Pet for Christmas

by Rachelle Ayala

  It’s not her fault she’s jealous. She’s only five and with all the uncertainty going around, she’s actually growing up. She’s going to be a good big sister.

  “That’s right, now Papa has to be home for Christmas because my baby brother’s coming!” She jumps off the bed. “What’s his name? I want to draw a picture for him.”

  “No name, yet, little Bree. I have to see him and look him in the eye before I can give him a name, and Papa does, too.”

  “I can’t wait for Christmas when Papa comes home.” Bree claps her hand. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

  “I hope so, too.” I squeeze her tight.

  ~ Tyler ~

  The night was cold. Bone chilling cold. Tyler was thankful that Arman’s father had given him a wool shirt before the dinner party to have him look presentable. He’d also scrounged up old Soviet Army jackets and had given them to his men. Too bad for Jailer he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire without his jacket.

  Tyler zipped up the ragged jacket and tucked a wad of stuffing back in place. No matter what, he couldn’t survive on this mountain for long. The moon was a little more than a sliver, and soon, it would go dark. He needed to regroup and navigate by the stars.

  He was so high up in the Hindu Kush mountain range that clouds settled in a thick layer below him. The moonlit mist had a texture like wool, so inviting that it could be a glimpse of heaven. For a moment, even the winds stopped, and silence filled the space high above the ridgeline.

  The moon seemed to wink at Tyler, a crescent half hidden by clouds. He and Kelly used to stand up on her balcony and bathe in the moonbeam, holding each other without conversation. It was enough to be together, two souls knit as one, cocooned in the blanket of love.

  Tyler closed his eyes and hugged himself, letting the moonlight soak into his face. He could feel Kelly and know she was praying for him. He’d been lax with his prayers for her and the baby, and he’d make up for it now.

  Here, alone at the top of the world, an unearthly peace descended over Tyler, and for the first time since the explosion, nay, since he’d gone to war, Tyler rested in the arms of his Saviour and put his trust in God. He was alone, yet he wasn’t alone, because his Captain was the only one who mattered. Unlike Joshua at the walls of Jericho, Tyler didn’t have to ask the Lord if he was for him or against him.

  ~ Tyler ~

  Dawn brought the light of day and the need to keep moving. Tyler was exposed out on a sheer expanse of rock. He wasn’t looking forward to Pakistan, but at the same time, going back to Afghanistan, especially with the bounty on his head for the supposed explosion he’d caused, would be suicide.

  Even though he barely understood their language, he’d picked up enough words and expressions to know Arman’s father was having more and more difficulty protecting him. He might be a chieftain in these hills, but the Taliban were better organized and they had been alternately threatening Arman’s father and upping their monetary offer.

  It was God’s care that allowed him to get away. Tyler took a small sip of water and headed east toward the rising sun. Hopefully there would be border guards and officials at the crossing where he could send a message to the American Embassy.

  He hadn’t gone far when loud explosions sounded from behind him. Tyler backtracked and climbed off the trail, then peeked over the ridge where the cloudbank had been the night before. The village was under attack!

  The Taliban had launched an RPG, rocket propelled grenade. When the smoke cleared, screams of panic erupted, and the rattle of bullets popped through the air, echoing up to his position.

  Tyler’s heart twisted in his ribcage. The Taliban were attacking the village because they had sheltered him, the American soldier. That had to be the only reason, because out here in the badlands, the villagers and insurgents lived in a symbiotic relationship, trading “protection” for food and silence.

  On the other hand, Arman’s father was at fault for lodging them there the night before. He should have stayed away from the village. He should have let Tyler go, but his greed had brought this upon himself and the village.

  Then there was the boy, Arman. His one time friend. Lately, Arman had turned hostile. Gone were the innocence and the easy smile, only to be replaced with a surly resentment. Twelve or thirteen was a difficult age for any boy. Tyler well remembered the anger he’d unleashed on his mother because his father had come home in a flag covered coffin. He was one angry kid before he found an outlet in football.

