The Last Infidel

by Spikes Donovan

  “We’re not having this discussion,” Cody said.

  “The words are forming sentences in the air waiting for you to see them, only you’re too self-absorbed to look!”

  Cody, with the blueprints in his arms, and his baseball cap pulled tightly over the top of his head, started for the door. “Come on – we’ve got a mosque to finish.”

  For one hour, forced to stand in the hot and sultry heat of that late Friday afternoon, Cody Marshall and his infidels stood at attention on the rear lawn of the Rutherford County courthouse. Behind them and in front of them, also standing at attention, stood two rows of Bashar’s soldiers. Mikey Ferguson, the young man about to be executed, a boy with close cut hair and a thin, boney build, stood alone on the concrete walk, facing the doors of the courthouse.

  Bashar was late.

  Everybody knew Mikey, loved him like they did their own child. At the age of sixteen, distraught over his attraction to men, Mikey tried to take his own life. He’d managed to keep his struggle secret up until his suicide attempt – an overdose of painkillers he’d stolen from his pharmacist employer – but later, in desperation, he confessed his problem before his church family from the bed of the local hospital. With the help of friends and family, Mikey learned to cope with his feelings, not once giving in to them; and his church family surrounded him with love and care and understanding.

  But yesterday, one of those church members exposed him.

  That man, Gus Rimes, a man who had recently renounced his Christian faith, needed to prove his devotion to The Prophet and Allah. Turning Mikey over to the local mosque president was good enough for ISA; and Gus had outed Mikey two days before, just so he could save his own head from the edge of a dull, Muslim sword.

  Bashar, flanked on either side by two of his bodyguards who, when they weren’t watching the courthouse, were beating the hell out of Cody’s guys, walked out of the courthouse. He looked past Mikey and walked around him.

  “To heaven with him,” Cody heard one of his sheetrock guys whisper beside him. Then the man dropped his head and he began to sob quietly.

  Jose whispered, “Do something, Cody, you piece of---”

  Bashar stepped up to the line of men; but because he hated their stink, something everyone except Bashar had grown accustomed to, he kept his distance. Before he spoke, a terrible silence filled the square.

  Cody knew for a fact that Bashar hated this business of executions, but he could never understand how such an educated man as Bashar could bring himself to oversee such wanton acts of cruelty and violence. He asked him once about his view of forgiveness and mercy, and why Islam was always so swift to kill any transgressor. Wouldn’t it have been better, Cody asked him on one occasion, to grant mercy in the hope the sinner might be allowed time to grow and convert?

  Bashar read the verdict – all of it exaggerated beyond any glimmer of reality – against Mikey Ferguson. He spoke of several liaisons Mikey had had with different men, none of whom could be named, and whom, conveniently, nobody had bothered to round up so that they too could share in Mikey’s fate.

  Mikey, where are your accusers?

  Bashar swept his dark, black hair away from his short forehead. He looked over to his right, holding a piece of paper in his hands; and he looked at the president of the mosque. He nodded, officially and dutifully, and then he looked down at the paper once more.

  It occurred to Cody that the man was searching through his duty-bound skull to muster the courage he had failed to find on so many other occasions, a courage he knew he must find within the next few seconds or risk being accused of violating Sharia Law. And when Bashar raised his head and looked past the front row of his soldiers, Cody knew he was looking for somebody to carry out the sentence that he himself knew he could never carry out.

  Cody looked down at the ground, pumping himself up for another confrontation with Bashar. He suddenly looked up, defiantly, and his eyes smoldered with fire. He leaned slightly to the left and looked past one of Bashar’s bastards, casting his eyes upon the skinny, sweat-drenched back of Mikey Ferguson, a boy who could have been any mother’s son, and any man’s baby brother. He allowed his compassion to move him, not only emotionally, but physically; and he moved out from his line and stepped through the row of guards separating him from Bashar.

  As he brushed past two guards, he felt the blow of a rifle butt on his back, and he fell to the ground. One of Bashar’s bodyguards, probably under his orders, stopped the soldier. Cody stood up on his feet and, undeterred and with little concern for himself, walked towards Bashar.

