed the punishment. I would have welcomed death if my body had not fought otherwise. For the first fourteen meals or less, all I had in my head were thoughts of Fatima. Her betrayal was on me like my own skin. I wore it when I was awake, and I wore it in my dreams. Eventually, it passed. Eventually, I accepted that there was someone stronger than me, even if that someone was now dead. My fortieth meal I took through the slot. Two cooked eggs, a bowl of stewed rabbit, and a Kit Kat bar. The man let me finish eating before he spoke from the other side. He did not have to wait long. I devoured all of it within a minute or so.

  “He is releasing you today,” the man said as he handed me a cup.

  “I do not deserve a release,” I said after drinking the whiskey.

  “There is a job for you.”

  “A suicide mission, I assume.”

  “They have all been suicide missions, have they not?”

  “But some with more probability than others,” I replied.

  “Yes, that is true,” he answered. “You are to kill the imam.”

  “I have had that mission before.”

  “This one is more personal. This time they want someone to sell you to him.”

  “He prefers boys,” I said.

  “They are going to make you a boy.”

  “Who is it that will sell me?” I asked.

  “I will be the one.”

  “You are going to be my handler?”

  “I volunteered.”

  “There was no one else, was there?”

  “Yes, there were no others who wanted to go.”

  “No others who wanted to go with me you should have said.”

  “Someone will be here within the hour to clean you up.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He said nothing in return. I did not expect him to say anything in return.

  5th Day of Dhul-Qa’dah

  The man was playing a game of chess by himself when I awoke. My body was still cold from sleep, and so I threw on another sweater. I watched him for a little bit before finally deciding to have a few words with him. Since I had been released from isolation, we had barely spoken to each other. That was three days ago.

  “I have decided to go alone. As a boy, I would not be in need of a handler. The Hisbah will not question it,” I said to him. He moved a white knight into position but still kept the horse’s head pinched between his fingers. After a minute of contemplation, he let it go and then spoke to me.

  “And how you do plan on selling yourself. As a prostitute? They would execute you on the spot.”

  “And you, a Jew, whose Arabic is pitiful, how do you plan on offering me for sale?” The words had just left my mouth when I realized he had no intention of offering me for sale to the imam. “You do not plan on selling me, do you?”

  “Arrangements have been made.”

  “I do not want your arrangements. I have brought this death upon myself.”

  “No one brings death upon themselves unless they hold their own knife.”

  “Fatima was my knife.”

  “You could not have known,” he said in my defense.

  “But you knew. That is the reason she was able to take you captive. You followed her, didn’t you?”

  “It was my own misstep. I did not realize she was aware of my presence.”

  “I will not have you sacrifice your life for mine,” I said.

  “It is not in my plan to trade my life for yours. It is in my plan to deliver you to someone who can then deliver you somewhere else.”

  “And you do not think the General will find out?”

  “My lies and deceits I have always kept to myself. That way, there is no one else to spread the truth.”

  There was no point in continuing any further. I unclasped the cross and chain around my neck and set it on the ground between us. Before every mission, I always gave it to him for safekeeping. It was a not so subtle act to let him know my decision was final. Alone I was going up into Ayla to assassinate the imam.

  “Where you have set it will be its final resting place,” the man said after glancing at the cross and chain.

  “It was but a trinket to me.”

  “Perhaps, but you have worn it like a wedding ring,” the man replied.

  “I have worn it in deference to the priest who gave it to me. And I have always found it odd that after handing me over to you, he removed it from his own neck and placed it around mine. It was just as odd as when my mother handed me over to him just after the invasion. We had never even set foot in a church before that.”

  “Neither was odd. Both were sensible actions considering the situation at the moment of each decision. Your mother thought you would be safer in the basement of a church, just as later on, the priest realized you would be safer in the cellar of my shoe store.”

  “How was it that you even became friends with him?”

  “As you know, his church was only a block from my shoe store. Sometimes he would be there to buy shoes. Other times he would be there to just talk.”

  “And so why didn’t he remain in the cellar with us?”

  “Because he wanted to find your mother and bring her back with him.”

  “For what reason? They didn’t even know each other.”

  “Of course they knew each other, child. Lives are not randomly saved.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked, a little surprised that the man had not mentioned it to me.

  “Until now, the question was not asked.”

  “So if I were hungry, you would not offer me food until I requested it?” I asked him.

  “Yes, that is correct. I would keep eating until famine became victorious over your silence. It is then I would offer you food. It is then I would know you are truly in need.”

  “How? How did he know her?”

  “Certainly, at this point, you must have already deduced the answer to your own inquiry.”

