by S. S. Segran
As though he felt that he was being watched, his head turned toward Carmel. The glazed look melted into alarm, and his eyes darted between her and his fellow legionaries.
Ezra roared. “Carmel! Behind you!”
She twisted around to see a sword plunge into her brother’s chest as he dove in front of her. A scream was pulled from her heart through her throat. “Ezra!”
He looked at her, blood dribbling from between his lips. With a voice softened from pain but still lovingly firm, he said, “Bury the box, Carmel.” She watched as the sword was pulled out of him. He fell to the side. With the last bit of strength he had left, he crawled away from her, drawing the Roman’s attention to him. The soldier snarled in triumph as he drove the sword through Ezra once more. This time, her brother didn’t move.
In a fit of uncontrollable emotion, she swept the dirt over the box, barely able to see through the torrent that rained down her face. With the hole covered, she pressed her back against the cave wall. The young legionary had watched her the whole time. She looked at him pleadingly, hoping against hope that the Romans wouldn’t unearth what was buried. He didn’t make a move or utter a word to the other soldiers. Carmel pulled her knees to her chest, sitting in shock as she witnessed the gruesome end to the last member of the group.
The Romans turned to her, but all she noticed was her beloved brother. He lay in a pool of blood, his honey-colored hair tainted crimson, his lifeless eyes staring into the void.
The biggest of the legionaries advanced toward her and grabbed her locks, pulling her head back. He looked suspicious as he examined her features. She knew that she and her brother, with their blond curls and turquoise eyes, looked nothing like the Jews they had lived and grown up with.
The brute snorted. He swung his sword back, preparing to bury it in her body, but a shout stopped him. He turned around to square off with the Roman soldier who’d hung back from the murdering. Their low-pitched exchange was rapid; the young man sounded adamant and the other was clearly arguing.
Finally, the bigger man sheathed his weapon and pulled Carmel up. He shoved her toward the third legionary, causing her to stumble. She would have fallen if the young man hadn’t caught her. She looked up at him. He couldn’t have been much older than Ezra and he wore a hesitant expression, but there was no mistaking the kindness in his eyes. Even his hands were gentle as he gripped her arms.
The brute marched ahead with the other soldier and they climbed up the rocky face back to the fortress. The legionary holding onto Carmel motioned for her to follow them. She took a step forward, then turned to find him staring into the cave directly at the spot where the box was buried. Her mouth went dry. He looked back at her and motioned again for her to climb. Helpless, she obeyed. When she reached the top, the two gore-covered soldiers pulled her up. They spoke quickly to each other, then the brute pulled out his sword.
The hilt slammed into the side of her head. Light exploded behind her eyes and agony shot through her skull like a fist through a wall. Another violent blow sent her to the ground. As consciousness slipped away from her, she heard the young Roman roaring behind her, a sound rivalled only by the scream she’d loosened at her brother’s death. Then blackness devoured her whole.
South Kivu Region, Democratic Republic of Congo
Present Day
With a silent flap of its wings, the white-chested crow swooped down and perched on the branch of a tree. Its glossy black head shone in the afternoon sun as it glared at its surroundings. Before it lay a small village with dusty, red dirt streets leading away from the main road that cut through the settlement in an east-west direction. Huts, wooden vendor stalls and mud-brick buildings with old, whitewashed tin roofs mapped the south side of the road while scattered maize fields flanked the north.
At an isolated corner of the French-speaking settlement sat a large hut. An ebony-skinned woman with a single black braid running down between her shoulder blades strode toward it. She was in her mid-thirties and dressed in a tan shirt and blue jeans, something that had been frowned upon when she first arrived in the village some weeks ago. Women in the region wore cotton skirts with their tops, while men were the only ones who wore pants. Though she had quickly earned the villagers’ respect and friendship, they still regarded her wardrobe with raised eyebrows.
She travelled around her country of birth, mainly from village to village, helping those in need as was her duty. Though she would use her real name, she kept her actual identity to herself. The villagers were friendly and welcoming, not often drilling her for information, which made it easier for her to blend in.
She stepped somberly into the large hut through its doorless entrance. Her steel-gray eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the shelter as she walked into a scene of heartbreak that met her each time she entered. Men, women and children, all diseased, filled twelve beds, but this was like no sickness she’d ever seen. In the span of two weeks, the afflicted had seemed to age decades. A quarter of the village had been infected during the disease’s initial sweep, including the chief and the elders who appointed the next leader.
The chief’s son took up the position in his father’s stead and reached out to health authorities for help. It took them a week to respond and, when they did, all they could afford to send was an inexperienced and ill-prepared nurse who could do no more than draw blood samples to be tested at the nearest hospital. Ongoing skirmishes in the region, exacerbated by the widespread crop destruction, had led to a complete breakdown in civil order. The weakened government, not in position to respond to any emergencies in places far from the capital, fought to stay in power.
“Dominique,” someone to her right called feebly. The woman made her way to the third bed and knelt beside a man, lighting a lamp, and gazed into his sunken eyes. There was hardly a trace of fat or muscle on him. His skin sagged and his bones protruded sharply. A tattoo of three triangles behind his ear had faded over the years. He was the village’s forty-five-year-old medicine man but could have easily been mistaken for a sickly ninety-year-old.
