Remnants of the Day- The Lost Years

by Matthew Gilman

  As they continued to talk Amir told the men how he was a gas station attendant but learn how to shoot while growing up in Afghanistan.

  “Ah we have plenty of shooters. What did she do?” the man asked.

  “Trauma doctor. I worked in the ER at the hospital.” Fatima answered for herself.

  The men gasped at the news.

  “And yet they killed your children? No respect,” the man said. “We are in need of your skills and I believe the prophet has sent us here to find you. We leave tonight. You will come with us.”

  They were on the road, traveling in the darkness of night. After the decision had been made, the men put the fire out and they left. Fatima had no idea how long they traveled or how far. When they reached an intersection with open fields on opposite corners, the team leader whistled and a pair of headlights turned on. Two men appeared as black outlines and started speaking in Arabic. Amir and Fatima were escorted to the bed of an old pickup truck where they were told to “stay down” as they drove away in the night.

  They reached a camp before morning and Fatima looked around to see tents and buildings surrounded by make shift fences.

  “We call it camp Palestine,” the team leader said to Fatima. “In honor or our brothers fighting over seas.”

  Fatima said nothing. She was taken to the triage center with wounded men. Women waited outside to be seen. They were always made the last priority in the medical center regardless of their condition.

  “What is this?” Fatima asked.

  “Your duty now is to take care of this man and the next and the next after that,” the team leader said.

  “What about them?” Fatima pointed to the women outside the tent.

  “What about them. Do your job,” the man said.

  “As the lead doctor of this building I set the rules,” she argued.

  The man struck her across the face. She leaned over with the blow and stood back up as her face stung.

  “You will know your place. Get to work.” The man stormed out of the tent and glared at the women waiting outside.

  Fatima turned around and looked at the man on the bed. Stomach wound, gunshot, bile seeping from the entry point. She had no operating room. There was nothing to sterilize equipment. She was sent on a mission with no tools and no chance of success.

  She found a marker on the table and wrote the letter “T” on his forehead for terminal.

  “You’ll be fine,” she told the man before two soldier carried him outside.

  She rushed some of the women in and treated them for cuts and bruises from assaults they had undergone. Fatima could tell many of them had been raped, but they refused to admit to it in fear they would be killed. Her life was turning into the worst nightmare. The same nightmare she came to escape from. She had only seen half of the women before the sun rose and the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance.

  Fatima’s life was run by the Muslim army. They told her when she could eat, sleep, and she had to ask to use the restroom. She was forced to pray five time a day even though she no longer remembered the prayers. When winter came she was worried about the flu season. It was usually a busy time before the Day. Now with no flu shot she was afraid it would be worse than usual. As the weeks and months went by she never saw any cases come in.

  This became a mystery to her as he waited for the flu to appear. What she noticed was the Muslim habit of hand washing. This could be the one thing that set them apart from the rest of the country. Westerners were stubborn about washing their hands while Muslims learned it as a part of their religion. She never saw the flu appear while she worked in the triage center. There were plenty of gunshots and stabbings. Sexual assaults were abundant throughout. She grew to appreciate the fact her boys were not alive to see this, however it didn’t make their loss any easier.

  In the early spring the army was moving it’s fence and packing up the tents. They were ordered to move out to the west and secure various cities. The news in the camp was the flu season wiped out a large portion of the population. Numbers varied depending on who was talking. Fatima hoped the man responsible for her sons’ murders died a long and miserable death. She hoped, but it bothered her she would never know.

  Running around the tent she worked at keeping the patients stable while a crew worked at tearing down the tent.

  “What are you doing? These men can’t go anywhere,” she said as they disconnected the wooden post and pulled the tarp over the frame. “These men will die if we move them.”

  The man from the recon team appeared in the entrance.

  “What is the problem?” he asked her.

  “These men can’t go anywhere,” she explained.

  “Why not? The triage center goes where the army goes,” he said.

  “These men can’t be moved,” she said.

  “Well if they can’t move and you can’t leave than we have a problem.” He looked at the men. All but one was unconscious. Five of them were spread around the tent. “What shall we do about it?”

  “Leave me behind, I’ll get them healthy for you so they can fight again,” she said.

  “That’s too bad. The army moves out now. If they aren’t able to move they are not the army.” The man pulled out a pistol and shot the nearest man on the table, then he aimed at the next. Fatima screamed as she watched in horror. He shot the second man. Fatima yelled for him to stop punching him in the chest. He swatted her away and shot the next two. The last was the man still awake.

  “You have done us proud brother,” he said before pulling the trigger. “Pack your things. We leave in the hour.”

  Fatima didn’t know what to do. She wanted to run. Why have her take care of these men if they were going to kill them? She pulled herself together, ignored the bodies and threw her few tools in a bag. She wasn’t allowed to carry anything else. She assumed it was to make sure she wouldn’t try to run away with supplies.

  The army marched all day. She watched as people dropped on the side of the road from exhaustion. Women and children were not allowed to ride in the few vehicles they had running. When she asked a soldier why he stated, “We have to keep the men ready for combat.”