  Another volley of gunfire peppered the valley below. Four men, Arman’s father, Stork, Jailer, and Can-Opener couldn’t hold out for long against the Taliban who’d surrounded the village. They had protected him, and he, Tyler Manning, was honor bound to go back for them—especially for Arman, a boy at the crossroads of his life—one who’d told Tyler he’d wanted to be a doctor like his mother, but was now headed down the path of violence.

  Tyler kept his eyes and ears out for the Taliban position. He marked where the gunfire erupted sporadically as he inched closer. He had the element of surprise since the Taliban believed them all to be trapped in the rock-hewn village.

  He was also above them and hidden by the boulders and rock escarpments. Quickly, Tyler traversed an open span, before tucking himself behind an outcrop. Another explosion lit the sky, flashing orange and scattering sharp slivers of rock and debris. When the dust cleared, Tyler gaped in horror. The house he’d stayed in with the talkative man, Stork, and Jailer was in flames.

  Had they gotten out in time? It didn’t matter because whoever was in the hills sprayed the area with a barrage of machine gun fire.

  A snap of a twig and a wisp of dust from a rockslide alerted him. Panicked footsteps chugged toward him. Men breathing hard and not trying for stealth. Tyler positioned the muzzle of his AK-47 between a crevice and peeked at the trail directly below him.

  Can-Opener and Arman dragged a limping, bleeding man dressed in black. They turned toward him, and he had them in his sights. Had they captured the Taliban leader? Should he finish him off?

  The man in black fell on his knees.

  “Baba, baba,” Arman yelled. “Get up.”

  It was Arman’s father, disguised as a Taliban leader. Can-Opener grasped the man by the armpits and raised him, but he was bleeding from a wound in his stomach.

  Together, Arman and Can-Opener dragged the wounded man. A sick wave of nausea swam over Tyler. The Taliban had to be watching this and were enjoying it. They were playing cat and mouse, waiting and watching.

  Stork and Jailer were beyond his help, but he could still cover Arman and his father’s retreat.

  He backed up and climbed another hundred feet, staying in the shelter of the rocks above the path. They were so close he could hear the older man’s labored breathing and the boy’s sobs.

  Once again, the older man stumbled. He turned his face up toward the gorgeous blue sky, and his eyes locked onto Tyler. A splatter of gunfire banged the rocks behind them. Can-Opener returned fire while Arman dragged his father down into a crevice.

  “Go, go, I’ll cover you,” Tyler yelled. He slammed a new magazine into the rifle and shot toward the rocks where the gunfire had erupted.

  Can-Opener’s eyes widened with shock, but he recovered quickly and roused Arman and his father, pushing them to move into a more sheltered location.

  Unfortunately, the Taliban had located Tyler, and shots were coming from two directions, flanking him. Tyler turned one way, fired, then turned the other way, firing as he scrambled off the ledge to join Arman’s group.

  “Move, move, we gotta go.” He grabbed Arman, but the boy refused to move.

  “Baba’s dead. Baba’s dead,” he cried hysterically.

  “We have to leave him.” Tyler yanked the boy roughly and pushed him down a rock slide toward a patch of trees.

  This was bad, because the Taliban would be above them should they follow the trail Arman and his father had taken. With the amount of blood the man
had lost, it wouldn’t take a bloodhound to find them.

  “We have to keep moving.” Tyler ducked behind a tree and crawled along the edge of a sheer wall of rock. The drop itself could kill them if they weren’t careful. Yet at the same time, the Taliban had surrounded them, and going up would put them in a more exposed position.

  Can-Opener seemed to understand because he pointed up and drew a finger across his neck, then pointed down and nodded.

  A hailstorm of shots ricocheted over the rocks where they’d left Arman’s father. There was no more time. They’d go feet first. This was one giant waterslide without any water.

  Can-Opener went first, but Arman was shaking and blubbering. He clung to Tyler and cried, “No, no, no.”

  “Come on, buddy, we have to go. You have to be brave. Your father’s watching you from up there. Come on, sit between my legs.”

  Can-Opener fell in a slide of dust, bouncing off a slope and landed in a mass of dry bramble. He raised his hand and waved at them to hurry, then ran for cover.

