All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Her eyes, behind those librarian's glasses, were as clear and honest as before. Her forehead, nose, most of her cheeks, all smooth and rich as before. But her lips and chin and throat belonged to a zombie. Cracked, eaten through, white. A bandage around her neck, but Adem saw that the burns, bright with petroleum jelly, ran down beneath them. This wasn't one of those hit-and-run acid attacks he'd seen in the streets. The sick fuck had taken his time. Tied her hands so she couldn't wipe it away. Targeted her mouth, her vocal cords—that would teach her to say whatever came to mind. From now on, the perpetrator must have assumed, she would have to hide her face behind the hijab, show only her lovely eyes, and not say a word.

  "Who did this?"

  Sufia said, "I told you. Go away. This is what I deserved."

  "You don't mean that." It was hard to look at her. He forced himself. The teeth like those on a skull, lips reduced to nearly nothing but blisters. This was his fault. He had to look. Strips of skin under her chin tight, like rubber bands nearly stretched to their snapping points. "Let's show the people what they've done to you. They're all outside right now. We…we can find the reporter. I saw one back there. We…we can…show…"

  Sufia had looked away, not even listening to him. Clearing her throat. Coughing. When she finally turned back, she said, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

  The others were watching. The noise from the old nurse had died down. The guards were huddled together, watching. Other women had stopped what they were doing, cautiously peeking over.

  Slink away defeated or do something…bold. Scratch the first. Never again, not after his walk through town. So, that left option two.

  He stepped forward grabbed Sufia's hand and pulled her to her feet. He thought about kissing her, but feared doing so would hurt her even more than she was already. So he stood eye to eye, concentrating on all of her that wasn't scarred. Finally pecked her forehead. Then, "We're leaving."

  Hand in hand, Adem a few steps ahead. It wasn't that she was fighting him, but she wasn't keeping up either. The guards did nothing. The nurses did nothing. Watched them like it was TV.

  Sufia said, "I'm not leaving."

  "Stop it, okay? Stop with the pride already. If you don't want me, fine. If you don't want me to find someone to help you, you're nuts."

  She planted her feet and Adem nearly pulled her to the ground. They were right there, right at the door. Only the stairs between them and the outside world. He didn't let go of her hand.

  "You'll thank me later," he said.

  "I will not! You…you think you're always right, but you are not. I am sick of this. You've ruined me. Until you, I was happy, and look at me." Shouting, phlegmy and painful. Words scratching up her throat, full of K-k-k-k-k-k.

  "I offered you better! They ruined you!"

  "Please, go, before it gets worse. You don't know what they've got planned for you."

  "We're going, you and me, outside and to the nearest foreign camera."

  One more pull. She wasn't budging. Harder. Yanked her a foot closer. Harder still. She stumbled, fell. Crying now. He pulled again, sliding her across the floor, outside the threshold. She caught the railing at the top of the stairs.

  "Come on!"

  "Please, no, please, no, no, Adem, no, please."

  "You're insane! I'm saving you!"

  Sufia held tight, lifted her head back, opened her jaw wide and let out a banshee yell. Ululating. Rasping. Her bandages spotted with blood. And more blood from the blisters around her lips, under her chin, pooling into her lap. She ululated while she cried, like gargling gravel.

  Adem let go. He watched another minute, shouting right back at her in English, "No! God, Sufia, I love you! I love you so bad! Don't do this! Don't! Don't! I love you, I love you, love you, so much, Sufia!"

  She took a tortured breath and kept on with the wailing, finally turning her head to him. Staring him down as she ululated. Holding her blood-soaked palm out towards him, not for him to take, but for him to see. To remember.

  He huffed. Took three stairs down. Turned and watched. She sat in the same position making the same noise. Guards now crowded behind her. The old nurse came to her side, a towel in her hand, wiping Sufia's blood from her hands. She didn't stop wailing. Adem took a few more steps. Turned again. The nurse was trying to silence her, but she brushed away the woman's help, took another ragged breath and kept on with the awful, awful noise.

