Piroz
The ISIS Slayer
By
Sadia Barrameda
Copyright 2015
Dedication
To everyone who fights or has fought bravely and tirelessly for freedom and peace—especially Piroz, a remarkable young woman whose heroism should inspire us all.
Prelude
His eyes followed the tiny, red, six-legged insect as it marched relentlessly forward. It was one in a line of thousands, each following the path in front of it, creating a flowing river of color between the giant fronds of a fern. That little speck of a creature seemed so harmless, and yet all together in a swarm the driver ants had the capacity to leave one’s skin a mass of painful, searing welts. Soon the red speck the man watched was lost under a drooping oval leaf.
The man’s chin slowly lifted upward, his eyes now seeking the sky through an opening in the rainforest’s canopy. Clouds flowed by in wispy patterns, stark white against brilliant blue. A self-satisfied smile crept across the man’s bronzed face; his eyelids drifted shut. A storm was coming. No, not here; not deep in the African forest. It was too early in the morning for that. This would be a rainstorm of a different sort. Millions of Ebola pathogens were about to rain down over the man’s enemies. A deep chuckle worked its way up from his gut.
"We are ready, Commander Askari, in the name of Allah."
Without even opening his eyes Askari knew his right-hand man, Usman, was approaching. It was the telltale limping footsteps that gave the man away. Askari nodded. He did not speak, yet his stiff posture sent the message that he was ready for action. Though Askari’s hand was aged, spotted and wrinkled by sun exposure and time, it held a strong and sturdy grip on the gun next to him. Usman took the gun casually, as if handling something no more dangerous than a toy.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!!! The quiet buzz of the rainforest, made up of the sounds of countless insects and birds, was abruptly silenced by the gunshots. What had been a peaceful morning erupted into chaos. A burst of shrill calls and shouts came from above—a rally of fanaticism from the men hiding in the branches of the trees. All eyes in the forest now turned in one direction. Usman raised the gun into the air again, and just as quickly as the yells had erupted, so a hush fell again. A lone bird began to cry out, the sound slicing through the thick air.
Askari shouted up with a booming voice, “Today we take the first step in our quest to rid the world of the heathen dogs and their allies. The world must be cleansed of the Americans and their Western sins. We must purge the unworthy. We, Al-Dawla Al-Islamiya, have been called, and Allah has chosen me to lead His followers!” Instead of unleashing another outburst of noise the hovering crowd remained quiet. Like the tiny red driver ants curving around the undergrowth, so the group of men, young and old, climbed down to follow their leader through the trees.
Their quiet footsteps slowed and the line became a mass as the men approached a nearby village, a destination they had been monitoring from afar for weeks. Askari scaled a low branch to watch the last of his troop crowd into the small clearing in the jungle’s thick growth. He let out a high-pitched whistle that could have come from any number of the birds that flitted through the trees, but it drew every man’s eyes up to his face. Upon Askari’s signal, the men reached up in unison to pull their masks down. The crowd seemed fearless, yet one young man among them felt as if his heart would beat out of his chest. He tried to control his shaking arms, puffing up his chest to feel like he fit in. But as his small eyes darted back and forth, he could hardly swallow around the lump in his throat. The sign directly in front of the group warned of the imminent danger zone they were about to enter: “EBOLA.” The letters were carved into a piece of wood with a large, warning “X” underneath, surrounded by red paint. Each step the young man took forward was involuntary—his brain forcibly demanding that his feet move one in front of the other. He must trust Allah, for the sake of the Islamic State. At least, that is what he had been raised to believe, and what his uncle had told him—and he had faith that his uncle was a wise and devout man.
The troops spread out in a synchronized movement, circling around several lopsided tents pitched in an open area. One, a Red Cross tent, stood out—it was larger and square, more stable than the others. It held supplies, equipment, and something else Askari desired desperately—samples of the Ebola virus, collected by scientists for study toward a cure.
The young man knew what the tents meant, and it frightened him. They were set up for the sick and the dying. Why waste resources on the dying? he thought angrily to himself. It ends in more infected, and then yet more who need help. The disease was spreading its hands, creeping like fog from village to village to take thousands of lives. He forced his eyes back to Askari—but at the back of his mind he was praying ceaselessly to Allah for protection from the disease.
Askari’s gaze was strong and steadfast, his thoughts sure. Here he could get the weapon he needed to take his revenge on all those deemed unworthy—those poisoning the earth with their lack of morals and outrageous principles. His head bobbed in a firm nod. Again, the quiet of the moment erupted into chaos. The troops’ feet quickened as the men tore into the circle of tents. Gunfire produced screams from the patients and those who cared for them, Red Cross staff from around the world. The harsh sounds of shrieks and shots filled the air and echoed back into the jungle. The men released a barrage of bullets around them. Some bodies fell lifeless; others fell stiff in an attempt to avoid the bullets flying above them. It was a hopeless battle for the sick and empty-handed—they had no hope against the weapon-clad, no matter how clumsy some of Askari’s army may have been with their passed-down guns. The villagers’ few attempts to fight back with heavy metal pans were immediately ended by a quick round of bullets. Slowly, the panicked screaming faded and was replaced by a few weak pleas; then silence fell once again.
