Fire and Forget
Andrew Warren
FIRE AND FORGET
Andrew Warren
Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Warren. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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Edited By Monique Happy Editorial Services
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Contents
Readers Group
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
THANK YOU!
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Chapter One
Nhial walked at a steady pace, not slowing despite the infernal sun that beat down at his back. He kept his eyes on the long dirt path ahead of him, watching for potholes or sharp debris. Rockets and mortar fire had long since blasted away the road's chipped pavement. Fragments of rusted metal and deep potholes now gouged its uneven surface. The debris was a dangerous reminder of the town’s bleak past.
The ruddy, sun-baked mud road stretched through what was once the town center, and led past the charred remains of the old colonial structures. Crumbling churches, dilapidated manor houses, and the burned, desecrated shell of the once pristine town hall–the old buildings seemed like relics of a fantastical era. A forgotten paradise, long since abandoned by whatever strange inhabitants once lived there.
A white stone plaque remained standing near the ruined buildings. Soot and ash covered its carved surface, but the writing underneath was still legible. It marked the town’s name as Kanfar, but Nhial knew the place had gone by other names. From European colonists, to Sudanese armed forces, and finally to the warring factions of the newly independent South, this tiny scrap of land had changed hands many times in its bloody, war-torn history.
The low chattering of men’s voices snapped Nhial’s attention back to his surroundings. A trio of men, their ribs jutting out beneath their dark skin, gestured towards him with long, wiry arms.
Nhial clutched the sack he carried over his shoulder in a tight grip. The muscles in his arms bulged. He eyed the group as he passed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his body had not yet succumbed to malnutrition or sickness. He continued to stare, not breaking eye contact until the group turned away and continued down the road. He didn’t know if they were bandits or thieves, or perhaps just beggars. Whoever they were, his steely glare showed them he was no easy mark. He would fight to protect what was his.
More men and women traipsed along both sides of the dirt road. Like Nhial, they carried supplies in scavenged backpacks or threadbare sacks. A few of the town’s inhabitants had set up makeshift stores along the route. They sold food, purified water, oil, and other valuables. The produce was bruised and insect-ridden, but Nhial knew he had to grab whatever he could find. Food of any sort had become a priceless treasure, despite the efforts of the United Nations and other charitable groups.
As far as Nhial was concerned, the men and women who worked for those Non-Governmental Organizations were from another world. Here in Kanfar, ideals like kindness, charity, and decency were like the fruit and produce he bought along the road; dwindling away, rotting inside, and infested with parasites.
He crossed over the invisible boundary that separated the old town from the new encampment. The packed, hardened clay of the road became softer, soaked with sewage and refuse. The sun blasted down on the shanties and tents, baking the inhabitants and the filth surrounding them. The air itself seemed to thicken into a miasma of decay and suffering.
As he maneuvered between the narrow rows of tents and carts, Nhial listened to the chatter and voices around him. Despite the aura of death and despair, the town’s inhabitants did their best to keep their spirits up. He walked past a row of children, all lined up in the street, books and bundled lunches balanced atop their heads. A group of mothers, draped in mud-stained sarongs and other rags, kissed the children on their cheeks. They sang to them in a hodgepodge of languages and dialects. He could make out smatterings of Nuer, Dinka, French and English, among others.
The children would soon begin the long hike to Bentiu. The tiny town, nestled near the banks of the White Nile River, was in better shape than Kanfar. Its buildings had been renovated by gas and oil companies, and the local orphanage had a fence with a lock. The children would be safer there at night than they would in the tents and hovels of the camp.
And night was when the raiders came.
It had been many months since the last raid. After he and his family had arrived in Kanfar, the fighting between the South Sudan armed forces and the rebel groups to the east had died down. Nhial's wife, Aya, began to speak of better times and impending peace as she served tea to the elder men outside their shack.
But Nhial and his family had fled their hometown in the dead of night after armed men had ransacked his village for supplies. He had seen the flames of hatred and cruelty in the invaders’ eyes as they lined the town’s men up against a wall. Then they blindfolded the male children in the village and ordered them to execute their fathers. Those who complied were taken as soldiers or slaves. Those who refused, or cried too much, were mutilated. Nhial heard the gunshots echoing one by one through the sweltering, dark night as he and his family fled.
When the men were dead, they moved on to the women and the young girls. Their screams and wails of despair carried for miles. Nhial could hear them all through the night as they ran.
