The Last Virus

by Caleb Adams

  “How was your vacation?” the general asked.

  She said nothing.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” he started to say while straightening out his mandarin collar. “At least you got to eat and drink. Fuck, Moses got 40 days on Mount Sinai with no water or food. And shit, Christ got forty in the Judaean desert, all the while accompanied by the goddamn devil. You try getting some rest with that motherfucker whispering sweet temptations in your ear.”

  He looked immaculate when he started moving toward her. He looked like he was getting ready to meet the enemy head-on. Then, he saluted her like the soldier she was, and in return, she saluted him back.

  “At ease, Grace.”

  She clasped her hands behind her back, and he walked over to his desk to pour himself a glass of Scotch. I don’t think it was the drink that brought him there though. It was as if he wanted some space between his next words and the girl he was about to deliver them to.

  “You were like a daughter to me, Grace. I believed in you. And I trusted you. More than anyone else under my command. But goddamn, you really fucked up. Compromised every person down here. It was only by fucking luck that we’re not all dead. And I hate having to be goddamn lucky. There’s only so much of that shit you have before it runs out.”

  The general finally took a sip, swirling the Scotch around in his mouth first before swallowing it, as if it was an antiseptic to disinfect her past sin.

  “Okay, enough of that. You did your time. And I need you on this one. I’m assuming your Jew already told you where I’m sending you.”

  She nodded.

  “I just want you to know this isn’t a suicide mission. I got the Jinn in on this one. Your Jew is going to get you in, and then the Jinn is going to get you out. I want that motherfucker, Grace. We’ve both wanted him for a long time. You have any questions?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, good. Go get some rest. I’ll give you the briefing tomorrow at 0700.”

  He saluted her and she in return. As I was holding the command center door for her to leave, he called her back.

  “Oh, and Grace. I’m sorry about Fatima. I had no other choice. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” she said, the only words she had said the entire time.

  Entry #11

  “You may approach, Corporal Langton,” the general said and the soldier stepped to his desk.

  “Sir, the imam’s been assassinated.”

  “We put eyes on the body?”

  “We did, sir,” the corporal answered. “Two different units. Both put him into scope as they were carrying him through the streets.”

  “Goddamn, I knew she’d get him.”

  The general then got up from his desk and walked over to the wall that on it had our tree of faces of the most important Caliphate figures. After ripping down the photo of the imam and crumpling it in his hands, he turned back to the corporal.

  “What’s it like up there, Corporal Langton?”

  “Pretty chaotic, sir. Everyone’s in the streets right now and the Caliphate soldiers are doing building-to-building searches.”

  “Did you order everyone back in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good job, Corporal. We’re going to lay low for a while. Tell the men to enjoy a few days of R & R until this blows over.”

  “There’s one more thing, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Corporal.”

  “There’s been an incident, sir.”

  “Of course, there has. Because lately, I can never get a good report without it being followed by one that’s completely fucked up.”

  “A suicide bomber has hit Mosque #4.”

  “We don’t have any suicide bombers, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir, we don’t. We believe it was the man we sent to take out an ammunition depot. We think he took a wrong turn.”

  “A wrong turn, Corporal? Is that your euphemism for someone going completely off the fucking rails?”

  The corporal didn’t return an answer.

  “All right, Corporal, refresh my memory, just where the fuck is this Mosque #4?”

  “In the old River West area, sir. It used to be Our Lady of the Angels. They were also using it as a madrassa.”

  “How many?”

  “Their papers say forty-seven children were killed. We think it’s probably pretty accurate.”

  “Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess. The imam they would have forgiven us for. This, though. This is going to set them on fucking fire. Any word from the labor camps?”

  “They’ve already started executing prisoners, sir.”

  “First Sergeant Jensen, get a message to the other sectors. Tell them what’s going on. And Translator, go find Lance Corporal Myers and tell her to make an inquiry to the Jinn. I want to know where The Assassin’s at right now, and if I need to send some men up there to help him bring her back in.”

  The imam’s death we had orchestrated. As we had tried on two other occasions, it was of no surprise to anyone we had finally succeeded. Death, when expected, can be overlooked. With the madrassa, we were not aware of the lone wolf. That I am certain. The general, while ruthless to those who came through the sewer system looking for infidels, would never have ordered the killing of forty-seven school children, even if they were being trained to exterminate what remnants of other religions their forefathers had failed to fumigate.

  Our best guest placed the assassination of the imam and the bombing of the madrassa only hours or so apart. Three months, four months perhaps between the events and most likely they would have thought nothing more of the incidents than ordinary attacks in the linear course of the war. Instead, because of the proximity, they in Ayla married the two into one funeral parade. The city mourned for a week. And now it wasn’t just the mission of the Caliphate to seek our eradication, it was also the mission of all its citizens.