  Another few steps and Adem could only see Sufia's head. He wiped water from his eyes. The pain was like being stepped on. But he had to let go. He had no choice. It was either that or give his life for her. But something had clicked inside his head. Why give your life for someone who didn't want it. What sort of self-satisfaction was that? What sort of righteousness? He could've died to stay beside her, and all she would've done was kick his body and leave him in her past. What a dumbass thing to do. The anger of love assaulted his brain. The bitch. The dabo dhiibato. The bitch. She couldn't save herself. She didn't want to. All she wanted was someone to blame.

  He kicked the wall on his way downstairs. Jammed his toes. Screamed. Just made him angrier. More afraid. He had let the cell phone in his pocket. He had to get back to the Rover. Limping on aching toes. Or maybe back to the BBC reporter. An exclusive interview, if only he would give him shelter, security, some goddamned aspirin, even.

  He gritted his teeth, curled his bruised toes, and headed outside.

  All the guns were pointed directly at his head. Ten soldiers, maybe more. And in the center of it all, not smiling, stood Jibriil.

  "Welcome back, my nigga."

  TWENTY-NINE

  Twenty minutes, maybe. Without a watch, it felt like longer, even if it felt like no time at all. Bleeker at the center of the tent, like a sweat lodge. One of the guards had said something Bleeker thought meant "I've got to take a shit." So only three guards, bored. Talking to each other as if he wasn't there. The heat, Jesus, the heat. Sweat stinking of whatever spices had been in the food. Gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Chills. Was he getting sick?

  Rocking back and forth. Arms tight around his knees. He could take three guards, right? He had to distract one. Had to get them closer. He'd been trained to stay patient in situations like this, look for opportunity, take it when it presented itself. Not yet. Not yet. And Jibriil hadn't shown up yet. Not yet. Not yet.

  The guard who took the bathroom break came back. Well, maybe it was him. He'd had his face covered by the checkered scarf, wearing vague camouflage fatigues, so it could've been anyone. He had another guard with him, bigger and taller, carrying a bag. The first one said something to two of the others. Again, Bleeker only got a little of it. Something like, "You leave. We're here." And then Jibriil's name popped up. Another couple of words Bleeker knew were names.

  The guards on duty talked it over—"You want to go?" "I'm fine here." "I could use a nap." "Sure, I can go." Two of them lowered their rifles, left the tent. The big new guard opened the bag, pulled out a slab of flatbread. He threw it at Bleeker. Growled something like "Ass" or "Dirt Ass", fuck, Bleeker wasn't even listening anymore. Making up his own translations now. Could've called him "Sir" for all he knew.

  He picked up the bread, ate some of the damp, cardboard-like stuff without thinking. Had already swallowed half before it occurred to him: poison? Or maybe they had pissed all over it and left it out in the sun. Probably not, because the big guy handed another slab to his buddy, who then tore it in two, offered some to the third guard. He stepped over, reached out for it.

  The big guard grabbed his arm, wound it up, while the smaller guard clamped down a palm on the man's mouth, sliced his throat. Arterial blood shot far then pulsed then calmed down. A curtain of it across the guard's chest, down his legs. The other guard held on waiting, waiting, not yet, not yet, until the guard went slack. Dumped him onto the ground.

  The taller guard pushed the scarf off his head, let it hang loose around his neck. Mustafa, breathing hard.
r />   "Holy shit." Bleeker couldn't help but laugh.

  Mustafa, lips curled, knelt by Bleeker and slapped him across the face. Damned hard. He pointed towards the flap. "You let them do that to Warfaa! Why isn't it you out there? What did you say?"

  "I tried. I tried to get him a doctor. They shot him, and we walked. Walked a long way, and then I wanted a doctor, and they said no and dragged him out. What did they do? What?"

  "We followed the blood. But…" Mustafa stopped, took in a long breath through his nose. "It's not fair. He gave up everything to help us, not even his fight."

  "What did they do?"

  Dawit pulled his scarf off. "They cut him like a pig."

  Mustafa wrapped his hand around Bleeker's arm, pulled him to his feet and drug him to the tent flap. Pushed on through—sudden sun. Bleeker squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Open your eyes! Look at him! Look!"

  "I can't see."

  "Then open your eyes!" He felt Mustafa's fingers gripping his chin, pointing his face. "Look!"

