He dropped the hunk of meat that was all that was left of Major Sayf Al-Khalili. With the slight sense of regret that he always felt when shifting back, he reverted to his human form. Stepping over the body, he moved to the blood-splattered wall, reaching out and writing “Halabja” in the blood. Subtle, this wasn’t.
He turned around to leave before noticing his dishdasha. One good thing about a dishdasha was that he could shift while wearing it. There was enough give in the robes that it wouldn’t rip as his body transformed. He really hadn’t thought it through, though. Even when dirty, his dishdaha had been white. Had been white being the key point. Now, it was white and scarlet, the major’s blood making a mess of it. Even a bored clerk would notice him leaving like that.
Hozan looked out the office window, wishing it was night. Like all of the Tribe, he didn’t like the sunlight when he was in form. But for this mission, he had needed to come in during normal working hours. Well, there was nothing to do about that. He shifted once again, his world turning into shades of black and white. While his eyes lost most of their color perception, his nose gained the intense universe of smells that still amazed him after 80 years.
With one jump, he was out the window and on the run. Most of those that saw him bolted out of his way. One airman tried to tackle him, but Hozan smashed a paw against his head and left him in a heap. There were a couple of cooler heads, though, and three airmen shot at him, one connecting with a round up high in his back. The shot hurt, but it didn’t slow him down as he vaulted the perimeter fence and disappeared out into the desert.
This was only the first act of his revenge. One was down, but there were 15 more pilots to go before he moved up to the ones who gave the orders. The rest wouldn’t be so easy, though. After killing two more of the pilots, security around the remaining Halabja pilots became tighter. The authorities understood the game, but they didn’t understand their enemy.
One captain made it easy for him, slipping his protection for an afternoon liaison with another officer’s wife. Hozan caved in half the man’s head with one swipe while his prey was in the act. The man’s partner, deep in the throes of passion, took a moment to realize that something was wrong, that the man who was still inside of her was dead. She started to scream, and those screams became louder when she saw the apparition standing there.
Hozan had to fight the temptation to push the dead captain aside, to ravage the woman himself. The smell of blood, of sex, impacted his very core. But she wasn’t his enemy, and he struggled to retain his moral compass.
After he left with her alive, still screaming in the bed, he wondered if by ravage, he was considering just killing her or something else. He hoped it was just killing her, but he feared it was more.
One by one, he killed them, until only the last was left, Tareq Ramadhan Azzawi. He would go like the others, then Ali, then Saddam. It was inevitable.
Then the Americans and their coalition invaded. The country was in turmoil. In the north, the Kurds danced in the street. Hozan might have been the only Kurd to despair. He only need a little more time, and he didn’t want the Americans, the British, the Poles, or anyone else taking his prey.
Not knowing what to do, he decided to head for one of the American’s main bases, what they called Camp Fallujah. It had been first been an American Army base after the invasion, and now it was a Marine base. Saddam was out there, and if Hozan kept alert, he would find out where. Once he knew that, he could act.
“Hey, I said chicken, not pork,” a voice broke through his reverie.
He looked up at the Marine standing there, exasperation on the man’s face.
“Sorry sir,” he said, his meek exterior now part of his everyday façade.
He took the pork back and gave the Marine two pieces of chicken. The Marine moved on down the line, but not before muttering “Stupid raghead.”
Hozan wondered how much longer he had to endure being a servant. If he didn’t get wind of any of his three remaining targets, he would have to change tactics. He couldn’t say the thought of leaving here gave him any sense of remorse.
He was about to serve yet another hungry Marine, this one female, when a scent tickled his nose. His head jerked up. It was faint, but it was distinct. It was one of the Tribe. He looked around, trying to find the source. If he was in form, he could zero in, but he couldn’t really shift in the DFAC. And it was so faint, barely discernable.
