The Hunters

by Tom Young

  From the medical kit, Gold took a pair of shears. Nadif held the oil lamp over her shoulder as she cut away the bloodstained rag from Hussein’s foot. The scene put Parson in mind of Civil War surgery: drummer boy wounded at Petersburg.

  Gold put down the shears and took hold of Hussein’s ankle with one hand. With the other hand, she began to peel away the clotted cloth. The boy’s foot twitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut. A high-pitched whine came from behind his clenched teeth, but he did not cry.

  “Tell him I’m sorry,” Gold said. “I know this hurts, but this dirty rag has to come off.”

  Geedi translated, and again Hussein offered no response. He neither resisted nor cooperated; he just lay there with his bound hands clasped together. Gold pulled the rag the rest of the way off his foot. The boy opened his eyes wide and cried out.

  The bloody bandage looked like the freshly skinned pelt of some small animal. The foot made for an even worse sight. The big toe and two others were blown off or torn off. The ball of Hussein’s foot was mangled, too. Splintered bones stuck out from what looked like ground meat.

  “Dear God,” Stewart said. “I can’t believe he walked on that.”

  “He won’t walk on it again if it gets infected,” Gold said.

  “Did he step on a mine?” Geedi asked.

  “No,” Parson said. “If he’d stepped on a mine, he’d have lost the whole foot at the very least. I think he caught a stray bullet.”

  “A very big bullet,” Geedi said.

  “And maybe not stray,” Chartier said. His revolver hung in its holster on his survival vest. Chartier did not touch or even look at the weapon as he spoke.

  “You don’t know it was your gun that did that,” Parson said. “And if it was, you were defending us. Don’t start feeling guilty.”

  “I do not feel guilty,” Chartier said. “Just sad. This boy should be at home, working on his multiplication tables.”

  “This ain’t Toulouse, Frenchie. It’s fucking Somalia.”

  “C’est dommage.”

  Gold kneeled beside the medical ruck and unzipped it until the front flap was completely open. She rummaged through its pockets and pouches, apparently not finding what she wanted. Looked up at Parson, hands on her thighs.

  “This kit has all kinds of good stuff,” she said, “but I don’t see anything to give him for pain.”

  “There was nothing except Advil,” Parson said, “and I gave that to Nadif.”

  “He needs morphine, but we’ll have to make do. Can we see if Nadif will get him some water and a couple of the pills?”

  Parson shrugged. Geedi spoke to Nadif and his wife in their language. The wife disappeared into the shadows for a few moments, then came back with a clay cup of water in one hand and two caplets in the other. She kneeled beside Hussein and spoke to him softly. He turned his head toward the wall and did not answer. Geedi said a few words in Somali. The boy answered with something that sounded curt, never taking his eyes off the mud wall.

  “He thinks we’re trying to turn him into an infidel,” Geedi said.

  “With Advil?” Parson said. “He’s starting to try my patience.”

  Geedi spoke again in Somali. This time Hussein turned his head and looked up at Geedi. They exchanged a few more words. Hussein sounded skeptical about whatever Geedi was telling him, but he opened his mouth. Nadif’s wife placed the caplets on his tongue. Before she could offer him the water, he chewed the painkillers. Hussein’s face twisted at the taste, and he did not resist when the woman placed the cup to his lips. He drank until he drained the cup.

  Since the boy didn’t know to swallow the pills with water, Parson wondered if he’d ever been given medicine of any kind.

  “What did you tell him to get him to open his mouth?” Parson asked.

  “I told him I’m a Muslim, too,” Geedi said. “Why would I make him change his religion?”

  That probably helped, Parson thought, but the boy has probably figured out by now we aren’t going to hurt him. What would the boy have done if our situations were reversed? Not likely he’d be trying to talk us into taking something to ease suffering.

  “Ask him if he’s the one who chucked a grenade at our airplane,” Parson said.

  Geedi put the question to Hussein. The answer took more words than Parson expected.

  “He says he did,” Geedi said. “He wishes he had killed us all.”

  “He came damn close,” Parson said. “What the hell gave him that idea?”

  More conversation between Geedi and the boy. Geedi hesitated before speaking again in English, but then said, “He says he was told to stop the plane because a famous person might be on it. He wants to know if it was the famous person who shot him.”

  Carolyn Stewart lowered her head, placed her hand over her eyes. Turned away. Gold looked up and said nothing. She opened a packet of antiseptic wipes.

  Nadif brought a dish of water and a sponge. As gently as she could, Gold moved Hussein’s foot so that it rested over the dish. She nodded thanks to Nadif, soaked the sponge, and squeezed it so the water dribbled out of her fist and over the wound. The water trickled back into the dish, clouded with blood and soil. Hussein sucked in air between his teeth.

  “He’ll need surgery on this foot,” Gold said.

  “No doubt,” Chartier said.

  Parson had no idea where the nearest doctor was. And even if there was a doctor as close as Ras Kamboni, he might as well be on the moon, because this little bastard’s friends could be anywhere. No way to get Hussein to real medical help, or to get real medical help to Hussein. Parson supposed that in Somalia, people died for that reason all the time.

  Gold unfolded one of the antiseptic wipes from the packet she’d opened. The damp wipe smelled like rubbing alcohol.