The young man’s knees were trembling. He again looked off into the distance of the village huts—strangely, no one there had run out to aid their fallen brothers and sisters. Perhaps the village was deserted now, as so many were—the boy hoped so, at least. He didn’t relish the thought of seeing any more death that day.
Then a movement in the bushes caught his eye. It was another boy, close to the young man’s age if not the same. They froze upon noticing the other, each knowing what they needed to do: one needed to run, the other needed to kill. Yet they stood there, as if staring into a mirror—both lanky youths, with a shock of messy hair and dark eyes; only their skin color differed. The first young man fired one shot into the air, unable to bring himself to shoot someone who could have been his friend in another life, and it was enough to send the village boy running.
The young man left behind swallowed hard, then turned to seek his leader. What he saw surrounding him—blood, demolished faces, bodies riddled with bullet holes—was almost too much for his gag reflex to handle. He jumped over some of the bodies and dodged others as he ran to meet the troops huddled in the center circle of tents. Askari had warned them all not to touch any of the dead bodies, and to avoid even the blood splashed upon the ground; as a result, the gore made them all skittish and uneasy.
“Go through one last sweep,” Usman ordered the men. “Make sure everyone is dead—but as Askari said, do not touch the bodies.” He gave a nod commanding everyone to move and headed to the jungle to report to Askari. He was pleased to find, as he looked himself over, that not even one drop of blood had fallen upon him. He was glad—the fact that he had taken such care in the massacre would make it easier to shoot those who had not, if they later showed signs of infection.
Colonel Mark Thomas remained covered under his bed, wishing he had the strength to single-handedly take down the fa
natics outside—the gunshots and screams had left little doubt in his mind as to what was happening. Rumors of terrorist attacks had spread throughout the villages like fire. As if the looming threat of Ebola wasn’t enough to evoke fear, the Al-Dawla Al-Islamiya fi al-Iraq wa al-Sham had arrived—and they were perhaps even more ruthless than the disease itself. And they are a disease too—on humanity, Mark thought angrily. The world media called them ISIL, or ISIS. Mark was sure that on any other day he would have dashed out to defend the helpless, but the disease had weakened his body and his will; he was lucky if he could make it to the bathroom on his own.
There had been no gunfire now for several moments, but Mark could still hear the thuds and scuffles of movement outside. The screams echoed in his memory. Mark knew the awful sounds of such cries would haunt him until his last breath—though he feared that might come sooner rather than later, in this godforsaken jungle.
He had no clear view from under his bed; as soon as he had heard the gunshots, he had haphazardly knocked things around the room, to give the appearance of an abandoned and raided home. After flipping the mattress over the frame to form a sagging wall, he had crawled underneath. His only prayer was that the attackers wouldn’t disturb his hiding spot, assuming nothing of value lay underneath.
The thin mattress and stick frame were light, but his body had been fighting hard for several days—the effort to flip it over had almost overwhelmed him. His lungs gasped for every breath, but he didn’t dare move until absolute silence blanketed the village. Mark was shaking not only with sickness but with emotion—rage and exhaustion battled for supremacy, but underneath it all was the determination that if he survived, he would willingly give his life to stop the ISIL extremists.
“Askari, your samples. There are many, just as we hoped.” Usman waved his hand over a wooden trunk in which the samples rested.
Askari responded with a smile. “And the research?”
“Khadim is bringing it. He is collecting all the papers; some were scattered in the fight, but for the most part they appear to be well-organized. The scientists here were scrupulous about documentation.”
“Praise be to Allah. Put the papers in the trunk as well. Guard them carefully. You have been a good soldier, Usman—you will not have to wait until the afterlife for your reward. Once we have prevailed over the infidels, you will be second in power only to me.”
Usman bowed his head, a gesture of respect and gratefulness. “Thank you, Commander.”
The ISIL militants had come in quickly and left in the same manner, though the scene they left behind them couldn’t have been more drastically altered. Shambles of tents, shreds of blankets, dead bodies, and belongings—all were soaked in a lake of blood. Askari adjusted his camouflage jacket, straightened his hat, and led his crew back into the thick of the jungle. It was time to return to the headquarters for the next step in the plan.
"This is Colonel Mark Thomas of the United States Air Force. If anyone out there is listening to this radio message, Grunlin has just been hit. Everyone at the contamination zone is now dead. We were attacked by ISIL. I think they have gone now, though I cannot be sure."
His finger released the speaker button on the small, antiquated radio. He was still catching his breath from the trauma, trying to command his lungs to breathe deeply in and out. It was one of those moments when each second seemed to be a minute; when a man prays even if he’s not the praying type. Mark closed his eyes. His mouth moved over and over, forming the words “please, please, please,” even though he actually made no sound. Speaking aloud was too much effort, and Mark might need his strength to send the message again. He looked down at the radio as it crackled.