More Marines continued to line up for their meal. He served one after the other, looking closely at each one. The scent became a little stronger as one group of Marines came up, but as it was overlapped by the smell of grilled pork chops and fried chicken, his poor human nose just couldn’t pinpoint it. When the Marines left, though, the scent faded. It had to be one of that group.
“Can you take over for me for a moment? I have to use the hammam,” he told the server next to him, not waiting for an answer.
He walked from in back of the line and out to where the Marines were sitting, where he grabbed one of the rolling trash bins for camouflage. Kneeling down in back of the group, he acted like he was cleaning up a spill, but his senses were focused on the group.
A large black Marine, tray in hand, came up behind of one of the others.
Hozan, like most of the Tribe, could pick up languages somewhat easily, and he had a decent grasp of English. He edged closer to listen in.
“We good, Kaas?” the large Marine asked. “You know I was just yanking your chain, bro, all in fun.”
He was talking to one of the other Marines, a smaller man who ignored him.
“Hey, Kaas, Jordan’s talking to you. Answer him,” another Marine spoke up, a corporal.
“We good?” the first Marine asked again.
There was a flash of something in the smaller man, something that Hozan recognized. For a moment, Hozan felt the impending violence, and he got ready to intervene. Suddenly, though, the smaller man relaxed and looked up.
“Yeah, we good. No problem,” he said.
There was a palpable sense of relief from the larger man as he took a seat next to the smaller man. “Solid, man. I gotta say, though, that was a serious shot you gave me. I mean, you knocked me on my ass!” he said as the others broke out into laughter.
Hozan pushed the trash bin down the aisle. The scent on the Marine was very faint, and even with his human nose, he should have been able to pick it up better. That could only mean one thing. The Marine was newly turned.
The Compact prohibited turning humans without explicit approval from the Council. They could not afford having solos out there, not understanding what they were, not understanding how to remain undiscovered by the humans. Not everyone in the Tribe gave credence to the Council nor allowed it to dictate to them, but everyone knew the consequences of disregarding one of the five cardinal rules, this one being Number One. Hozan had been out of touch for awhile, but it didn’t seem likely that the Council had approved the turning of a US Marine who was serving in Iraq. Hozan would have to find out if this was approved, and if it wasn’t, then the task of eliminating this Marine would fall onto his shoulders.
Chapter 5
Organized PT[17] was not normally on the schedule while in-country, but Marines were Marines, and the gym was usually in heavy use. This was not Gold’s Gym or 24 Hour Fitness. The plywood SWA was pretty stark, and the several air conditioners struggled mightily to keep the temperature down. But weights were weights, and there were plenty of them. The cardio machines were top-quality LifeFitness. With the Marines, function trumped form.
Aiden had never been much of a work-out king, but being in the Corps, in a culture of fitness, some of it had bled over and gotten into his system. It wasn’t like there was a huge choice of things to do when they were not out in Indian country: the command tried to keep them busy, but there was only so much they could schedule, and when free, they could only play so many video games or read so many books. The gym was a pretty good way to spend free time.
Some of
the Marines could go for hours on the treadmills or bikes, and they resented the 30-minute limit if there were people waiting. They tended to come late at night so they could get more time. Aiden tended to come in during the odd hours, too, not for the machines, but because he was self-conscious about the low amount of weights he could lift. On his first day in the gym, he had watched a Navy chaplain assistant bench press 620 pounds to the roars of approval of several bulky Marines. After observing that, he never even attempted to lift anything. He wandered around, stretching out, trying to look like he was between lifts. He had finally gotten on a stationary bike, and with the setting on three, he pedaled for twenty minutes before giving up and heading for the showers.
Coming to the gym for four months, though, had had an effect on him. He was stronger, more fit. He wasn’t a stud, but he could bike for 30 minutes with the setting on five, and he could bench 135 pounds eight times for four sets. It gave him a small sense of pride to see the improvement. What started out as a way to fight boredom had actually sparked something more in him.