After that night, his heart had changed. He knew the violence and bloodshed that engulfed these lands could not be erased by time or words. Perhaps his son might live long enough to see an end to the fighting. But for Nhial, hopes of peace in his lifetime were not worth the saliva he spat onto the muddy, stinking road.
He stopped for a moment and let the sounds of the camp wash over him. He closed his eyes and allowed the women’s song and the children’s laughter to banish the memory of those cries that pierced the night. Then he continued on his way.
Up ahead, set apart from the other tents and huts, was the shack that gave him
and his family shelter. He had built it himself, using sheets of corrugated plastic provided by a nearby UN refugee camp. An older man, his beard and hair white as ash, sat outside in a folding chair next to a battered old table. He sipped hot tea, admiring the young women as they sauntered by.
A tall, healthy-looking local woman emerged from the shack carrying a chipped porcelain jar. She set it down on the tiny table. “There you go, sir, all the sugar we have left. Sorry for the wait.”
One of the old men reached for the spoon. “No worries, Aya. Tea is good as it is. Red. Dark.”
“Gondolsi tea,” she said, refilling his cup. “Good for the blood.”
Nhial could not help but smile as he ducked under the plastic tarp that shaped the tiny porch. “That’s not all it’s good for, Aya. You trying to give old Talak’s wife here a surprise?”
Aya, the woman, beamed at Nhial.
“You’re back!” She set down the tea pot and rushed over to him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.
“Don’t you listen to him,” she said over her shoulder to the old man. “That’s just old wives’ tale!”
Nhial set down his sack and removed a few items, setting them down along the sides of the tea house. “Here, I got you more sugar. Only one bag though.”
Aya took the tiny brown paper bag and refilled the sugar bowl on the table. “Price go up again? Soon they will want a drop of blood for an ounce of sugar.”
The old man laughed and set a collection of crumpled notes on the table. “Thank you, Aya. Maybe I come back tomorrow. See if wife wants me to drink more tea. And share more war stories with your guest." He chuckled as he ambled out into the street.
“You better come back,” Nhial called after him. “Or Aya tells your wife you flirt with all the girls.”
As the old man wandered into the street, Nhial continued unpacking his bag of goods. He turned to Aya. “And how is our guest?” he asked in a low voice.
She glanced at the street, then whispered, “Better, I think. Moving around more. The tea and food seem to have helped. But the neighbors saw him bathe early this morning.”
Nhial nodded. “It cannot be avoided. Talak was a soldier, he can be trusted. But the others will soon gossip. Word will spread. We have repaid this man's kindness. Tomorrow, he must leave.”
Aya bit her lip, then put her arm on Nhial’s shoulder. “His wounds have not yet healed. Maybe he stays a few more days. If he had not found Buri on the outskirts of camp, before nightfall …”
Nhial nodded. “You know I feel the same, but it is dangerous keeping him here. If word gets out—”
Before Nhial could finish his sentence he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He caught a quick glimpse of a dark object streaking down towards him from the sky. He heard a whistling sound, cutting through the hot air around them.
“Grenade!” he screamed, throwing Aya to the ground. He shielded her with his body as the explosion tore through the street.
He felt the fire lick his back, and an immense wave of heat rippled through the shack. His ears were ringing. He had not even noticed the sound of the explosion, but the after-effects left him almost deaf. He could just make out people screaming and the crackle of nearby gunfire. Everything was muted, muffled by the incessant buzzing that filled his skull.
Aya was crying and screaming. Her voice sounded far away, like she was trapped in a deep well. Nhial lifted himself up from the ground and staggered to his feet. He took a tentative step towards the shack, but his body swayed like a drunk. Another explosion rocked the town. He saw fragments of burning plastic and corrugated metal cascade into the air.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Nhial had only managed to take a few steps towards his shack, but all around him the destruction and bloodshed seemed to grow. Gunfire crackled and sprayed in all directions. Bodies collapsed in the streets. Another shack exploded into debris as more barrages of rocket-propelled grenades screamed through the air. He realized he was walking in a tight circle, stunned by the chaos erupting around him. He felt hot liquid stinging his eyes. He reached up and touched his forehead with his fingers. He felt fresh, sticky blood spilling from a jagged gash.
“Buri! Where is Buri?” Aya cried out. She ran into the shack.