"This is Major Raines out of Camp Leterton. We read you, Colonel. ISIL has targeted nearby villages as well, but seems primarily to be seeking loot. Your recovery is now top priority. Keep your head down. A team is coming."
The radio cut out and left nothing but static. Mark managed a smile, then slumped over, his frail body now unconscious. He had been able to warn someone. If that was the last act that he did on Earth, at least it was something.
Outside in the jungle, the young man who had been so afraid to storm the tents shook his uncle’s shoulder and pointed to the sky. “Look!” he called out. No one was surprised by his cry. Everyone could hear the whirring blades of the helicopter above, and the militants began to grow uneasy at the thought of the hovering aircraft. “The Americans. Shouldn’t we move faster?”
The uncle backhanded his nephew for questioning, leaving the boy with a bloody nose. “They can’t see us. The vegetation is too thick. You should trust those who lead you. I told you—you are privileged to have been included on this mission. Do you see any other boy your age here? Shut your mouth until we get to the planes.”
At almost the same moment Askari whistled and motioned for everyone to get down. The front of the line had reached a sparse patch in the canopy of the rainforest. With the speed of hunted animals, they all immediately fell to the ground, covering themselves with the surrounding vegetation until the chop of the helicopter moved farther away. Once again, Askari sent a long, high-pitched whistle through his lips. The militants followed the signal and moved into a group in front of him.
“Our plane isn’t far. The Americans won’t have time to catch up after they’ve been through the village. Move quickly. We’ll be home soon to put an end to the infidels. Let the Americans run through the jungle after us. The tigers need a good meal!” A few chuckles came from the crowd. The militants moved on, following his wave, but this time with a quicker pace.
Mark’s eyelids seemed glued down. It took him several moments before he came to full consciousness and realized what the chopping sound was. He couldn’t help but smile groggily. Besides serving his country, piloting helicopters was his passion. The aircraft’s loud hum was like music to his ears. A tingling sensation ran down from his shoulder to his fingertips and he rotated his wrists in disbelief. Life. He was alive. How had he possibly survived with such odds against him? It had to be the old family luck passed down to him from his great-grandfather—but he wouldn’t think about family now. Instead, he would focus on getting to safety.
Through his half-opened eyes Mark saw a pair of dust-covered boots enter the tent—he was still lying vertically on the ground. A feeble attempt to push himself up sent a pair of soldiers—one of them Major Raines—hurrying over. As Mark’s vision stabilized he almost laughed aloud. If I weren’t in my right mind, he thought, I would think I was hallucinating and that these brightly colored suits in front of me are aliens from who-knows-where. Maybe if he had at least worn a mask when helping the villagers flee their homes and the disease that was ravaging them, he wouldn’t be in this situation. Then again, without his assistance, who knows how many of those same villagers would now be dead at the hands of ISIL.
“Sir, can you tell me your name?” said a voice from behind the clear mask. It was Major Raines.
“Colonel Mark Thomas.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“Do you know what day of the week it is?”
“Wednesday. And damn time I get out of here.”
The man laughed softly. "Colonel Thomas, sir, we've been searching for you for days. No one registered you as a patient here. Your disappearance has sent the Army on high alert. What happened, sir?"
"Long story, Major. Maybe when I beat this and we get out of here I'll tell it to you over a beer." Mark grinned and let Major Raines help him up; he had to lean heavily upon his old friend to stay on his feet.
"I look forward to it, sir," Major Raines answered.
The stretcher the soldiers carried barely managed to support Mark’s long legs. As they secured him down the helicopter engine started up again.
"They’re ready for you back at base, sir. You'll be in good hands," the major shouted over the noise.
“Major?” Mark mumbled, his voice inaudible, but his lips readabl
e.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get those bastards,” he said as loudly as he could muster. “You can still catch up to them!” He pointed his arm in the direction he had heard the ISIL militants trample.
Major Raines nodded his head. “Will do, sir!” His gloved hand rested on Mark’s leg in a moment of comfort and friendship.
Communication from there was all hand signals and gestures. A slap on the back sent one soldier into the helicopter with Mark. The major saluted and made the sign of the cross, forehead, chest, and shoulder to shoulder, honoring his friend’s religious beliefs though they would not be his own.
Calm was once again restored, but this was a more eerie calm than before. Those who lay brutally murdered would likely not have survived the deadly virus anyway, but the mangled limbs and pools of blood made from the ugliness of human hands left a dark stench in the air.
The few surviving villagers who had not fled looked toward their dead friends and family with sadness, while the soldiers looked on with rage and determination.
“Let’s quickly scout through the tents,” commanded Major Raines. “There couldn’t have been much there for ISIL to want—maybe we can get a clue of what they were doing here, besides committing cold-blooded murder.”
Piroz The ISIS Slayer Page 1