Three evenings after his return from the hospital, he went back to the gym and the almost deserted free weights. An older civilian was there as well, and while Aiden was making a good show of ignoring the man, he was thrilled to see that he was curling five more pounds than him. It felt pretty easy, and Aiden thought he might even bump the weight up another five pounds next time.
Loud voices interrupted his thoughts. Three of the Marines from his squad came in, their boisterous good humor reverberating inside the SWA. Aiden’s heart fell. He had gotten used to lifting in front of Marines from other units, but that was different. He didn’t know them.
“Hey, look whose here,” Rico Petricelli said, glancing at the 20 pound dumbbells. “Kaas, trying to bulk up?”
“You know it,” he replied. “But today’s light reps. Can’t afford to get too big, you know.”
Most real lifters had heavy and light days. Whenever anyone he knew saw him in the gym, his mantra was that it was his “light rep” day. It wasn’t really a lie, he reasoned, and he couldn’t lift heavy, so by the process of elimination, every day was a light day.
“Well, that’s about it for me. You guys have a good one, OK?” he said, getting up. He wasn’t really finished, but he didn’t want to lift in front of the guys.
“Before you go, how about spotting for us on the bench. Me and Rico and Suarez got a bet going on who’s the baddest, and we need an impartial judge. You know Rico, and he’ll try and weasel out some excuse when I kick his ass,” Dontrell said.
“Uh, sure. I can do that.”
Aiden was surprised at the request. As a rule, he was never asked to take part in anything unless it was duty-related. Spotting wouldn’t require him to do much, but it was an important task.
The three Marines did some warm ups before getting down to business. Aiden got in back of the bench, ready to spot. It wasn’t until he was there that he realized he didn’t really know how to do it. He’d seen others spot before, but he hadn’t paid any attention. He tried to look like he knew what to do as all three Marines easily lifted 185 lbs.
They bumped it up another twenty pounds by taking off the 25 lb plates and replacing them with 35 pounders. Rico seemed to struggle for a moment before pushing it up, to the hoots of the other two. That surprised Aiden. Rico was a private, but not a boot. He’d made it up to lance corporal twice before being busted back down, and he was one of the more experienced Marines in the squad. He was also huge—not in height, but around the chest. He was overweight for his height, but he had a waiver due to an acceptable body fat measurement. This guy was all muscle. Both Suarez and Dontrell were big boys, but Rico made them look small.
The 35 pounders came off and 45 pounders came on. All three got it up, but once again, Rico struggled. For a moment, panic struck Aiden as he thought he might have to actually spot him, but Rico got the bar back on the support on his own.
After that, the total weight went up only 10 pounds at a time. Rico faltered at 255, and Aiden had to grab the bar and help Rico get it back in place.
“You pussy!” Suarez shouted with glee. “What happened to your 350 lift? Was that in your dreams?”
“Hey, dude, I had it up. I didn’t ask Kaas to help me out!” Rico protested.
“You lying sack of shit! Kaas, what about it? Pass or fail?” Dontrell asked.
Aiden slowly reached out his arm, his hand in a fist. Like Caesar at the Coliseum, he slowly rotated his fist, then extended his thumb down. He felt a rush of pleasure, being part of this. He wasn’t used to being part of anything.
“Ha, told you, you dumb mother-fucker. Now get out of the way and let a real man show you how it’s done,” Dontrell said, pushing against the still-protesting Rico until he could get on the bench and put up the weight.
In 10 pounds increments, Dontrell and Suarez kept at it. Rico took over the spotting duties as if by mutual consent, but Aiden didn’t mind. He hovered alongside them, getting into the spirit of things. The farm kid from Missouri and the street kid from Miami, two guys who otherwise would never have socialized, were pitted against each other in friendly competition while a Brooklyn boy and a Las Vegas loser cheered them on. The thought of it almost blew Aiden’s mind, and that he was part of this tiny drama was even more surprising.