How could this have happened? she wondered, sorrow tightening her chest.
The man reached out weakly. She took his hand, forcing a reassuring smile. “How are you doing?”
“Terrible,” he croaked. “I feel so faint. Every part of me aches… Feels like my body has completely turned on me.”
She wiped away a tear that escaped from the corner of his eye. “You’ll get better… We’ll figure out something soon.”
“Oh, please, my dear. I’m going to end up like the others. Dead in no time.”
“Don’t speak like that,” she murmured.
His grip on her hand suddenly tightened. “You have been valiant in the face of this curse, Dominique. We are deeply in your debt for everything you’ve done for us. But it seems that this disease is out of your control. If we could be cured by your will alone, we all would be working the fields, dancing at the fires and loving our families, but… this is not to be.” He slumped back onto the cot. “You must not carry all these deaths on your shoulders, nor in here.” He feebly pointed to her heart, a gesture that sapped his strength, yet he continued, wheezing. “To know that you do would cause a great hurt to our people. We carry you in our hearts when we leave, and we would have you carry us in yours, free of guilt. Do you understand?”
She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand and nodded, her lower lip trembling. These people are remarkable, she thought. Why is this happening to them?
The man suddenly bolted upright. He grabbed Dominique by the front of her shirt and pulled her close, whispering incoherently into her ear. “Adiha kilazi! Ahida kilazi!”
Then he collapsed back into his bed, completely spent.
Startled, Dominique needed a few moments to recover from the sick man’s strange outburst. She shook her head, sighing, and held his hand until he fell asleep before getting up to check on the rest of the patients. Three other women with colorful headscarves and skirts rushed abou
t, making the ill as comfortable as they could, getting them water and helping them eat.
A child, seven years old, rasped Dominique’s name. He looked just as aged and haggard as the sickened adults. Though unsettled, she gave the boy a smile as she wiped his forehead with a cool cloth. She’d seen so many perish at the hands of the disease since she arrived but it never got easier to deal with.
The world has gotten darker. So much loss. So much pain.
Only two months ago, she’d received word that her cousin in America had died, and now an abominable disease ravaged her new home. Her lip trembled again, this time at the thought of her cousin, her best friend. Gwen had been on an important mission, tracking a carful of men who’d kidnapped two extraordinary teenagers. Unfortunately, the abductors had discovered they were being followed…
“Madame Dominique!”
Snapping back to reality, she dropped the cloth into a bucket of water and rushed outside just as two children and a youth were about to barrel in. They doubled over, winded, their eyes wide.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Soldiers are coming, madame,” the teenager puffed, pointing behind him at the hilltop. “They’re still some ways away, but they’re heading here.”
She narrowed her eyes, then asked them to call for the chief. They returned with a tall, long-limbed man a couple of minutes later and were dismissed.
With a knowing look, the newly appointed head of the village nodded at Dominique and the pair took off running up the slope of the hill. When they crested the knoll, they squinted against the sun, discerning dark shapes rumbling along the main paved road.
“I see two jeeps, a truck, and a tank,” the chief muttered. “It must be a raiding party. Coming for our food, no doubt.”
Dominique’s heart sank. The global outbreak of crop destructions around the world that began several months prior had devastated the region’s major farms, destroying the main crops of maize, rice and cassava. Renegade military units had started going after smaller, rural farms that hadn’t yet been hit. It seemed like the small village was their next target.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“The smartest thing would be to flee, but…” By the look he wore, she knew the gears in his mind were spinning. They’d worked closely for a while now, each fond of the other. Since he’d taken up his father’s position, he would often approach her for advice.
She cocked her head. “Sébastien? What is it?”
“We need to warn the others first.” The chief turned and sped downhill, his voice booming across the village as he called every able-bodied man into his presence. Once they had quickly gathered and the situation was explained to them, most seemed to have their minds set on abandoning the village.
“We can’t fight them,” one argued. “They have guns, and all we have are machetes.”
“We have two guns,” another corrected.
“That’s not going to be much help! We don’t have enough ammunition either.”
“Listen,” Sébastien said, looking each man squarely in the eye. “If you want to go, go. There is no shame. But if there are some of you who are willing to stay and fight, then I will join you.”
“We don’t have anything to fight for,” someone from the back of the crowd called out. “They’ll take all our food. And those who are sick—we can’t do anything for them. They’re dying. We know that. They’re dying just like the others and we can’t do anything except lie to them and tell them that they’ll be alright.”
“I’m staying,” Dominique announced. She gave the chief a quick, tight smile and he returned it.
Mutters and whispers stirred through the gathering. The two of them waited, on edge, until a man at the very front raised his chin. “Alright. We’ll stay.”
The chief nodded sharply. “Good. I need two of you to help evacuate the women and children. The rest of you, arm yourselves. I have a plan.”