Nhial started to follow her, but he stopped and stood in the doorway. The sound of a powerful engine roared towards him. He turned to see an armored truck barreling down the street. The vehicle plowed through the scattered debris, crushing the bodies of the fallen villagers into the mud.
The Ural 63099 Typhoon armored vehicle was painted in khaki and brown camouflage. A heavy machine gun turret protruded from the roof. Nhial saw no gunner manning the weapon, but its barrel flashed and roared. It spat a barrage of slugs towards a squad of SPLA soldiers who had taken cover down the street. They returned fire, but the massive weapon cut them down in seconds.
The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of Nhial’s shack. His jaw dropped in surprise. He knew the armed forces of Sudan used such vehicles north of the border. But they were far too expensive for the raiders and rebel forces that caused trouble in the White Nile region.
The rear door swung open, and Nigerian music blasted from the truck’s dark interior. The thumping bass of the song seemed even louder than the gunshots and explosions that continued to decimate the camp.
Nhial’s look of shock grew even more intense as a tall, slim East African man stepped out into the street. He wore a navy pinstriped suit, and a leather bolo tie hung from the collar of his pressed white dress shirt. He sniffed the air and nodded, as if oblivious to the violence that surrounded them. A gunshot ricocheted off the truck next to him. He turned and looked at the mark the bullet had left. Then he looked back at Nhial, his face devoid of all expression.
Two more men flanked him, dressed in scavenged military uniforms. They carried assault rifles and wore red sashes tied around their right arms. More armed men poured out of the truck and took up positions behind them. Their lanky bodies were draped in tattered rags and clothes, and they all wore the red armband around their right arm.
The man in the suit walked over to Nhial and looked him up and down. He grinned, revealing a set of yellow, mangled teeth. His left front incisor was missing. A tiny, polished diamond sat in place of the missing tooth. Unlike most stones, this one was not clear. It held a pale, red tint, and glowed with an inner fire as a beam of sunlight struck the man's face.
“Your name is Nhial. Do you know who I am?”
The stunned younger man nodded. He swallowed.
“Yes. I know. We … we want no trouble,” Nhial stuttered. “Please … take whatever—”
The man did not stop grinning. “We are not thieves, my good man. I am told you have something that belongs to me. ‘Dis is true?”
“Leave them alone,” a man’s voice called from inside the shack. He limped out into the light. His Caucasian skin was flushed, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead beneath short brown hair. His tan, sunburned skin crinkled around narrowed eyes as he squinted at the other men. He took another step and winced in pain. His shirt was unbuttoned, and a dark stain soaked a cloth bandage that was tied around his abdomen.
“I’m the one you want.” He glared at the man with the red diamond tooth. “Isn’t that right?”
The uniformed men surged into the cabin. Nhial heard screams from inside. One man dragged out a struggling Aya and a slim young boy.
“Buri! Don’t you hurt him or—”
“Why you come here?” the boy cried out. “Why you take him? He help us, he bring medicine, from America.”
The other soldier emerged from the shack carrying a canvas rucksack. He handed the bag to the man with the diamond tooth.
“His things, Commander.”
The man took the bag. He stepped over to the boy and rubbed his head with rough, calloused fingers.
“This stranger is not who he seems to be, young one,” he said, nodding toward the injured man. “He is no angel. He is
a demon, an evil spirit. His kind do not care about you. They care only for what they can take … what they can steal from our home. Isn’t that right, Mr. Galloway?”
The white man shrugged. “You must have me confused with someone else. My name’s Carter. I work for the World Health Organization. You and your dogs are the only demons I see around here.”
The man with the diamond tooth rummaged through the rucksack and pulled out a small, silver metal case. He dropped the bag and flipped open the case. An icy white mist crept out, evaporating in the morning heat. He peered inside the case for a moment, his eyes wide and searching. Then he snapped it shut and handed it to one of his men.
“Your name is Josh Galloway, and you work for the American CIA,” he said in a sing song voice. He tapped the side of his skull, next to his left eye. “You see, I have my own demons, my own spirits. They serve me, and they see through your lies. You stole two of these cases from me. Where is the other one?”
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I was carrying medicine samples, and—”
“You anger the spirits, Mr. Galloway. Soon enough, they show us both the truth, I think. Yes, you will be begging to tell me the truth, once they start to whisper in your ear. Put him on the truck.”
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