Piroz The ISIS Slayer

by Sadia Barrameda

  The explosion could be heard for miles, and black smoke billowed up from the burning aircraft as it began to sink. The two in the water struggled to keep afloat and hold on to one another, coughing against the thick smoke and ducking under the water periodically to get relief from the heat of the fire.

  “Let’s swim away from the wreckage,” said Mark. “We’ll be safer and we’ll inflate the raft once we’re sure no debris will float by and snag it.”

  They cut through the water together smoothly, stroke for stroke, until they were at a safer distance; eventually, parts of the plane began to bob by. “My legs are getting weak,” Ren said. “I can’t tread water like this forever.”

  Mark watched the oddly-shaped pieces and parts floating by, seeing if any of them would pose danger to the raft once they inflated it. “We’ll take our chances,” he said. “Watch out, it self inflates.” He pulled a cord and they both watched the raft puff to life; Mark heaved himself over the edge and then pulled Ren up after him.

  They curled up together in the small vessel, Ren resting her head on Mark’s chest. “We did it!” she said. “We beat ISIL—or at least their latest plan. I never thought, when I was working alone, I’d ever achieve something like this.”

  “I never thought, when I was living my life alone, that I’d meet someone like you,” Mark answered, holding her close.

  “Just think,” said Ren, his words making her smile, “that bomb is sinking deeper and deeper into the sea—it will never threaten America, or anywhere else.”

  It appeared that Ren and Mark were not the only ones who were hard to get rid of, however. “What’s that?” said Ren suddenly, pointing out over the ocean to where a dark head bobbed.

  “It looks like—Askari,” Mark answered. “He must have been able to escape out of the emergency exit when the plane hit the water, before the body of the plane broke up fully.”

  Askari noticed them at the same time, and began swimming slowly toward them. He was coughing and groaning, struggling to make his way through the water.

  “Please, have mercy,” he begged when he was a few feet from the raft. “Do not let me drown out here—I am wounded. Please, let me in the raft.”

  “You are a terrorist, and a man without remorse,” said Mark. “You are the purest evil I’ve ever met. Why should we help you?”

  “Because you are not evil,” said Askari. “And you want to see me receive justice.”

  “Drowning is your justice,” Ren spat at him.

  “You have a knife, right?” Mark asked Ren under his breath.

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Always—it’s in my boot. Are you really going to save this bastard?”

  “He’s right—it will heal the world to see him receive civilized justice,” said Mark. Then, to Askari, “Swim over and I’ll pull you up. But if you try anything funny—anything at all—we will kill you and throw you into the sea.”

  Mark leaned over, wrapping his hand around Askari’s arm to pull him into the raft. As he did so, Askari pushed backward, causing Mark to tumble back into the water with him. The two struggled against each other, Askari trying to hold Mark under just as Mark tried to free himself from the man’s grip.

  “So stupid,” Askari grunted. “You Americans and your moral code—what matters is winning, and glory! I will take you with me, even if I can’t take that little warrior bitch too.”

  Ren crouched at the edge of the raft and tried to make eye contact with Mark—when she finally did, for a brief moment, she gestured for him to maneuver Askari up against the raft.

  “You are the fool,” Mark said back, breathing hard as he and Askari hit, scratched, and kicked. “You are the one who has twisted a peaceful religion into a weapon of hate and destruction!” With that, he was able to push Askari fully under the water—as the man popped back up, sputtering, Mark thrust him back into the raft.

  Ren locked her arm around Askari’s chest and stabbed his carotid artery with one quick jab—then she thrust it in deeper before ripping it out. She shoved him violently away, watching him continue to choke and then, finally die. That was it. There was no questioning or wondering. His body floated there, as dead as could be, and then slowly began to disappear under the waves.

  “Join your bomb, you devil!” Ren shouted as she reached out to help Mark back into the raft. He was bleeding from a split lip and a cut above his eye, but was otherwise unhurt.

  The two were too exhausted to move. They sat back and watched night begin to fall. It was a peaceful, yet cold night in the middle of the ocean. The thrill of being alive had turned to fear, as they wondered how they would now get to shore.

  Ren was the first one to break the stillness. “Do you think by taking out Askari we’ve crippled ISIL enough for the troops to make headway against them?”

  “We’ve saved perhaps millions of lives,” Mark answered. “And kept the world from being infected by what could have been the next deadly plague—yet another leader will rise to replace Askari, I am sure. But that doesn’t mean what we did wasn’t worthwhile—we’ve done more than I ever thought possible.”

  They sat for a few more minutes. Mark hadn’t needed to voice it—Ren’s questions had been largely rhetorical. She knew, but she didn’t want to know. She just wanted the long, hard fight against ISIL and their radicalism to be over. Her body and spirit were too tired to fathom fighting any more problems at the moment.

  “Right now I’m more worried about how the hell we’re getting home,” Mark said. “We won’t last long out here without water.”

  “Let’s not think about it,” said Ren. “Let’s just hold one another and be at peace—at least for now.”