  There was no time to waste. The Taliban shouted in victory at the discovery of Arman’s father’s body. Tyler pushed off and slid. His buttocks and thighs bounced off jutting rocks and he tried to weave his way down the rock slide to avoid the boulders.

  Gunfire erupted both in front and in back of them, and shards of rocks and dust zapped them on all sides. Can-Opener, at least, was covering them, returning fire to keep the Taliban occupied.

  Tyler and Arman were going too fast. They missed the brambles and tumbled over the edge, rolling along with an avalanche of loose rubble.

  Pain exploded over every bone and joint when Tyler hit the ground flat on his face. His nose stung, and his hip burned with fire. His leg was twisted in a bad angle, and his face felt like hamburger.

  Arman lay like a limp doll twenty feet away, the backpack still attached him. Tyler stood and wobbled toward him, his legs on fire. Had he been hit? Blood pooled down his side, and his pants were sticky and wet, but he had to get to Arman.

  He turned him over and checked for a pulse. Feeble. Still alive. The kid was surprisingly unscathed, but he’d hit his head. He’d lost his head scarf, and a welt reddened the side of his temple.

  Tyler checked for Can-Opener, who should be above them, but it was too silent. He peered at the brambles, and his heart sunk. A stream of blood dripped down the roots of the bushes, soaking into the dirt, and coagulating on the rocks. Can-Opener was probably dead.

  Arman opened his eyes and screamed. Tyler grabbed him in a headlock and covered his mouth, but it was too late. Trails of white smoke arched over them as a barrage of RPGs slammed into the earth. Dirt, rocks, and smoke blinded them.

  Tyler covered Arman with his body, expecting at any moment to be hit. Dear Father God, I’m putting my trust in you and commit my soul to you, Lord Jesus. The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

  A grenade landed nearby, throwing up a tsunami of rocks. It lifted Tyler and Arman, blasting them into a rolling wave of dust and debris. Tyler tried to hold onto Arman, but the barrage of rocks and dirt choked and pummeled him until he lost his grip.

  He tumbled and tumbled for what seemed like an eternity. His ears had stopped ringing, and he was enveloped in a world of silence, of dry powder and sharp jagged rocks, the stench of blood mixed with gunpowder, the taste of death, and yet, he was in the hands of God—safe under his wings.

  Light faded and all was quiet, at peace.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ~ Kelly ~

  “Since you can’t be home for Christmas, we’ll bring Christmas to you,” my sister, Ella, chirps as she and my mother drag in a tiny three-foot tall Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

  “Did you bring our special ornaments?” I try to keep up the Christmas spirit, despite the gnawing edge of anxiety hanging over me. My fingernails are chewed to the quick and I’m obsessively checking my phone and email, jumping halfway out of the bed every time I get a message or a call.

  “Of course we did.” My mom guides Mr. Wong through the door. He’s carrying a plastic ornament storage box with separators.

  “Hello, Cam.” I remember to call his first name. He’s obviously making my mother happy because she’s bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. They probably have commemoration ornaments tucked away as gifts to each other. The tree trimming party is one of our family’s traditions where we remember the significance of each ornament and talk about our times together as a family.

  Last year, after Tyler and I got together, we went to a keepsake store and had personalized ornaments made. I dig through the partitions and find mine. It says “Loved by an Army Ranger,” and has a picture of me being kissed by Tyler.

  “Mama, where’s mine from Tyler?” Bree bounces on her heels. “This year we have to get one for my baby brother, too.”

  “We sure do.” I ruffle her head.

  “And don’t forget the puppy. He should get a welcome home one.”

  “He sure should.” I’m glad she’s still holding out hope for a dog, but not throwing tantrums. I just wonder how long this niceness will last when she discovers no puppy under the Christmas tree. Since my baby is going to be premature, I can’t expend any extra energy or time on introducing a puppy to the family. I’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes.

  “I wish I could play with him now.” Bree sighs wistfully. “I can dress him up like a reindeer, and he can pull my baby brother on a sled.”

  I smile to myself at her vivid imagination. “Are you going to be in the Christmas play this year?”

  “Yes!” She claps her hands. “I got promoted from being a sheep.”

  “You did? Are you going to be Mary?”