  Bashar looked at his two body guards and told them to prepare to escort the prisoner to the clock tower atop the courthouse. They did as they were told and made their way towards Mikey Ferguson.

  Cody never once worried about his own safety. He would have preferred to confront Bashar in the privacy of his office; but he knew Bashar, now under the eyes of the president of the mosque, the imam, and some of his associates, had no choice but to proceed with the execution. He looked at Bashar with every muscle and vein straining against his skin, and said, “Look, you dirty, filthy Muslim, those charges against Mikey – every one of them – is false, and you know it. He’s a Christian – and I take pleasure in saying that that boy has never, ever hurt a single soul. You owe me, mister. Let him go. The people of this town showed more respect and love to your son than you ever did – you filthy pig!”

  Bashar reached to his side and grabbed his small, rubber truncheon. He flung himself forward like a coiled snake, beating Cody in the face and on the head until Cody hit the ground bleeding. He beat him on the back multiple times, swinging with every ounce of strength he had. When his hand and wrist began to fatigue – his swings began to slow rather quickly – he backed away, puffing and panting, leaving Cody on the ground.

  But Cody had protected himself, and Bashar had relented.

  “Get up, Cody Marshall,” Bashar said. “I will not kill Mikey Ferguson. You will do the job.”

  “Like hell I will,” Cody countered.

  “And now I will remove the heads of one of your men.” Bashar called over one of his soldiers, a man holding a large sword with a leather-wrapped brass handle. He told him to select one of Cody’s workers, tie his hands, and prepare to behead him on the old, limestone, slave stepping stone sitting to the right of the sidewalk.

  “Don’t do this, Bashar,” Cody said. “I’ll . . . I’ll do as you ask.”

  Bashar, with his eyes looking at the president of the mosque, said, “It is too late for that now. In the event you refuse the order again, I will kill two more.” Bashar turned and called for his two body guards. “Take Cody Marshall and Mikey Ferguson to the clock tower.”

  Cody never heard the swing of the sword, nor the cries of the worker, as Bashar’s executioner swung his dull blade. In the end, for want of a sharp edge, the soldier had to kneel over the body of his victim. He spent five minutes sawing, with his knee on the man’s back, and his free hand holding the dying man’s dark, brown hair.

  With his arm locked into the arm of Mikey, and with the two guards bringing up the rear, Cody assured Mikey with words of encouragement. The group entered the courthouse, took the stairs, and reached the clock tower.

  Cody held on to Mikey’s now cold hand, both of the men steadying the other; and Cody could feel Mikey’s thin, frail body trembling in the heat of that cursed summer evening.

  “It’s better this way,” Mikey said. “They’ve all gone – everyone. There’s not many left now, and my family is gone, too.”

  Cody, with tears welling up in his eyes, nodded and smiled.

  “I’m okay with this, Cody. I’ve struggled, but I’ve never once given in to Satan, even though he’s called my name every day. Nor have I or will I curse my enemies.”

  The two men stepped out from the clock tower, walked carefully to the edge of the roof, and looked out over the people assembled below them.

  The Muslim soldiers, when they saw Mik
ey and Cody, shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

  “I have . . . I have my Bible,” Mikey said. He looked back towards the clock tower where the two guards, petrified to be so high up on the roof, held tightly to a service rail that ran around the tower. Mikey knelt down and lifted his pants leg. His Bible, a small, green one, was tucked in his sock. He pulled it out and opened it up.

  Cody smiled.

  “You know, I always wanted to be a preacher,” Mikey said. “I can’t think of a pulpit taller than this or a crowd as large, right? But I’m sure they’ll shoot me the moment I---”

  “Read it, Mikey.”

  Mikey opened his little Bible and, with a voice nobody had ever heard him use before, a voice loud and clear, read from Psalm 22. “I will declare your name to my brothers, in the congregation I will praise you. You who fear the Lord, praise him!”

  A cry, wild and high-pitched, rose from the ground. The president of the mosque covered his ears and yelled for Bashar to stop the infidel. Bashar’s men, from one end of the line to other, shook their fists and screamed, some in Arabic, others in English.