  Bleeker squinted, saw shadows. Clearer, clearer, then, the shadows maybe thirty yards away. A tree, a naked black man strung up by his feet, arms touching the ground. His sternum had been opened, guts falling earthward, obscuring his face. Dark blood beneath him already soaking into the ground.

  "Oh god."

  "See it?"

  "Oh god, I see, I see." He squeezed his eyes shut again. Fingers off his chin, a push back through the flap, stumbling onto his side, the wind oofing out of him.

  Mustafa, still raging. "Why isn't it you out there? What did they say? What did you tell them?"

  "Please, he doesn't know," Dawit said.

  "Of course he knows."

  "I told them to get a doctor. I tried, goddamn it, I fucking tried."

  Mustafa shook his head, paced the tent. "What have I done? Shit, shit, shit."

  Bleeker rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Full of water. He smeared it away, blinked until he could see again. "Think about it. He was gone. There wasn't anything they could do. It was an easy choice. Me, a white man? An American? Can you even imagine what they've got planned for me?"

  Dawit stepped over, helped Bleeker to his feet again. "Don't worry about it. We're here."

  "Did you find the girl?"

  "We found you first. We saw them taking you both. We followed."

  "So…" He reached down, took the rifle off the dead guard, shook the blood off. Still plenty all over. Bleeker thought of Malaria, AIDS, Ebola, other nasty African bugs. Fuck it. He made sure the gun was cocked and ready. "You go find her. I'll hunt down Jibriil."

  Mustafa shook his head. "We're not splitting up again."

  "Well, then let's go kill him together and go get the girl and get out of here."

  "It's not a video game."

  "I know that! Fuck, you think…I know, alright?" Bleeker stared at the dead guard. Eyes bulging, mouth open. Then he took Warfaa's scarf off, started wrapping it around his head so that only his eyes were exposed. He looked at his hands. "Should've brought gloves. Why didn't we think of gloves?"

  He grinned. Held up his hands. "Stupid, huh?"

  They couldn't help but laugh, lightly, trying to hide it. Dawit held up his hands, too. A little louder. "Stupid white man!"

  Bleeker let it roll. Full on smiling. "Funny as shit. And this dead guy, the thing with the bread, that was pretty badass."

  Mustafa shrugged. "Told you I was a gangsta."

  They got quiet.

  Mustafa said, "I don't know what to do next. I'm sorry."

  "I don't either."

  They stood around the dead guard, already gathering flies. The smell—the shit in the guard's pants, the hot blood, the spicy sweat—made them cough.

  Mustafa cleared his throat. "Let's go out there and figure it out."

  He turned and walked out of the tent. Bleeker and Dawit followed, just in time to hear a huge cheer go up from soldiers all over the place.

  THIRTY

  Jibriil, laughing, stepped forward and embraced Adem. A giant, back-pounding hug. A truly-happy-to-see-you hug. Adem's arms were paralyzed at his sides. Didn't faze Jibriil at all. He looked rougher, beard a little longer, a stronger odor than when they were last in close quarters. Surrounded by all these men who turned their guns to the ground as soon as Jibriil took Adem into his grasp. Jibriil stepped back, grabbed his friend by the shoulders, big smile.

  "Look at you! Excellent! Glad you're back. Now I can forgive you. We can start over again. I'm sorry I was angry last time we spoke. Really."

  Adem realized he couldn't hear Sufia anymore. He wanted to go back inside, see if she was okay, but what would that help? Maybe in the days to come, once she calmed down. There he went, thinking about a future here. Even after seeing her like that, he had forgotten the escape clause, his dad and the cop who wanted to kill Jibriil. Almost as if that had been a dream. He woke up when he saw Sufia's face.

  "Sufia," he said. "Did you…why?"

  Jibriil shook his head sadly. "She was going to sell you out. She had no plans of going away with you. I don't care how loyal she was to our cause. She wanted to do you harm, and that, son, I couldn't let happen. I didn't realize…I should've kept you close to me all along."

  "Who did it? Who sat there and poured acid on her like that?"

  Jibriil averted his eyes. Looked at the men behind him, the building behind Adem. The sky. "Someone had to. Someone who would take it seriously."

  "What are you saying?"

  Jibriil wrapped an arm around Adem's shoulders, guided him towards the line of men with guns. "You'll never guess where these guys are from. You know, once they promoted me, I put my own crew together. All these soldiers, they're from the Cities."

