by Caleb Adams
So, after we finish, the General’s picking up our plates to take them away. And as he’s doing it, he starts talking to us for the first time. From what I remember, it went something like this.
“I heard you guys ran into some heavy shit out there. Probably feeling goddamn lucky to have your asses back here I’m guessing.”
“Yes, sir,” we all answered.
“Yeah, I would be too. You get in a situation like that, and it’s just a fucking roll of the dice. Doesn’t matter how much of a rock star you are. A bullet’s got your name on it, it’s got your name on it. Anyone piss their pants out there?”
“No, sir,” we yelled this time.
“Fucking liars. Anyway, you guys did a commendable job. The thing is though . . .” the General started to say when all of a sudden he took out this big ass knife and put it to the throat of our sergeant, “if any one of you assholes ever come back here again without the bodies of those in your unit, I’m going to personally disembowel each and every one of you. You got that?” We all nodded our heads. “Okay, let me try it again. You got that, motherfuckers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, because we’re going back out there tonight. And I’m going with you.”
“They’re probably not in the alley anymore, sir. They could be anywhere,” our sergeant said.
“Yes, they could be anywhere. But they’re not fucking anywhere, Sergeant. They put their bodies on display. Both of them are hanging upside down on crosses in the middle of Al-Hayat Plaza. So, as I thought I just made fucking crystal clear, we are going to go out there, pull the nails out of their hands and feet, and bring them back. Just like that. And during all of this, we are going to leave a trail of dead so long it’s going to take them a fucking week to pick up all of the pieces.”
We had just started to get up when the General called us back.
“Did anyone hear me say dismissed?”
“No, sir,” we all replied.
“Yeah, I didn’t either. All of you. Take a Kit Kat for the road. May just be the last good thing you have in your mouth because if you get snagged up there, I guarantee the next thing is going to be the dick of some Caliphate soldier.”
We all reached in the fishbowl as ordered. The sergeant waited to be the last. And just when he went to put his hand in, the General grabbed his wrist. Jesus Christ, Sean, you could have heard that snap a mile away.
“I hope that fucking hurt more than your face is showing, Sergeant. Now, I wasn’t fucking there, so I don’t know the half of it. But sure as shit, I can tell you that even if it was my goddamn retriever those camel jockeys had killed, I wouldn’t have dumped him in a garbage can. He would have been on my back even if I had a goddamn fighter jet strafing my ass. Strip down to your skivvies, Sergeant. You are now part of the civilian population. First Sergeant Johnson, when he’s done, collect his uniform and then escort him to where we’re digging. As for the rest of you, now you’re officially fucking dismissed. And get some rest. 0100 tonight.”
I gotta admit, Sean, when I walked out of there, hooded again, I was sweating it. Seemed like a suicide mission to me. But I guess if I wanted anyone on my side, it would be that crazy son-of-a-bitch. Wish me luck.—Aidan
Letter #9
At that afternoon dinner, the General made it seem like it was a spur of the moment decision to go out and retrieve those men. When we arrived back at the command center at one in the morning, I realized that the General must have already had the plans drawn up long before he had started cooking the rabbit. It might have been reckless, but it certainly wasn’t the suicide mission I had originally thought it would be. And I can’t tell you how hard it was to keep a smile off my face when we were unhooded and standing around a mock-up of Al-Hayat Plaza (old Daley Center) with twelve soldiers of the General’s elite squad. Let me just say, with the total now at seventeen, that’s a massive operation for us.
We were going out at 0300 hours, and arriving at the plaza at 0345. The General said even at that time it would be well guarded. Al-Hayat Plaza and the adjacent buildings in the area, we were told, now serve as the seat for the supreme Caliphate council, along with offices for the governing of Ayla. The Picasso he said had long been torn down, and in its place, two machine gun nests and an Abrams M1A2 tank. Around the perimeter, they had stacked sandbags, which was patrolled by about twenty of the council’s revolutionary guards. Those guards, the General said, all carried AK-47s. He also said to expect a few RPGs in the mix, though the intel he had gotten wasn’t certain. The two crosses were positioned behind the machine gun nests and rose about twenty-five feet high. He said when we get there to keep our eyes off of them. Said it would only be a distraction that would mess with our heads.
Since we knew that area pretty well, we were able to come out of the sewer system right at our mark. He moved his elite out first. Six took the western flank, the other six the eastern one. That left the five of us, which included the General, to take up residency on the north—placing us behind the Daley Center and also behind the Caliphate’s perimeter.
At 0355, the General motioned for three of us to move out to the east of the building. I started to go, but he pulled me back by the shoulder. I took it as kind of an honor that he wanted me with him. That was until I realized I was the one carrying the duffel bag with the LAW and two 66 mm rockets. I should have realized why no one was picking up that duffel bag back at the command center. I mean, of course, the first ones to take heavy fire are going to be the ones shooting off the big bottle rockets.
The General and I then moved to the western edge of the building. He nodded to the bag. My cue to start loading the rockets. So, I started loading them. And then, he starts talking to me. And I don’t mean in this hushed voice so no one can hear us. But in this voice as if he was trying to talk over other conversations like we were at a party or something.
