by Eric Meyer
* * *
They spent the time waiting for the repair alternately checking in with the ER room and the auto shop, until the exasperated hospital receptionist threatened to call security and throw them out. Even the workshop manager snapped at them to allow him to get on with his work.
"We'll find a bar," Stoner said, "A few drinks won't hurt while we're waiting, and we should get some food. I don't know how long it is since I've eaten, only that it's been too long."
They changed direction and walked toward a battered sign hanging from a stone building. The lettering in Pashtu and English said, 'Bar.' Before they walked in, Greg put a hand on his arm, forcing him to pause.
"Think about what you're doing with the booze. As soon as they've repaired the Wrangler, we're heading to Mehtar Lam to spring Faria from the jail. You were in the military once. Didn't they frown on drinking before an operation? We'd be no good to her if either of us hit the sauce."
He threw him off. "I'm not in the military, not anymore. What about you, I thought Russians always boosted their courage with a flask of vodka? A nation of alcoholics, so they say, you got a bottle stashed somewhere?"
"Yob tvoyu mat."
"Fuck you, too. You coming in or staying out here in the snow?"
They went inside and the two men ordered food. Greg asked for bottled water. Stoner ordered the young waiter to bring him booze. "A couple of cold beers, and a flask of something stronger for a chaser. Bourbon if you have it, otherwise Scotch whiskey or brandy will do."
He looked worried. "Sir, we don't sell alcohol in this place. We are Muslims."
His expression darkened. "Is that right?" Stoner climbed to his feet and walked over to the bar. A man was polishing the glasses, and he eyed the American nervously. "Two cold beers and a bottle of Bourbon, pal. Don't tell me you haven't anything stashed out back. I've been in this pissant country for too long. If you're not drinking alcohol, you're on opium or heroin. Can't say as I blame you, I guess it's the only way you can stand living in a place like this."
The man looked back at him with a solemn expression. "Muslims don't drink alcohol. I'm sorry, Sir."
He snorted. "Tell that to the men I've seen going from the mosque straight to the nearest bar. Usually the Imam leads the way. Do I have to go in back and tear this place apart to find it?"
Greg looked up, alarmed he was going to start a riot, but the barman capitulated. He shook his head. "One moment."
Several minutes later, the drinks appeared at the table, brought by the boy. The beer and the brandy were both locally made and less than pleasant. More like donkey piss. Then again, he didn't need pleasant; he needed alcohol.
"Do you want food?"
"What do you have?"
"Goat stew."
"Anything else?"
"No."
He nodded. "We'll take the stew."
When it came, it stank like a laborer's armpit. Even so, it was food, and both men needed the calories after their fight in the biting cold of the Torgan Valley. They even called for seconds. Stoner ordered two more cold beers and emptied them along with the contents of the brandy bottle. Greg sipped water in silence. Finally, he said, "We should go to the hospital and see how she's doing."
Stoner nodded and climbed to his feet. He staggered and tripped on the leg of the table. Everything went flying, plates, cutlery, glasses, empty bottles, all smashed on the stone floor. He looked at the mass of glass and crockery, shook his head and went toward the door as if it were an everyday occurrence. Greg stopped him.
"Hold it. You need to pay the guy for the damage."
"Forget it. He sold me crappy booze. That's why I tripped."
"Pay him." He glanced at the guy behind the bar. "What does he owe you?"
The man looked surprised, his clients were not usually so generous. "Twenty dollars would cover it."
Stoner argued but eventually gave in and paid up. They returned to the ER room, but Ahmed told them there was no news. The surgeons were still working on her, and the nurse told them they'd pumped her full of powerful antibiotics, and were still working to repair the damage caused by the bullet.
She frowned. "It came close to a main artery, any nearer and she wouldn't have made it to the hospital. We won't know anything more until later, maybe even tomorrow."
The American thanked her, and she recoiled from his booze-laden breath. Greg dragged him out, and they walked back to the workshop. The Wrangler was almost finished, the spare tire fitted to the driver's side. The guy was busy changing the tire from a used wheel to make it fit. He nodded to them.
"We couldn't fit the wheel to the hub, it's different. But the tire is the same, so we're swapping over. We fitted the new hoses already, and the engine started without any problem."
"What about the gas?"
"The tank is full. I paid the local man to bring cans of fuel on his handcart to save time." He eyed the Desert Eagles at Stoner's waist with unease, "I've done everything you asked of me."
He took out a roll of cash and handed him five hundred dollar bills. "I guess that'll cover it."
The man looked astonished, as if someone had just handed him the keys to the treasury. "Yes, it is enough. The tire will be ready in a few minutes, and I'll clean the paintwork and repair the bullet holes before you go."
"Just fit the tire, and we'll be off."
He looked relieved. "Of course."
While he finished his work, they jogged back to the hospital. The girl gave them an exasperated shake of her head, and they returned to the shop. The Wrangler was ready to go, he had the engine running, and it was starting to warm up. Even better, they had four good tires, as well as another spare. Minutes later, they left Ghazni and drove fast along the main highway, the road that ran from Kandahar to Kabul.
Despite the snow, some heavy vehicles had managed to get through and partially cleared twin ruts in the packed surface. The powerful V8 engine and four-wheel-drive traction kept the wheels moving, and after an hour, even the snow stopped falling. They were able to see the highway enough to drive without veering into a roadside gully.
Inside the first fifty clicks, an ancient tractor came into view. Stoner stopped and made sure Ahmed and the dog were okay. The boy was as cheerful as ever, and just as prideful. He grinned and said he'd probably reach Mehtar Lam before them. Archer barked twice like he agreed with him, and they drove away.