  The soldiers nodded or lifted their guns one-armed into the sky, shot off rounds. Smiled.

  Jibriil: "I put out the call. They told me some are dead, some already on their way home, some lost out there, no idea where they went. The rest, my own private squad. How's that? Tell your dad about that, me with my own gang."

  He couldn't know, could he? Yes, all those checkpoints, all those soldiers calling ahead, but he couldn't have figured it out, right? It was too crazy.

  "Yeah, I know," Jibriil said. "Garaad told me about what happened. Right before he died. He was hit, several times, when they were taking you away. He made it through the night, that was it. Blood in his lungs."

  He let go of Adem, put his hands behind his back like some Kung-fu master, all the movies they'd watch on DVD as kids. He walked in front of his line of soldiers. "It wasn't hard to put it together. I used to look up to Mustafa, you know. He was always dissing me, but I always came back. I kept trying to impress him. Then he went and showed what a pussy he really was, like, telling the Killahs to keep away from me, and working that shit job. Like he was better than all that because he was earning a paycheck all the sudden. Like he got a discount at Target, yeah. All because of you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Ignored him, kept on. "If I had to guess, I'd say the white man's some cop. I killed that girl cop, so I'm sure he's going to try and arrest me, some shit like that."

  "That's crazy. Why would they…you're all paranoid now."

  Jibriil marched back to his friend, teeth hard on his bottom lip, and grabbed Adem behind the neck, vice-grip. Adem hunched his shoulders.

  "Don't make me do something. Boy, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt right now. And that bitch in there…" He stabbed a finger at the hospital. "She couldn't wait to sell you out. Wanted to go back in your place, do your job. Right, like they're gonna listen to some educated bitch, white men or pirates. All they'd want to do is fuck her."

  Adem, muscles on the edge of spasming: "You're crazy."

  "I did it for you. Sat by her bedside, arms and legs and head strapped down, and I listened to her scream. You think that was fun? Think I got off on that? Shit, man, it broke my heart. But I was thinking about you the whole time. Then I
hear you're trying to bring me down?"

  Adem went to his knees, trying to escape the grip, but Jibriil held on tight. Still talking. "Calling in Big Bad Bahdoon to deal with me? What, you want to wear this uniform? You want what I got?"

  He finally let go, and Adem fell back onto his ass. Most of the Minneapolis soldiers—"the disappeared", they were called back home—couldn't even watch. Adem's muscles hitched back and forth, kept his shoulders up.

  Jibriil, back to pacing a la kung-fu master, said, "I mean, if you're back because you're with me, really with me, then we're cool. That's alright with me. But first we're going to drive over to camp, have a feast for you, and wait for your Daddy to come for you so we can take his fucking head off."

  He spun on his heels. Weird all over his face. "And you're the one who's going to be holding the knife."

  *

  Back into Jibriil's truck, the Minneapolis soldiers in the back, Jibriil, Adem, and a driver in the cab. A long hot drive back to camp. Jibriil jabbered the whole way, Adem still hearing Sufia's screeching in the back of his mind, not letting him concentrate. But he picked up that it was about battles—the Ethiopians again, the African Union, some UN bluehats who wandered too far from base. About how people were starting to give them more respect. "They talk about us in the States now. They actually know who we are! That's something, I'm telling you."

  Ragtag army grows up, becomes an international terrorist organization. Just like the big dogs in Afghanistan, how they started out. One country at a time. One strike at a time. That's how Sharia was going to win in the end. The Christians, the Infidels, The Democracies, all of them, would grow too tired to fight anymore. Adem closed his eyes. Even if it took decades, centuries, there would always be someone to take the place of the fallen. More and more from America, even. If only to be on the side of the winners. Adem tried to imagine it. America? Under Sharia law? The whole reason there hadn't been uprisings in the States was because of all this freedom and tolerance the Muslim warriors seemed determined to extinguish. American Muslims had it made, right? All the conveniences of the modern world, the protection of secular law, while still free to dress up in the hijab or grow their beards or even not to touch the pork if they worked at Wal Mart. In America, Islamic women didn't have to fear acid attacks or public stonings because they happened to be in a car with a men who weren't their husbands, not to mention adultery.