  “No, not that promoted.” She scowls. “I’m the nice cow who gave her manger to Baby Jesus. I get to chew my cud and say, ‘Yes, you may use my manger.’”

  “That’s awfully generous of you.” I trail off, remembering last year’s fiasco when Tyler flew into a PTSD rage and accused the boy who played King Herod of being a suicide bomber. Oh, dear God. Keep your hand of protection on him and bring him home.

  “Here, popcorn.” My sister Ella opens a large plastic bag. “Remember last year when we left you and Tyler to string the garlands and you hardly got anything done because you parked yourselves under the mistletoe?”

  I roll my eyes, not in the mood for banter. I remember only too well the blooming of new love, the butterflies and the heart flutters and the sweetness of that first kiss.

  “Ella, don’t tease your sister,” my mother reminds. She unrolls a string of lights while Cam fills the tree holder with water.

  There’s a hurried knocking on the door frame. When I see who it is, my heart lurches. It’s Dylan and Jim. They stand stiffly, their eyes darting between my family members and the Christmas tree.

  “What’s happened?” My voice creeps from my throat.

  Jim steps forward without his usual arrogance. His face is tilted down, and his mouth is pressed tightly. “May we speak to you privately?”

  “Bree, Ella,” my mother says. “Let’s go to the gift shop. I seem to have forgotten the star.”

  They file out of my room. My sister looks back and mouths, “It’ll be okay.”

  But her eyes are far too wide and her posture too stiff for anything to be okay. We all know what happens when government officials want to speak in private.

  Dylan sits at the side of my bed. “It’ll be okay, Kelly. Everything will be okay.”

  An irksome buzz tingles behind my ears, and I fling his hand away and face Jim. “Tell me, whatever it is. Tell me straight, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Nothing is certain yet, but there was a firefight.” Unbelievably, Jim rubs my hand gently. “As far as our guys in the air can tell, the Taliban bombed the village where Tyler and his captors were staying. Not everyone was in the village though, because shortly afterwards there was a firefight, machine guns and RPGs. Clearly on
e or more of them had gotten away.”

  “So, where are they? Was Tyler one of them?” My nails dig into Jim’s hands, unable to let go. “Please tell me Tyler got away.”

  “We don’t know. We’re analyzing the images. There are several bodies, but they don’t match Tyler’s profile. The small arms fire stopped at some point, and the Taliban let loose a barrage of RPGs, grenades, blowing up an entire hillside. We suspect they spotted the survivors.”

  “And? What happened next? Did our guys go down to investigate?” My heart is galloping, straining to come out of my throat along with the contents of my stomach. Tyler has to be alive. He has to be. He has a son and a daughter. He has me.

  “Things get hazy after that. Because the Taliban have shoulder-mounted missiles, our aircraft had to stay high up. The RPGs caused an avalanche that rolled off a sheer cliff, over a hundred foot drop, maybe more. If Tyler and the others were caught in the avalanche, it is unlikely anyone survived. We’re in talks with special ops to insert a couple of scouts to search for the bodies with infrared detectors before they turn cold.”

  I close my eyes and slump into my pillow. Bodies. Turn cold. Infrared. Avalanche. I have to remain strong, not just for myself, but for Bree and the baby.

  “How soon will we know?” I gather my resolve and take a shaky breath.

  “We might never know. It started to rain, and the conditions in that ravine are treacherous. The team hasn’t been dropped yet due to the thunder and wind. The problem is, even if they survived the fall, they won’t survive being drenched in freezing temperatures.”

  I don’t remember much more of the morning. Dylan and Jim left, and my mother returned without Cam, Bree, and Ella. She held my hand and prayed with me, but after a while, I wanted to be left alone.

  I feel like I failed him. Failed Tyler. If I had been more understanding, more tolerant, and more attentive to his needs, he might not have needed to go back to Afghanistan. I should never have told him to snap out of it. I should never have compared his experience with mine at Riker’s Island.

  Whatever abuse I suffered in an American prison was nothing compared to what he’d gone through. I should have been more patient. I shouldn’t have demanded that he man up. I shouldn’t have nagged him about my needs.