  The cold was too cold and the dark was even darker as a cloud covered the moon; even the stars looked hazy and indistinct. The only thing they could do was wait—wait and hope.

  Chapter 10

  Dawn finally arrived, a sliver of orange appearing on the horizon and then eventually flooding the sky. Mark looked over at Ren, wondering if she was really asleep. Her body was bruised and battered, and all he wanted to do was comfort her. He reached over to smooth her hair back from her forehead and then pressed his hand more firmly to her skin—she was burning with fever, and he could hear her panting gently. She looked very pale.

  “Hang on,” he whispered. “Dr. Lock has never let me down—he will find us. You know, he’s really more of a detective than a doctor.”

  Ren opened her eyes and saw his worry. “I’m stronger than you think,” she said. “I may be small, but I’m not weak.”

  “No,” Mark agreed, “but your knives can’t fight a fever.” He turned her hands over and saw that the wounds from where she had so brutally pounded the glass when trapped at the ISIL base were infected—the cuts were stark and white, while the flesh around them was streaking with purple: the source of the infection.

  The day went by slowly, and the raft drifted aimlessly. They tried not to think about their lack of food, water, or shelter. They at least had the time to catch up on all the details they didn’t know about each other, when Ren wasn’t falling in and out of a restless sleep.

  “How long does it take for them to get someone here?” she finally sighed. “I think I’m hallucinating. I see a ship in the distance.” She laid her head back down, but Mark rose to his knees. Her hallucination was sounding its horn! It was a U.S. Navy vessel, deployed the morning before to patrol for ISIL activities in the water.

  Their excitement was overwhelming. It seemed to take hours for the ship to finally draw close enough to send out a dingy to bring them on board. Mark and Ren were surprised by the greeting of the crew—the men who came to greet them were attired in yellow hazard suits with helmets, gloves, boots, and even goggles.

  “So this is why it took them so long to approach us. They think we are infected!” Mark exclaimed.

  He waved his arms and started to yell. “I’m a colonel in the U.S. Army! We have not been exposed to the virus—but my companion is very ill!
”

  “Nevertheless, we have set up a quarantine area for you on board,” one of the soldiers responded back. “A room for each of you, and you’ll have every comfort you need—we’ve heard tales of your bravery, and it will be an honor to have you on board our ship.”

  Once Mark’s feet hit the deck on board, his worries instantly melted away—not only had they protected the innocent, but they had survived—now they could be together! He went eagerly with the medics as they led him away, sure he would be back with Ren soon.

  Ren, though, could not shake her worry, especially when the medic examined her hands. “These are deeply infected wounds,” he said with concern. “Were you even trying to treat them properly?”

  “I was a little busy fighting a psychopath,” Ren snapped.

  “If we had found you later,” the medic answered, annoyed with her rudeness, “we would have had to amputate both hands. Consider yourself lucky.”

  At that, Ren almost cried—she couldn’t imagine losing her hands, or her ability to defend herself and others with her knives. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to now,” she said. “But is a quarantine really necessary?”

  “For now, we do not know what happened to the bomb when the plane hit the water—perhaps it detonated. You could have been floating in Ebola-infested waters,” the medic explained.

  Ren pressed back, unhappy with the thought of being separated from Mark. “But could anyone even catch Ebola from water? And we didn’t see the bomb detonate—the explosion would have been much larger, and probably killed us both!”

  “We didn’t think anyone could catch Ebola just from the air, either,” answered the medic. “And we can’t take your word for it that the bomb didn’t detonate—the stakes are too great. You are a difficult one, aren’t you?”

  Ren’s heart sank. What if she was positive for the disease? Perhaps her fever was actually the start of Ebola’s deadly course, and she had infected Mark as well. She sat in silence as a nurse drew blood.

  “The man that I came here with, Colonel Mark Thomas, how is he?” she finally asked the medic’s assistant.

  “Oh, he’s fine. He’s asking for you as well.”

  Ren hoped her blush wasn’t too obvious. “How long do we have to stay in isolation?” she asked.

  “Standard procedures call for a twenty-one-day quarantine for anyone who has been exposed to any strain of the Ebola virus. I am sorry for the long stay, but at least you’re safe now. And you’re a hero around the world—you’ll have global thanks once you are released!”

  “It’s not something I’ve ever sought,” Ren smiled. “But I am happy to accept it.”

  Ren decided that she needed sleep. If she could just close her eyes the aches and pains would at least temporarily go away. Knowing Mark was safe helped her relax. Her eyelids slowly closed, not to open again until the morning. Exhaustion had finally taken over.

  Mark did not handle the news well as the medic told him that he was to stay confined to a room for twenty-one days.

  “That’s horse shit! I am perfectly fine. You can see that I do not have fever or any other symptoms, and Ebola isn’t infectious if the person doesn’t exhibit symptoms! Let me see Ren! I've already had Ebola and survived. I think I know just what Ebola feels like!” he shouted.