“What did you think of the stew?”
“Good, sir,” I said, one-fifth of the decibel level he was at.
“Wasn’t overdone?”
“No, sir. Perfect, sir.”
“You need two things for a good rabbit stew, soldier. First, you need the right seasoning. I only use salt, pepper, celery, and a touch of olive oil. Anything else is goddamn superfluous. And secondly, you need to know when to stop cooking the fucker. Rabbit has a tendency to dry out.”
“No, it wasn’t dry, sir. Again, perfect, sir.”
“Well, I’m glad you liked it, solider. You ever hear of Metallica?”
“A few songs, sir.”
“Yeah well, that means you never heard of them. Saying you only heard a few of their songs is like saying I think I fucked her. You were either completely in, or she’s still got her cherry.”
“Sir, we have three Caliphate approaching. Twelve o’clock.”
“You think I don’t know that, soldier?”
“No, sir, it just seems like we might want to do something.”
“And while I would love to see you put a fucking hole through them the size of a basketball, I suppose it would be more prudent if we saved both of those rockets for the tank, and I just shot all of them in the head, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then. We’re on. Take out the Abrams, and don’t fucking miss.”
I swear, Sean, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Right after the General blew the top of those guys’ heads off, the whole place exploded. Perfectly choreographed, too. They didn’t have a chance. I hit the back of the M1A2 turret twice, and the General’s men immediately took out the machine gun nests. As directed, I then moved to the crosses to assist in taking down the bodies. When I looked back for a moment, I could see the General standing in the middle of the plaza just mowing down the Revolutionary Guard. What wasn’t killed, just ran off. Man, I just wanted to scream, “Take that, you motherfuckers.”
Jesus, Sean. Those ten minutes or so made me feel like a winner again. The last time I felt like that was when you found me on the bas
eline, and I hit that three-pointer to take the state quarterfinals. All right, the adrenaline has finally worn off. I’m tired as hell and need some sleep. Write to ya later.—Aidan
Letter #10
Thought I’d drop you a line since our unit’s in a holding pattern right now. We took out the imam two days ago, which was a big moral victory for us. The only problem is that the same day someone from Sector 4 went rogue and blew up a madrassa with about 50 or so kids in it. The whole city up there wants revenge, and so we’ve been grounded. These raids we do aren’t going to come easy anymore. Not that they were so easy in the first damn place, but this is just going to make them basically suicide missions.
I know we haven’t talked about it since you’ve been gone. But I’ve been thinking about that labor camp guard. I’ve been thinking of sneaking out of here and paying him a little visit. I want him to suffer like he made you suffer. I want the pain to be long, and I want it to be excruciating. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying I wouldn’t have a chance in moving thirty miles up there on my own. You’re saying my vengeance is better spent working these raids from here. And I’m saying, fuck that, we always stood up for each other, and everyone always knew they had to fight both of us even if they only wanted one of us. That camp knew it too. That’s why they transferred me out after you were killed. They knew I’d get to him eventually. We’re twins, Sean. There are no two of us. There’s only one. And deep down, even in heaven, I know you’re just as angry as me that they split us into parts. God, I miss you so much. God, how I wish I had been on that same train they put you on.—Aidan
Letter #11
Felt like I was in some fairy tale yesterday. A pretty messed up one because obviously, I’m down here. But a fairy tale nonetheless. For at least a part of it anyway. At about 1400 hours, the new sergeant pulled me out of my quarters. And let me just say, that’s not the time you want your command leader to come for you since our raids we run at night. The sergeant told me to take an extra clip. Fuck that, I thought. I stuffed two clips in my pockets and then taped another two around my calves. I wanted at least to blow away a few of the Ahabs before they shot my ass up.
We picked up another soldier. Private Aiken. I was with him on another mission. Holds his own. Didn’t seem too reckless and didn’t seem to show any fear. That’s what you really want. You go up there you don’t want anyone to be a gunslinger, and you sure as hell don’t want the guy next to you to be pissing in his boots. Quiet guy, too. I like that. You can tell me everything you want to tell me when we’re back in the tunnels. Up there, though, I want your full attention on the game. I can give a rat’s ass about how you watched your mother get raped, or your child’s head smashed in. Not that I’m a completely insensitive dick. But it’s not the time.
So, we get briefed. Sergeant says we’re going to a safe house to retrieve something. And that was it. Except for, of course, putting on our Caliphate soldier costumes. You know, bro, it didn’t dawn on me until I was looking at Aiken that I realized why the hell we had been chosen. I mean, at first, you think it’s an honor. But when I looked at him and his long ratty beard, I understood the two of us had been picked because we had the longest ones. Damn, I can be such a dumbass sometimes. I was wondering why the other soldiers in our unit kept trimming their beards. They were vets, already knew how to fix the straws to be drawn.