  The infidels cheered.

  Mikey smiled, and tears ran down his face. And then he yelled, “For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one, and he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help!”

  Bashar appeared on the roof near the clock tower; and he ordered his two guards towards the edge of the roof, yelling for them to stop Mikey from speaking.

  Mikey raised his hands to heaven, and with a smile on his face, said, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life!”

  One bodyguard refused to climb out onto the sloping roof, even though Bashar beat him mercilessly. The other, with terror in his eyes, crawled towards Cody and Mikey. He lost his footing and began to slide towards them, losing his weapon, screaming, and waving his hands wildly.

  “Catch him, Cody!” Mikey yelled, dropping his Bible. He steadied his foot on the gutter and, as Bashar’s bodyguard neared, Cody slowed him down, and Mikey grabbed his hand, digging his nails deep into the Muslim’s flesh.

  Cody grabbed onto Mikey’s thick leather belt and pulled him back, just as the soldier went over the side. Mikey, perhaps in a last, adrenaline-fueled effort to affirm life, held onto the soldier’s arm as the soldier, screaming and crying, swung under the eaves of the courthouse.

  “I’ve got you!” Mikey yelled.

  The crowd below, no longer yelling, no longer waving their rifles, held their breaths.

  “Give me your other hand!”

  The soldier, his eyes wide and his jaws clenched, swung his left arm up. But Mikey missed it.

  “Drop this guy,” Cody said.

  “And let my sermon go to waste?” Mikey said, straining to get the words out. “Once the seed is planted, God has to water it, right? And remember, Cody. God always holds out his hand. Satan has only a fist.”

  The soldier swung his hand up a second time, and Mikey caught it. With Cody’s help, Mikey pulled the man to safety, though he was much larger than Mikey’s one hundred twenty pounds.

  “Push him over!” Bashar yelled to Cody. “Do it now or I’ll kill more of your men.”

  Cody ignored him.

  The guard Mikey had just saved, an older man by the name of Mamook, steadied himself on the gutter. He looked at Mikey with thankfulness in his eyes.

  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens---”

  A single gunshot rang out, and a bullet pierced Mikey’s skull, making a clean, small hole. He fell backwards through the air, his soul set free: his body dead before he hit the ground.

  Cody didn’t bother to look, but instead turned and looked at Bashar.

  Bashar was holding a smoking gun.

  Cody helped the guard back up to the clock tower and, after he felt reasonably sure the man would not fall a second time, he stood up. It crossed his mind to take the gun from Bashar and shoot his boss, but the idea of pulling him out of the small opening and throwing him onto the slick roof sounded better. But Cody had a better idea, a much better idea – and he saw the path he must take open up clearly before him.

  “Get back inside, now,” Bashar said to Cody.

  “You know, Bashar,” Cody said, sensing Bashar had just personally executed his first man. “It’s easy to take a life. But it sure takes a hell of a lot more work to save one.” He lifted his shirt, showed him his old bullet wound, and nodded his head.

  { 14 }

  Cody and Jose sat quietly in the truck, Jose sticking his finger into one of several bullet holes in the front windshield, Cody tapping out a song on the steering wheel. Greenland Drive came up on the right – nobody from the old days would’ve recognized it – and Cody slowed down. The garbage looked thicker this morning, mostly empty food cans, wrappers from out-of-date candy bars, and plastic bottles. People in Tennessee would run out of soft drinks and food eventually, if they hadn’t already. What they’d eat next, given that Muslim’s grazed the countryside like locusts, was anybody’s guess. Cody laughed. The survivalists had been telling people for years that the twenty-two caliber bullet would be the ticket to survival; but what those nuts didn’t realize was that small game, even in the days of Davy Crockett, got scarce with even one man hunting it.

  Cody’s work crew, now short two men, were already on the job. For the rest of the weekend, they’d be touching up odds and ends prior to a final inspection of the mosque early Monday morning.

  There was a blue Cadillac parked in front of the work trailer. The car looked clean and waxed. Cody had had visitors before, usually guys sent by the president of the mosque. But a blue Caddy?