  “Your friend is not doing well—she has dangerously infected wounds and a fever, but is receiving treatment. She must stay in quarantine—we will keep you updated on her status.”

  “To go through all this and then lose her—please save her. You do not have to check up on me. Just be with her. Tell her I was asking for her and I am fine.” Mark instantly felt himself deflate, no longer ready to fight, and he had to hold back his tears. One slipped out and rolled down his cheek. He just wanted to see Ren.

  “The fact is that you have been floating in Ebola-infested waters. We will monitor you both and declare you in the safe zone if after twenty-one days you show no sign of sickness. I’m sorry we can’t make any exceptions—but as a military man yourself, I’m sure you understand. The protection of all is paramount to the desires of one.”

  Three weeks without anything to do would normally be a vacation, but with Ren not feeling well it was more like torture. The doctor had left the room, unwilling to listen to any more of Mark’s pleas.

  In her own room, Ren was succumbing to her fever—whenever she opened her eyes the room would whirl and wobble around her, and eventually she began to drift in and out of consciousness. Every few hours what little food remained in her stomach forced itself up with violence, and she retched weakly into the garbage can next to her bed. The chills were causing her body to convulse. No medication seemed to control her fever. She began to feel, for the first time in her life, that she was truly close to death.

  Mark was deep in slumber when an obnoxious alarm started sounding, sending him jumping out of his bed. He turned to the window as he saw a medical crew rush in the direction of Ren’s room. He watched through the small glass opening at the top of the door to see what was happening. He strained to make sense of the muffled words that floated back to him. He could hear people talking about medications and IVs. His desperation grew strong. He began pounding on the door, demanded that he be let out—in his panic, he couldn’t think of the dangers he might pose to anyone else if he had really been exposed to Ebola. He could only think of Ren, and the pain of a life without her.

  Ren was having a seizure. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, her body jerking while her fever raged. She was flushed and sweating, crying out softly. Medication stopped the seizure, but could not abate the fire raging through her body—she was mired in a world of dreams, unable to fully wake up. She saw herself in battle, her father dying, Mark kissing her—all jumbled up and confusing, out of order in her memory. After nearly twenty-seven hours the room quieted. Her fever was finally working its way down, leaving her pale and impossibly weak.

  Mark had had enough. He sat the whole day waiting for his next check-up. When a medical crewmember opened the door he took his opportunity. He used his brute force to knock the assistant down and shove him into the room, locking him in. Mark ran down the hallway to find Ren, passing door after door and peering into each window, only to see nothing. Finally he found her. He put his hand on the door, hoping she would look over to see him.

  She didn’t look well, attached by wires to beeping machines. Her hands were still bandaged. A respirator helped her breathe. Her eyes were shut tight. Those curls he loved so much were now matted and tangled.

  “Ren, what have I done?” Mark whispered. “You can do it. Wake up and open your eyes. It will be all right.” These were the last words he spoke before two crewmembers grabbed his arms and forcibly led him back to his room, scolding and lecturing him all the way.

  “But what’s wrong with her?” Mark said, inconsolable. “Is it—”

  “She has a dangerous fever,” one of the medics answered, moved to sympathy by Mark’s obvious anguish. “But it’s not Ebola, at least not yet.”

  By the fourteenth day, Mark still had no symptoms. Ren, on the other hand, showed little sign of gaining strength even though her fever had abated. Mark tried to force his way out of his room several more times, until the medics were forced to examine him with guards standing by to prevent his escape.

  “You may be a hero,” one scolded him, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow rules that were put in place for everyone’s good!”

  Mark explained to them over and over that if they would just listen and put him in a room where he could see Ren, he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. The crew finally gave in and moved him to a unit across from hers. At least it had big glass doors so he could see across and watch her face as she slept.

  And he did that. Every single day he looked out of his room and watched Ren. He counted the times she would stir, and the times the alarm went off when she would try to pull out her airway tubing. The number of seizures was decreasing, and he could see when they re-w
rapped her hands that the cuts were starting to heal.

  On the nineteenth day, Ren finally opened her eyes in a fully lucid state—she struggled to sit up, asking for Mark. Mark pressed his nose against the glass and yelled as he watched her try to leave her bed. “No, Ren!” he shouted. “You’re not well—stay there!”

  The attendants came running and caught her before she tumbled to the ground. There was no question her spunk and fire had already returned—when her eyes finally met his for the first time in over two weeks, both she and Mark burst into enormous smiles.

  On the twenty-first day, Mark was the first to receive his clean bill of health.

  “I’ve been in contact with your superiors, and you have two choices: you can return to your current base, or return to a base in America. It’s your choice.”

  Ren received positive news that day as well—her fever had never developed into Ebola. Still, she would have to undergo physical therapy to regain her hand strength and the full use of her arm with the torn ligament.

  The best part for both of them, though, was that Mark was finally allowed to visit her. She beamed with joy as he hurried to her bedside. He wrapped her in his arms, burying his face in her curls.