The new sergeant’s leading the way. Like Aiken, I’m cool with him. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to doing any dumb shit to get us killed. If there isn’t at least a 50-50 chance of success, he’s going to abort. In this world, I’ll take those odds every time. We head into the sewers from Sector 4, then about a klick later we stop. I don’t know how he knew when to stop, but he did. From his pocket, he takes out this homemade periscope and shoves it through a tiny opening in the manhole. He’s looking around to make sure it’s cool for us to go up, and then we go up. After a two-block walk, the sergeant makes a quick right turn up the steps of this brownstone. He knocks. And then this old Mid-Eastern looking man lets us in. Beside him is his wife. The sergeant speaks to him in Arabic, and the old woman gives a nod of her head toward the stairs.
Okay, so this is where the fairy tale stuff comes in. We follow the old woman up to a bedroom. She opens the door and we all step in. And there, lying on the bed is a body. Young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. A white linen sheet is pulled up to the neck, and there are rose petals thrown all over. At first, I thought it was a boy because of the short hair. But as I got closer, I realized it was a girl. Jesus, just the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. Hell, I would’ve asked her to marry me before even asking her name. The whole thing kind of reminded me of Snow White. Except for the fact that she wasn’t there because of a poisoned apple, but because of a gunshot wound to the head. Couldn’t imagine she was going to wake up from that no matter who in the hell gave her a kiss.
The sergeant then got to his knees, and we did the same. He led us in a short prayer. Afterward, he pulled the sheet over her head, and we all stood up again.
“Private Aiken, go down and see if the old man’s brought the car around yet,” the sergeant said.
After Aiken left, I spoke to the sergeant.
“This is what we came for?”
“It’s not a what, Private, it’s a who.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to show any disrespect. I was just—”
“That’s fine, Private. I understand.”
“Where are we taking her?” I asked.
“Back home.”
“Where’s home, Sergeant?”
“Sector 4, Private. The General wants her back there.”
“You know who she is?”
“Yeah, I know who she is, Private. Saw her in the command center not too long ago. You just had the privilege of meeting The Assassin.”
At first, I thought I misheard him. But then it made sense. That was the reason she had been able to do all that damage to the Caliphate. No one would have expected a teenage girl to be the angel of death. Damn, Sean, The Assassin was a legend down in these tunnels. Everyone had different ideas about who it was. But hell, it turned out to be my Snow White. An original Grimm ending and not at all a Disney white-wash. I got a bad feeling, Sean. This doesn’t portend that we’ve got very much longer left.—Aidan
Letter #12
Got some pretty disturbing news this morning. A rumor’s been flying around that the Caliphate had a spy down here and he escaped. I heard some guys talking that they were thinking of making a run for the Deep Tunnel project. I don’t know where the hell that would get them. I’d give it a week tops before a Caliphate patrol picked them up and tortured the hell out of them. I’m pretty sure I’d rather fight it out down here than be captured by those sadistic bastards.
All right, I’m out of here. Chow time. I’m figuring it’s going to be mystery soup and rock bread again. Kind of reminds me of mom’s cooking. I loved the woman to death, but as you know, it would have been better if the house never came with a stove.—Aidan
Letter #13
Okay, got about two minutes for this one. We just took a code red and been given our orders. Hoping it’s a drill, but for some reason, it sure in the hell doesn’t feel like one. Anyway, just wanted to say that if something does happen to me, I hope I’m going to the same place you ended up. That’s what happens, right? You die and get returned to those you loved the most. Otherwise, what the hell would be the point of all this. So maybe I’ll see you soon, bro. If not, you’ll have to get through another one of my letters.—Love, Aidan
The Priest
Tuesday, January 29,
“Is it too late to see me?” I asked Father Mahoney after I had entered his quarters.
“Of course not,” he said, and then closed the book in his hand and set it aside. I knew it would be an Agatha Christie. Father Mahoney had become quite a fan ever since he had started reading some of the ones I had brought to him.
“What chapter are you on?”
“I have actually just begun.”
“There are stirring times ahead,” I said.
“Yes, I believe there probably are,” he answered with a smile, and after a pause added, “You have something on your mind?”
“It may take some time.”
“Then perhaps you should have a seat. I’ll make us some tea. One of our parishioners slipped me a bag at Mass. We can share the bag if you don’t mind. It’s probably a good vintage.”
We talked a little while after that. Oh, about nothing really in particular. He must have known I had something extremely important to say. But he humored me and waited with the utmost patience for me to finally drum up enough courage to start speaking of it. And that I finally did, right after I took my last sip of the Earl Grey tea and set the cup aside.
“I’ve been remembering, Father,” I began. “And I would like for someone else to remember with me.”
“I would be honored to remember with you,” he said.
“I am in church. I am fifteen years old. We are standing near the front in a reserved section. My mother is on my left, looking old and ruined. My father is on my right, held up by crutches to keep him off his shattered ankle bone. He looks stoic and hardened, as if waiting for a warship to pick him up from the shore. Father John is reading off the names of the murdered girls and their murdered fathers. I am staring up at the Jesus, waiting for my little sister’s name to be called.