  If she stopped to help somebody she was pulled away. They had taken her to be their doctor and yet she was unable to do her job. Looking at the other women she knew that her place as doctor had saved her from much of the abuse the others were going through. She tried to be thankful, but it was impossible while these men were in control. There was no place for her that was safe. She hated these men. She hated the Christian army they were going to fight. She simply wanted to be away from all of it. After a week and a few small shootouts the army had arrived outside the city she once called home. She couldn’t believe it. All the work to get away only to be dragged back to the same place she was fleeing from.

  Her tent was partially put up before the men ran off to join the fight that would take place. She finished putting the post in place and securing the ropes. She finished with the help of some of the women who she had gained respect from. Afterwards she treated them while waiting for the first men to be brought in.

  The women had blisters and other injuries from their long days of marching. She told them all to stay off their feet and keep their feet dry. She knew it was pointless as all of the chores around camp were left to them. She thought about her own feet the day after leaving the hospital and how they were never allowed to fully heal.

  The loud crackle of gunfire sounded like fireworks in the distance. Had it been any other time before the Day she would have guessed it was the fourth of July. Her job never ended, but one thing was different, men were not being brought to the triage center. She waited most of the afternoon expecting for her other patients to be forced out. It never happened.

  Amir appeared in the entrance just before nightfall.

  “We have to go. Gather your things,” he said.

  The eyes of everyone was upon him.

  “They won’t let me leave,” she said n
ot understanding him.

  “They don’t matter. You have to go, now!” Amir insisted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They are all dead. We lost. We have to go, the Christians are coming,” he said rushing everyone out of the tent. “They are going down the highway shooting all of the bodies to make sure they are dead. What do you think they are going to do to us?”

  The patients left the tent after hearing the news and Fatima threw a bag of tools together.

  “Leave that I know where they keep the food,” Amir said.

  They ran across the street and toward a building guarded by a young man. Fatima recognized him as one of the men who had been abusing the women. She was never told for sure, but the look he gave the women in the tent told her everything.

  “You are not allowed in here,” the man said.

  Fatima saw the pistol sticking out of Amir’s pants. While Amir started to argue with the man Fatima pulled the pistol out and shot the man in the leg. It was the one bullet he had left in the gun.

  “Why did you do that?” he said.

  “Get inside,” she pushed open the door and they found a small stockpile of food. Much of it was MREs that had been stolen from National Guard bases they raided during their campaign. None of the boxes contained pork entrees. Amir tossed Fatima a bag and they filled them in under a minute. Fatima tossed the empty gun at the guard hitting him in the head as they ran out.

  “That last bullet was for me you know,” Amir said as they ran.

  “You should be thinking about staying alive,” she said as she felt the old blisters on her feet coming back to life.

  They ran toward the city. They needed familiar ground. A day later exhausted, they felt like they were safe, for the moment.

  Chapter 8

  The weeks of summer in Detroit were some of the most violent the city had seen since the 1960s. The only upside to the violence was the population didn’t exist that it once had. Instead of two million people trying to kill each other it was closer to seven hundred thousand. Many of the professionals went over the bridge to Windsor keeping passports and Canadian addresses while working in the states. Most of the nurses lived in Windsor, some of the cops had second families or mistresses they crossed to bridge to be with. During that summer the Canadian government allowed anyone with a Canadian address or citizenship to come over not violating the rules set by the Chinese ban of interference.

  The city was left to fed for itself and the Vandals were happy to do so. The territories in the city were up for grabs. The gangs, while most of their cars were older remodels with the newest technology their fuel quickly ran out when they didn’t secure the depots.

  With the police disbanded and their vehicles not running, the Vandals rode in and secured the city’s under ground fuel tanks. They were quick to pump it into their tanker trucks and under armed guard drove it back to their base of operations. Stabilizer was added to make sure the gasoline didn’t go bad. To save on fuel the old deuce and a half diesel trucks were being run on vegetable oil and other alternatives. The mechanics in the garage were busy filtering, processing, and storing their reserves.

  “Why aren’t we on the road yet?” Isaac asked Dustin.

  “All good things come to those who wait.” Dustin said as he looked out into the yard. “Imagine what this city will look like a year from now. No food, Canada will close the bridge soon, no cops, the hospitals are closed. A year from now the city will be ours without ever leaving the block. After that we hit the road and take what’s left.”

  “What will be left?” Isaac was curious for the insight of a man that had put a lot of thought into this.

  “That will be interesting to find out,” he said looking into the yard.

  Isaac wondered if Dustin was picturing streets of gold, lonely women waiting to be saved, sitting on a throne made out of the guns of his enemies. What does a man want when the world is at his finger tips?

  “What do you want?” Isaac asked.

  “What does any man want? What do you want?” Dustin asked.

  “What do I want?” Isaac repeated.

  “Yes, you, what the hell do you want? If you could have anything, do anything, what would it be?”