  His words did not seem real. They came to my ears like a dream. How was it possible that I was the daughter of a priest? I asked the man a few more questions. He said for all he knew my father had confided in no one else but him. He said perhaps it was because they had become friends. He said perhaps it was because my father thought a Jew would understand. He said he had never told me because the past should never influence one’s future. I didn’t need to ask him why he had told me now. The answer to both of us was obvious.

  I picked up the cross and walked out of there. As I wandered about the tunne
ls, a storm of thoughts raged inside my head. Should I now believe in God and renounce my sins? And would it even matter being the bastard child of a priest? Should I accept the man’s offer and abort the mission? Or should I disremember the past and continue forward? I was moving fast, my head down. My shoulder struck something, and I was taken hold of and pushed up against a tunnel wall.

  “Watch where you walk, boy. Next time I’ll break one of your legs. Or both, maybe.”

  He finished by pressing the palm of his hand into my forehead and knocking the back of my skull against the wall. On any other day, I would have run after him and slit the back of both his legs. However, as he walked off, I couldn’t seem to move. I could only watch the vestment he was wearing scrape the ground, continuing to add to the inch or so of sludge that was already there.

  11th Day of Dhul-Qa’dah

  A new imam has been appointed. The General allowed me to see her body. I will not forget her. For to forget her would be akin to having her die a second time.

  The General and the Translator

  Entry #1

  I was deep down in a dream. My mind was replaying the day the drones came. I knew it was a dream even though I was asleep. I knew it because my mind plays it frequently.

  I awoke that Chicago Christmas morning to a loud assembly of voices coming through the window of my Rogers Park apartment. I rushed out of bed to see what all the commotion was about. There on my neighborhood street, it seemed everyone was out except for me. They all were looking at the sky, but from my view, I couldn’t see what was capturing their interest. I didn’t bother to get dressed. I only bothered to throw on my purple and white Northwestern hoodie. As I stepped outside, I looked up to see hundreds of drones flying by. Some had a trailing banner that read “PEACE ON EARTH.” The other drones were dropping fake snow from their underbellies. People are so easily amused I thought and walked back inside.

  That was the real part of that complex dream. That was the part my mind recreated so accurately. The imaginary part is where I start running down the street screaming at them to get back inside. I yell at them that it is a ruse. I yell at them that soon they are all going to die. I am tearing my lungs out saying how half-witted can everyone possibly be. I was deep down in that dream when I awoke gasping for air. A hood had been placed over my head. I began to flail my arms and legs about, but my body was rudely turned over, and my hands were fastened behind my back.

  I was lifted to my feet and led out of my quarters. I guessed it was probably about two or three in the morning. This was my guess because my circadian rhythms haven’t varied much from when I was living above, and also because my body was still in need of sleep. I wasn’t frightened, though. What I figured is that this must have something to do with my recent graduation.

  Three weeks prior, I had completed the Sector 4 class on Arabic and Islamic Studies. By all standards, the three-month course was intense and exhausting. Twelve of us in total. Classroom instruction was taught by four different teachers, 16-hour days, seven days a week. We ate, slept, and did our mandatory calisthenics in there. The only time we were allowed out was for bathroom breaks. Each of us there had some prior background. Mine had come from college, where I had minored in Arabic, majored in economics. At the time, I thought it would prepare me for a world that was just coming to terms with the new Caliphate. Like the rest of us, I believed they had finally abandoned their doctrine of terror and were ready to assimilate into a world of global trade and peaceful coexistence. We were all fools. And I, now as I write this, even more of one for graduating first from the Sector 4 class. A girl that I had befriended there finished the class dead last, and she was given a position in the Department of Excavation. Right now, I would have gladly taken that assignment.

  We walked along. It was obvious I was not going to be spoken to. It was also obvious I was not to speak to them. We passed through a series of checkpoints. At each, my two guards spoke their names and then when asked for the code, answered with “Ride the Lightning.” Finally, after about fifteen minutes, I heard the code uttered once more and then the opening of what I think to be a door. I find that strange and believe my mind is playing a trick on me. I haven’t heard the opening of a door since before I descended into the sewers.

  The hood was removed, and I found myself staring into a large room. It is our command center I can only assume, but not one I would have imagined if told beforehand that it was my destination. It is neatly divided into five separate areas. At the far wall as I look straight ahead, it is a garage band setup of musical equipment with a foot-high stage. To my right, it is a philosopher’s hideout with shelving of books and a long tattered couch. Off to the left, it’s a voyeur’s nest of computers and video screens. Behind me, as I glance over a shoulder, a devil’s bunker of weapons and ammunition. And finally, in its geographic center, there is a large table made up of long wooden planks that are supported underneath by wooden construction horses. On it, a map laid out with plastic army men, plastic tanks, and plastic military vehicles grouped together and spread all about. It would have brought a smile to my face if not for the interrogation that was taking place off to my immediate right.