  When the truck stopped, Jose jumped out and headed up the small, wooden steps of the construction trailer.

  “I’ll handle this, if it’s all the same you,” Cody said, coming up the steps behind Jose. He maneuvered around Jose and opened the door. A short man, dressed impeccably in a black suit with a red tie, stood in the doorway and greeted him. He saw Tracy getting up from the office chair.

  “It’s a pleasure for me to meet you, Mr. Marshall,” the man said, holding out his hand. “I am glad that Bashar didn’t shoot you after last night.”

  “Sometimes I’m luckier than I want to be,” Cody said boldly, reaching out to shake the dark-skinned man’s hand, though he had his eyes on Tracy. “This is Jose – what his last name is I’ve seem to have forgotten.”

  “How do you don’t?” Jose said. “My friends call me Jose, but you can call me Mr. Lozano.”

  “Cody,” Tracy said, squeezing through the doorway, “I’d like you to meet Zafar Katila, one of Bashar’s top logistics men.”

  “I seem to have guessed it already,” Cody said.

  “You spoke of luck, Mr. Marshall,” Zafar said. “But maybe luck has nothing to do with the present circumstances.”

  “Enough of the small talk, what can I do for you?” Cody asked.

  “Well, all business, aren’t we?” Zafar said. “And the sooner we get that out of the way, the better. You, up until today, are short on the short list. This morning, Bashar had a meeting with the president of the mosque. For all we know, Bashar’s men could be coming to kill you right now. And I can’t have you dying until you tell me---”

  Cody looked at Tracy. He held her gaze for a second, and then he watched her turn away.

  “Bashar’s the least of my worries,” Cody said. “And the explosives are none of yours.”

  Zafar turned and looked at Tracy. “Aren’t the explosives something I should be worrying about?”

  “I’m sorry, Cody,” Tracy said, nodding.

  “So, Mr. Marshall, is there anything you might want to tell us?” Zafar asked. “Because all I have to do is tell Bashar that a certain friend of his is hiding something. And though you may think you know Bashar el Sayed, let me tell you that you most certainly don’t.”

  “Cody,
ISA troops are moving out of Knoxville and Bowling Green,” Tracy said. “We have fifty undercover Yazidi operating with those units. With those explosives, we can slow ISA down before it moves on Chattanooga.”

  “Yes,” Zafar added. “We can take out ammo dumps, equipment, and most of the Yazidi have volunteered for suicide missions.”

  “And even now, getting those explosives out of Murfreesboro becomes more difficult with every passing hour,” Tracy said.

  “And if you will simply tell us where you have hidden the explosives, I will see to it that you get out of Murfreesboro safely,” Zafar said.

  Cody reached into his pocket and removed the silver crescent shield Bashar had given him. He held it up and said, “Seems like a lot of people, including myself, want me out of town lately. If I haven’t left yet, what makes you think I want to leave? And I’ve seen your precious Yazidi before. You’ll be lucky if two of them complete their missions. I saw them in action at Nashville. They have plenty to live for, but nothing to die for.”

  “Don’t think you are more important than you are, Mr. Marshall,” Zafar suggested. “Yes, you are important – unfortunately – but I will not hesitate to go to Bashar.”

  “And lucky for Cody that only he knows how to get power to this mosque,” Jose said, watching Cody. “He won’t even tell me what he’s done to the generators.”

  “And lucky for me I always keep my personal recorder turned on,” Cody said. And from his pocket he removed a small, black recorder, a recorder he had been using during the inspections. He hit the off switch and handed it to Jose.

  Tracy took a deep breath and shook her head. Zafar remained artificially calm, rubbing the back of his neck, and then touching his cleanly-shaven chin.

  “Now, if you’re finished with your little shakedown, I’ve got work to do,” Cody said. “I think your two are finished here.”

  That evening, just as the common meal was being set out in the hardware store, Cody hurried along the south end of the square, passing several closed businesses, and crossed the street in front of the Old Ben’s Smoke Shoppe on the Church Street side. A couple of oil laps burned on either side of the carved Indian chief behind the glass window. The lamps meant that Jadhari’s personal office was still open for business.