  Entry #12

  It was seven minutes past eight in the evening when the three soldiers walked in. The body that two of them were carrying was neatly wrapped in white linen. I rushed my eyes over to the general, who at that moment was standing over the map of Ayla with his arms spread out and hands gripping tight to the southern edge of the city. All of us knew who it was. And in respect, we pulled our stares away and immediately returned to what we were doing, though none of us made a sound. It was the longest silence I think I ever had to endure.

  “Have your men lay her on the couch,” the general ordered before walking over to his desk.

  The sergeant nodded to his men, and they carried the body over.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the sergeant then said.

  The general nodded to the words of condolence and set his eyes on the floor to the left of him, where they remained as if he was paralyzed in sorrow. I wasn’t sure what to do. I’m not even sure he knew what to do. Finally, I decided it was probably best to relieve him of that decision, and so I asked if he wanted everyone to leave. If anything, it gave him another chance to make an order, to resume being our general.

  “Yeah, everyone get the fuck out of here.”

  I waited until the command center cleared and then began to make a start for the door when he called me back.

  “Not you, Translator.”

  I stopped and watched as he started to pace. At first, I expected him to go directly to the storage cabinet and bring out a bottle of whiskey. Then, I realized he wanted this pain to come with clarity. He would not drink to her death. To him, I am almost certain it would have been irreverent to her life.

  “You know what I feel like, Translator?”

  “I can’t imagine, sir.”

  “I feel like God. I feel like what a dumb fucking idea it was to send my child to the slaughterhouse. And now, just as He must have, come to the realization in the aftermath that the sacrifice didn’t mean a goddamn thing. But at least I understand now, Translator.”

  “Understand what, sir?”

  “Understand why He never intervenes down here o
n this fucking earth. I know what He’s thinking now. He’s thinking to hell with all of them. No mercy, no heaven. For anyone.”

  I had no words for that. He was probably right. He then walked over to the couch where she lay. He took to a knee, and after pulling down the linen to reveal her face, I heard him talking softly. It could have been to her, or it could have been to God. He finished by signing the cross over her body and looking at me over his shoulder.

  “Go find First Sergeant Johnson. Tell him to send for the Jew. He should have one last look at her.”

  I left to find Johnson. After that, I returned to my quarters and lay awake for what was probably hours. I imagined the last moments of The Assassin’s life as that Caliphate unit closed in on her. I imagined the horrors that now lay ahead. I imagined my death but still could not imagine the pain that would accompany it.

  Entry #13

  The attacks on the madrassa and killing of the imam were followed eight days later by the issuance of a decree banning women from wearing niqabs and burqas. Now they could only pair hijabs or khimars with their abayas or jilbabs. The effect on us was devastating and our body count was rising. We could no longer walk among them under the camouflage of their own theocratic law. It greatly limited the intelligence we could collect, as our cameras up there had limited viewing. No longer could we do our daytime reconnaissance in their busy markets and streets, strolling unobtrusive in the midst of them. No longer could we pinpoint raids on stores that carried necessities we needed like bags of flour, stationery, toiletries, medicine, medical supplies, batteries, light bulbs, and fertilizer for our hydroponic gardens. And, no longer could we orchestrate those grand missions on their police and military units or those assassinations we carried out to let them know that none were truly safe.

  Now, we had to feel our way blindly through a nighttime city that had always been under curfew. When all your targets are through serendipity, it makes you nothing but a gambler. And if you play long enough, all gamblers eventually run out of money, as we were starting to run out of soldiers. This was not something the general was ignorant of. A resistance could not afford a war of attrition, in either supplies for its people or targets of its occupiers. It had to fight a war of survival and a war that let the enemy know it could still kill. It had to hang on until reinforcements or a miracle arrived, neither of which we understood would be coming our way. The end was nearing and I was readying my head for it.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  I couldn’t sleep and arrived at the command center early. The only soldiers there were the ones at the surveillance cameras. The general was sitting on a chair practicing on his guitar, which was not plugged in. I stood at attention and listened.

  “At ease, Translator,” he said after finishing.

  “Thank you, sir. I see they were able to find you some picks,” I said. A week ago he had misplaced his last one and had to resort to using a quarter. That twangy sound he was getting pissed him off to no end.

  “No, I found a set in a pocket of my guitar case. Fucking forgot I had them there. Not like me to be forgetful.”

  “It’s understandable, sir. Considering the situation.”

  “That’s no goddamn excuse. I’m here to lead. Not to forget. You know what I’d do if I what wasn’t in command of this sector?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’d go find him.”

  “Who, sir?” I asked.

  “Hetfield. I’d bet you my left fucking nut that right after the invasion he moved his ass back to Lucas Valley. Probably not too far from the ranch he has there. I got him living in the woods, writing new material, bowhunting for food and picking off the Ahab stragglers that happen onto his turf. I don’t see him as part of some militia. I see him with his family, going about his duties to make sure they’re safe and sound.” He then paused for a second. “You know what I would ask him, Translator?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” I said.