  There, I see an Ayla man unclothed, perhaps in his late twenties, strapped to a chair. There are streaks of blood down the left side of his neck, the side where an ear had once been. His eyes are squinted, not from the light, but from the swelling around his sockets. It is then I notice beneath his legs, which are shackled, a bank of car batteries. While there are two probes clipped to his genitals, only one of the probes is attached to a terminal. So, he is temporarily disconnected from the circuit. There, on the floor, I also see his missing ear and a few teeth scattered about. The rush of last night’s meager fare begins its journey from my stomach to my esophagus. I taste the decay but somehow manage to force it back down. I do not want to look weak.

  “I’m just not buying it. You manage your way into our sewers, strapped with thirty pounds of explosives, and you say it was of your own volition. You must think I’m a complete fucking idiot. Now, who sent you?”

  It is the general speaking in Arabic, though while not perfect, it could be understood on the streets. It is the general I know because he fits the legend that everyone speaks of. He is everything I have heard of him and more. He is a few inches over six feet. From the deep parenthetical lines on his face and white hair of his crew cut, I put him in his mid-sixties. But his body belies his age. It is a massive build that looks as menacing as an Abrams tank. Even unloaded, his biceps stretch the short sleeves of his camouflage uniform well beyond their capacity. His arms are decorated in full-sleeve tats. An angel on his left forearm is the most prominent. Above it is a single eye, below it two cupped hands. Then higher up on that same arm, the Latin words for “Gift from God.” Though he is standing still, I can only imagine that when he walks the earth beneath him begins to shake.

  “There is only one God and Muhammad is his prophet,” the prisoner spits out.

  “Oh Christ, will somebody please cut off his other goddamn ear,” the general says, obviously now becoming exasperated with the prisoner’s declaration of faith that I can only assume has been a constant refrain throughout the interrogation.

  Though the prisoner is bound to a chair, one of the other soldiers walked behind him and took hold of his shoulders. Another one then fit an already bloodied bandana across his mouth and tied it tight at the back of his head. A third soldier then began a sawing of his remaining ear. It is an act of duty by the soldier as I did not see any emotion whatsoever from him. The prisoner rattled about as if he was being jolted by a current of electricity. It was over in thirty seconds or so, and the last of his hearing apparatuses was summarily tossed to the ground. The general, in the corner of the room, his back to the prisoner, started shaking his head before speaking in Arabic again.

  “I have to say, I am curious as to your thoughts right before this uneasy death I’m about to serve upon you. Do you actually believe there are se
venty-two virgins waiting upon your arrival?”

  The general then walked over to him and took to a knee.

  “I mean you don’t look like an asshole to me. In fact, I see a lot of similarities between us. I see the resolve, the valor, the warrior. But there is one major difference. And it’s not religion. It’s just plain goddamn horse sense. Because I sure the fuck know if someone promised me seventy-two virgins if I blew myself up, the first thing I would have asked for is photos. Not that I haven’t hogged it a few times. But seriously, what if you get to paradise and find that all these girls are eighty years old and just the ugliest fucking hags you have ever seen. So ugly that no one wanted to fuck them and that’s the reason they’re still virgins. Did that ever cross your mind? Cause I don’t think it ever did. And do you know what I think that makes you then?” The general then took his hands and squeezed the cheeks of the prisoner. “It makes you a fucking . . . Translator. What is the Arabic word for dickhead?”

  It was the first time since I had entered the room that the general had acknowledged me. I turned to the soldier by my side and quietly told him I did not know the Arabic word for dickhead.

  “Sir, he doesn’t know the word for dickhead.”

  “Then tell him to just give me the fucking word for dick and I’ll use that.”

  I gave the word to the soldier, and he relayed it to the general. After the general spoke it, the prisoner managed a smile. Two ears missing, face bruised and bloodied, testicles one connection from a painful end, and still, he puts forth a smile. I found it incredibly hard to believe. The general promptly reciprocated with a smile of his own. Then, he walked behind the prisoner and started to rub the bearded area of his face, as if he was prepping him for a shave. Before I knew it though, the general had unsheathed a long-bladed knife from his belt clip and slit the man across the throat. The blood jetting out from his carotid arteries caused me to wretch and leave last night’s meal on the floor in front of me.