  “I would, I would want to do what ever the hell I wanted. When I wanted. Where ever I wanted. I would drink the most expensive wine. Take any woman I wanted. Take what I wanted.”

  “No, no, you’re thinking too small. Big picture man, look at the big picture. What is better than that?”

  Isaac shook his head.

  “I don’t know what you are getting at,” he admitted.

  “When you are able to secure your right to do that and nobody can stop you. That’s when you have made it. When you become king of the land.”

  “Authority from god?” Isaac asked.

  “Fuck God, I’ll be a God. I’ll create my own God. Legends will be made about me. My offspring will be roaming the earth thousands of years after I’m gone.” His chest puffed up thinking of his coming glory.

  “Like Genghis khan?” Isaac asked.

  “What a guy, he would ride into town after battle. The women would be lined up and he would go down the line picking everyone he like. The army would stay put until he had impregnated every single one of them. And then, only then, they would ride off to the next down. Khan’s bastards are still roaming the earth today. You believe that?”

  “Yes I do,” Isaac was irritated that his boss didn’t acknowledge he was the one that brought it up.

  “That’s how I want to be remembered,” Dustin said watching the men running around to their various jobs.

  “I’m hearing word that the Muslims are building an army,” Isaac changed the subject.

  “Where? Not around here.”

  “Dearborn, they are recruiting everybody. Groups from Flint and Ann Arbor are meeting up with them. Some of our local black gangs are trying to join.”

  “What the hell do the niggers think they are doing? They hate the fucking Chaldeans as much as everyone else.” Dustin was growing irate.

  “Some black pride, power bullshit about how they were Muslims when they were taken as slaves. Like Mohammed Ali or Malcolm X, everyone is converting to Islam like it’s going to save them at the end of the world.”

  “Well if they want to have some virgins, we can send them there.” Looking out in the yard, Dustin watched as the men filled the old hot water heater with more cooking oil to process it. “Alright get the men together tonight, we will let them know what might be coming. We don’t want them to be caught off guard.”

  Isaac left the office and informed the men about the meeting. War was brewing on the horizon and he felt like he was finally going to see his full potential come to light.

  They kept an eye on the Islamic army, gathering information from every source they came across. Refugees that were wondering, looking for food. Even Chaldeans from the city were talking to the Vandals afraid that this would become an American ISIS.

  While they gathered information the Vandals were also stockpiling food for winter. A warehouse was set aside simply for food storage and everything was looking good. It was kept under armed guard at all times and the one guy that was caught sleeping on the job was branded with a red hot iron on his back for everyone to see. The skin came off his back as the brand was removed. A wire hanger was bend and manipulated for the job. Shaped into the word “fag” it was pressed into the flesh at the shoulder blades. Once the wound healed it was unreadable. Just a reminder to the others not to screw around on the job.

  The army that lay on it’s boarders didn’t attack. The boss said it was out of fear, but Isaac suspected something else. Something worse than the people already starving in the streets.

  More refugees flooded in from the north reporting how the Muslim army had taken over the area. All kinds of mayhem was taking place. Roads were lined with crucified bodies on telephone poles. People captured and refusing to convert to Islam were being beheaded in n
umbers not seen since the Japanese occupation of Nanking. Women were being auctioned off as slaves. Men with megaphones and wind up watches roamed the streets and would call out for prayer during the five times a day it was deemed under their authority. As the Vandals discussed their enemy to the north one thought crossed their minds. “Why are they having all the fun?”

  The Vandals’ numbers grew as word spread about the army in Dearborn. People quickly picked sides once the threat became apparent. Because of this, large areas of Detroit were claimed as Vandal territory, including the acres of fruit tress that had been planted as part of a food forest project. Abandoned houses on the outskirts of the city had been turned into outpost for approaching refugees and look outs for approaching threats.

  The Vandals were already reaping the rewards of their conquering and they hadn’t done anything yet. Many of the local gangs had migrated out on their own with no food or vehicles to carry them. Some approached the Vandals in hopes of joining their crew but were turned back and sometimes shot depending on how big the feud was before the Day.

  Isaac spent his free time plotting his path on the road. He first planned to travel along the bottom of the state to Chicago and secure any supplies that would be there. Plus it would cut off the bottom of the state to outside forces. The entire peninsula would be theirs.

  Before winter the Muslim army marched out of Dearborn and traveled to Lansing. Their intent was to cut the head off of any leadership that may still exist there. Little did they know that most of the political members had traveled out of the state or country in hopes of keeping their fortunes intact.

  The Governor had taken a boat across the river to Winsor bribing the locals with gold in order to be accepted into the country. Senator Rupton on the opposite side of the state took both of his yachts including two crews, wife, and super model daughter in hopes of anchoring on Canadian shores. He had a chest full of gold and silver bullion to start over and continue his endeavors elsewhere. Both ships traveled north on Lake Michigan, under the Mackinaw Bridge, into Lake Superior where they docked on Canadian shores. All appeared to go well until the authorities arrived.