  “I’d ask him if he’s finally written off God for good now. The first time was when his mother died when he was sixteen. His parents were Christian Scientists. And when his mother got cancer, she didn’t seek any treatment because according to her faith, one is healed by God’s hands alone. The problem is that God has no hands. He’s just got eyes, Translator, just eyes.”

  “I’m sure he’d be glad to have you up there with him, sir.”

  “Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. But I’d fucking show up there anyway.”

  The general then stood up. As he was returning the guitar to its stand, he looked over to me.

  “All right, Translator. We got shit to do. I want that list on my desk in an hour. Goddamn, I feel like a 1945 Adolph Hitler getting ready to pinch the cheeks of children I know are too young to even give a decent wipe of their ass. This just fucking sickens me.”

  The general was referring to the list of new inductees I was compiling. He had been forced to lower our conscription age from eighteen to fifteen in order to replenish the ranks. Prior to that, we had no problem pulling in new soldiers from the sewers. Those were the escapees from either the labor camps or wanderers who had managed to survive the nearly three and a half years since the invasion. Now though, in this last month, there wasn’t one soul who came through the sewers of Ayla. It had become a dead zone. I no longer feel safe. And in this uneasy state of fear, I now feel the cold and hunger again. And I now hear the silence. And in that silence, I imagine the sounds of footsteps of Caliphate soldiers scurrying into position in our freight tunnels. I imagine I am unable to pull the trigger and put a bullet into my head when the exact time calls for it. I imagine they are dragging my body away. I imagine my body nailed to an inverted cross. And there, I am wondering why it is taking death so long to free me from this pain.

  Entry #14

  The door to the command center opened and another soldier entered.

  “Jesus Christ, even when I have explicit fucking orders I can’t get a fucking minute of peace. Excuse me, Translator.”

  I stepped aside and the sergeant took my place.

  “Sir, the post is set up across from his quarters, and we got eyes on him as we speak.”

  “Good work, Sergeant Raymonds. Keep those shifts in fours. I don’t want anyone fucking falling asleep.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, saluted the general off and then left the command center.

  “Something wrong, sir?” I asked.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot fucking wrong, Translator. We got a spy in the house.”

  “You think they know where we’re at?”

  “If they knew where we were at, Translator, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We’d be waist high in dead fucking bodies, both theirs and ours.”

  “Do you know how he got in?”

  “My best guess is that he came through the sewers a while back and was picked up by one of our patrols. Right now, he knows one of the entrances but has no way of getting that intel back up into Ayla unless he escapes. And since we got all of the egresses guarded, I’m pretty fucking certain he’s not getting up there with his Caliphate heart still beating.”

  “Why not bring him in?”

  “Because the best spies in a war to have are the ones who don’t even know they’ve been discovered. I want a little more time to see just what the fuck he’s up to before hollowing out his skull with my Bowie knife.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Went to mass last Sunday to see how the new priest was doing.”

  “Didn’t know you attended Service, sir?”

  “I don’t, Translator. I was there out of curiosity. Last priest we had, as you know, we found strung up in the tunnels. Apparent suicide. Found that a little fucking odd. So, I wanted to have a look around to see if maybe it was someone in the crowd who had a problem with the clergy.”

  “What gave it away, sir?”

  “Two things. First, he was reading the Mass from fucking cue cards. Then, at the Eucharist, he lifted up the chalice but never
titled it enough to actually take a drink from it. Now to me, that’s either a priest on the wagon or a good Muslim. And since I’ve never heard of a priest on the wagon, I’m pretty sure we got a good Muslim. A soon to be dead one. But a good one nonetheless.”

  Entry #15

  I worked until 2201 hours. Afterward, as I had now been doing with some regularity, I brought myself to the quarters of the prostitute and the girl. As I was about to enter, I encountered one of our soldiers exiting. He gave me an indignant push in the chest and then went about his way. I entered. The prostitute was sitting on the floor. She had a pocket mirror held near to her face. By candlelight, she was applying a new line of lipstick to her lips. I gave her a stern look, one of reprimand. She knew what I meant.

  “Those eyes remind me of father’s,” she said, briefly turning my way.

  “And what if the girl awoke?” I asked.

  “Then she would have woke alone,” she answered after smacking her lips so that they were now crimson. “We in room just down way. He walk me back like gentleman.”

  “There’s some meat here today,” I said, referring to the loin of rabbit I had been able to obtain.

  “What do you eat if your food now our food?” the prostitute said to me after I had unfolded the food from within the blanket I had been carrying. Along with the rabbit, I had brought along a loaf of bread and three Kit Kats I had earned. I set it all on the ground.

  “I require less than what I am given,” I replied.

  “Your body says you are liar.”