At 325 lbs, Suarez faltered, Rico helping him get the barbell racked. All Dontrell had to do was get the weight up and he would win the bet. He got on his back, placed his hands on the bar, and started taking deep, loud breaths. With a grunt, he lifted the bar off the pegs, brought it down to his chest, and with a shout, got it up. He held it there for a few seconds before letting it back down on the pegs.
“Take that motherfuckers!” he shouted as he jumped up, fist pounding the air.
Aiden even had the temerity to pound the lance corporal on the back, something he didn’t think he’d ever done before. Suarez started making mock bows to Dontrell, hands outstretched, and saying “I’m not worthy!”
“You gotta keep going,” Rico told Dontrell. “Them’s the rules, you know.”
“OK, OK,” he said as he got down on the bench while the other two loaded up another 10 pounds.
He got his hands placed, started his deep breath, then lifted the bar off the rack. He got it down to his chest, but he faltered on the way back up, a good four inches from completion. Rico had to help him place the bar.
“Still, I beat your asses. Fifty bucks from each of you, thank you very much!”
He got up, hand up for a round of high fives from the three of them.
“What about it, Kaas?” Rico asked, pointing to the barbell. “Think you can get it up?”
“I can get it up anytime some bitch wants it,” Aiden said, hoping to deflect the question with a bit of bravado.
“The weight, asshole,” Rico said, but with a laugh.
Dontrell stopped his celebration for a moment. He looked at Aiden with an indecipherable expression.
“How about it, my man? Think you can lift it?” he asked.
Panic started to infiltrate him. He didn’t want anyone to see just how weak he was, how little he could lift.
“Nah, you got me beat,” he said in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice.
“Come on, give it a try. You’re strong enough to knock me on my ass, so I think you can do it,” Dontrell said.
Dontrell’s voice sounded friendly enough on the surface, but Aiden could detect something more in there, something being held back. Aiden had never been very social, and as such, he wasn’t too good at picking up cues. But he sensed something more in Dontrell’s manner. He realized that the Marine still smarted from being knocked down, and by him in particular. He wanted to prove that he was the Alpha here, that what happened earlier was a fluke. Aiden also realized then that although he had felt like part of something for the last ten minutes, he was still an outsider. But he wanted to belong.
He came to a decision. He’d make a show of giving it a try
, then admit defeat to Dontrell. Better to let someone else lead the pack and be part of it than to remain on the outside.
“Why not? I’ve already done my reps though, got in a good lift, so I’m a little wasted now,” he told them, sitting down on the bench.
“Just one lift, Kaas. You’re not too wasted for that,” Dontrell said.
He lay back on the bench as both Rico and Suarez got into position to spot. They obviously had about as much faith as Aiden himself had about making a good lift. He looked up at the bar, then positioned his hands.
“What, you’re working your triceps?” Suarez asked. “Move your hands further apart.”
Aiden had never had anyone tell him how to do a proper bench press before. He dutifully moved his hands a bit farther apart.
“More, dude,” Suarez said, reaching out to physically place Aiden’s hands.
“Yeah, I know. I was just stretching first,” he said, knowing that no one believed that, but grateful that Suarez was making the effort to help.
He felt the cold, hard steel of the bar in his hands. He thought he could almost sense the heavy presence of the black plates. There was no way in hell he could lift them, but he had to make the appearance of trying.
He pushed up, and surprisingly, the bar lifted off the pegs. Without even considering what would happen if he dropped the 335 lbs, he lowered the bar to his chest, and then smoothly lifted it back up.
He stared at the bar in shock.
Had he just done that? Had he really lifted it, or did he just have some sort of weird, realistic daydream?
The shouts of the Rico and Suarez belied that. Somehow, some way, he had done it. And while not easy, it had really not been that difficult.
He sat up, looking dumbly at his hands as if they held an answer for what he had just done. Hands pounded his back, and in the back of his mind, he realized that that was another first. No one had ever pounded his back before.
“Sumbitch!” shouted Rico. “Who would’ve thunk it! I mean, Kaas, of all people!”
The Werewolf of Marines Trilogy Page 3