The convoy rolled steadily through the village in single file; one jeep led the tank and truck while the other followed behind. Dominique lay on her stomach behind a row of houses twenty yards south of the main road; on the opposite side of it was a large maize field. She stole a quick look around the corner as the vehicles approached. Sébastien and his eighteen-year-old nephew, both equipped with rifles, had taken up position a couple of houses away, waiting for her signal.
The soldiers, clothed in green camouflage and green caps, rode in their doorless, open-roofed jeeps, armed with AK-47s. The first jeep passed Dominique, followed by the tank and the truck. A gunner stood in the commander hatch of the tank, both hands on the machine gun on top of the turret. Dominique knew that the military hardly, if ever, used the old T-54 tanks. They’d been left behind by the Russians decades ago and were useful mainly for intimidation.
Still, I wouldn’t want to find out if they’ve got a shell or two left to use, she thought.
The truck was big, with canvas covering the box-like rear. It didn’t appear to be weighed down, which most likely meant it was empty and ready to have the village’s food supply tossed in.
As soon as the jeep at the end of the four-vehicle convoy passed her, she turned and nodded at the two men. They slithered on their stomachs to get a good view of the first jeep, then fired two shots each.
They heard alarmed shouts as the convoy came to a sudden stop. Bracing herself, Dominique took another quick peek. The soldiers had jumped from their vehicles. Some dropped to the ground and aimed their weapons, searching for the source of the gunshots, while most took cover on the other side of the convoy. The tank’s turret turned threateningly, the muzzle of its main gun pointing toward the row of mud-brick houses. The soldier behind the machine gun surveyed the buildings, watchful.
Movement on the other side of the road caught Dominique’s attention. The tassels of the maize stalks quivered. The crops were pushed aside as a group of thirty-five villagers, machetes in hand, emerged stealthily from the field behind the soldiers. She held her breath, willing them onward, hoping the soldiers would keep their focus on the houses.
Her eyes flicked to the gunner on top of the turret. Something must have alerted him because he glanced over his shoulder. As soon as he saw the approaching villagers, he bellowed and swung the machine gun around, the turret following.
Dominique clenched her teeth. Halfway there!
The villagers broke into a sprint, roaring. The soldiers leapt to their feet, letting loose a spray of bullets. A few villagers collapsed in bloody heaps but most got close enough to swing their machetes. One soldier stepped away from the commotion and shouted frantically into a radio.
Sébastien’s nephew stepped from behind the house, took aim, and fired. The soldier dropped and his radio fell with a clatter.
Two other soldiers spun toward the houses when they heard the gunshot and opened fire. Dominque watched in horror as the young man cried out and crumpled to the ground. She heard a bellow and saw Sébastien running out into the open in a haze of rage. He fired a dozen rounds at the assailants and they hit the ground, dead.
The chief bolted toward his fallen nephew. From where she stood, Dominique could see that the youngster was alive and had likely been hit in the leg. Relief flooded through her; they could deal with an injured limb.
The sound of the tank’s turret turning reached her ears. With growing dread, she saw the soldier behind the machine gun bringing his weapon to bear on the two men on the ground. She would have screamed at Sébastien but they’d never get away in time. She had one option left.
Desperate times. She took a second to ready herself, then careened out into danger. Dominique was a blur, moving with inhuman speed. In the blink of an eye she was by the two men, their shirt collars in each hand. Using her momentum, she lifted and carried them behind a hut just as a storm of gunfire erupted behind them.
Dominique turned to the soldier on top of the tank as he swung the gun toward her, her gray eyes afire with fury. A barrage of shells discharged from hi
s weapon. She faced them head-on, a lioness about to charge. Her powerful vision honed in on each individual projectile simultaneously, slowing them in her mind. With unearthly quickness, she dodged them all, somersaulting forward, bending backward, and twisting her body with agile grace.
The gunner stared at her in sheer incredulity as she tore towards him. Dominique launched herself at the tank sailing through the forty-foot distance that separated them. She landed astride the soldier and swung a foot at his face. His head was thrown back and, before he could recover, she lifted him up by the shirtfront. He screamed curses at her, his legs flailing in midair.
She bared her teeth at him. “Petit diable enfoiré.”
With that, she threw him over the side of the tank into the chaos of the soldiers and the villagers. She winced at the swinging machetes before dropping through the command hatch, startling the two soldiers inside. She grabbed one behind the head and jabbed the other sharply in the face with her elbow, knocking him out. She put her other hand on the remaining soldier and threw her head toward his. His nose crunched and he went limp. Once she’d ensured the men were properly unconscious, she pulled herself back outside and stood on top of the tank to survey the battleground.
The villagers stood over the raiders, bodies heaving as they panted. Scarlet stained the road. Several combatants lay motionless, but most of the soldiers had surrendered and were kneeling on the ground, hands behind their heads, refusing to look at the machete-wielding men.
Dominique drew an arm over her forehead, wiping the sweat away. The ambush had worked in spite of the turn of events. She jumped down from the turret and made her way to Sébastien, who was attending to his injured nephew. The villager’s shirt was tied tightly around his wound. The chief patted his leg. “We’ll get you taken care of, don’t worry. You’ll be okay.”