  “This is probably going to sting pretty badly,” she said, “but we have to get that wound clean. Tell him I’ll get this over with as quickly as I can.”

  Once again, Geedi spoke to Hussein. The boy said nothing; he just lay there with his eyes wide, cutting from Parson to Geedi to Gold. The look in those eyes made Parson think of a feral animal, half wild, but with a dim memory of human kindness, frightened and unsure whom to trust.

  Gold dabbed the wipe over the torn flesh and splintered bones. Hussein’s muscles spasmed as if electrocuted, and that keening sound came from between his lips again. He did not sob or scream, but the pain brought tears to his eyes. The boy turned his head so Parson couldn’t see the water roll down his cheeks.

  He sure has a lot of pride, Parson thought. Why does he care if we think he’s tough?

  Blood soaked into the wipe. Gold wadded the used wipe into a ball and unfolded a clean one. She dabbed the wound some more. From the way Hussein tensed up, Parson could tell it still hurt, but maybe not as bad as before.

  Nadif said a few words in Somali, pointed to an AK-47 and one of those old Soviet-style ammo vests lying on the floor. The gear also included a long-bladed machete in a sheath.

  “Those are the boy’s weapons,” Geedi translated.

  “One hell of a juvenile delinquent,” Parson said.

  Nadif spoke to Geedi again, and he motioned toward the outside.

  “He says the sun will be up soon,” Geedi said. “He says if we want to keep taking care of the boy, we need to hide him in the cellar.”

  Parson wished he could just send Hussein on his way. But that was impossible for a couple reasons. One—the boy couldn’t walk anymore; it was a wonder he’d traveled as far as he did. Two—he’d tip off al-Shabaab to the crew’s whereabouts. The situation reminded Parson of the SEAL team a few years back that ran across three goatherds while conducting surveillance in Afghanistan. The team’s rules of engagement and their sense of right and wrong would not let them kill the civilians. The SEALs had no choice but to release the Afghans, and the team paid a
n awful price for doing the right thing. Enemy forces, likely alerted by the civilians, attacked the four-man team. Three died, and one suffered serious injuries.

  When Gold finished cleaning Hussein’s wound, she took a tube of antiseptic cream from the medical ruck. She unscrewed the cap, which revealed the foil seal over the opening of the unused tube. Gold pierced the seal with the plastic point molded onto the top of the cap, and she squeezed a rope of goo onto a clean gauze bandage. Folded the gauze in half and rubbed the two halves together to saturate the cloth.

  Gold covered the wound with the antiseptic-treated gauze. Hussein winced, but the gauze didn’t seem to hurt him nearly as much as the alcohol wipes. Over the treated gauze, Gold wrapped a dry bandage, and she secured it with medical tape.

  “I’m not much of a doctor,” Gold said, “but this is better than what he had.”

  Nadif unfolded a blanket and spread it out beside the boy. The blanket was a lot wider than the rug Hussein was lying on. Nadif spoke a few short words to Geedi.

  “He says we can take Hussein to the cellar on the blanket,” Geedi said.

  “Yeah,” Parson said. “Let’s do the vampire thing and get him out of here before the sun comes up. Frenchie, grab his weapon, will you?”

  “D’accord,” Chartier said. He picked up the AK-47 and slung it over his shoulder. Hussein glared.

  “At least the little dickhead brought us some firepower,” Parson said. “How many rounds are in the magazine?”

  Chartier detached the magazine, checked it, reinserted it.

  “About twenty.”

  “Better than nothing,” Parson said.

  Chartier picked up the boy’s ammo vest and checked for more magazines. He found none.

  “All right, Geedi,” Parson said, “tell him we’re going to lift him on the blanket and take him where he can get some sleep. And if he gives us any trouble, we’ll drop his ass on the ground and drag him by his hurt foot.”

  “Be nice, Michael,” Gold said.

  I am being nice, Parson thought. Lord knows, I’m being nice. That’s why I haven’t beaten this juvenile delinquent to a bloody pulp.

  27.

  Oddly, Hussein did not feel any different. He still felt his love for Allah, his willingness to fight, his belief in jihad. So perhaps these pills and potions were not turning him into a craven infidel. Was it possible the gaalos weren’t lying, that they really meant to help him?

  He did not resist as they rolled him onto a blanket. The gaalos lifted the blanket and carried him from the hut. At first he wondered if they were taking him outside to shoot him, but then he realized they wouldn’t have bothered to bandage his foot if they were going to kill him. These were strange, strange people. He could no more predict their intentions than those of the lion that had stalked him but let him pass unharmed.

  Even if they wished to help him, Hussein did not want their help. He needed no help from Crusaders. In fact, he wished they had already killed him. He might have arrived in paradise by now, attended by a harem of virgins, his pain and struggles over.

  But no. He lay on the blanket, in agony, as the infidels moved him. The stars whirled in the blackness above, stars in such number that only Allah could count them. A brother in jihad had once told Hussein that the Americans and Russians dared to shoot rockets among the stars—an act of blasphemy so unimaginable that the Quran did not even address it. Hussein doubted the story, though. Nothing mortals built could go that far.

  The gaalos put him down beside a wooden cellar door. They opened the door, and one of them descended into the hole in the ground.

  “We will help you stand and get down the steps,” the one called Geedi said. “Just keep your injured foot off the ground.”

  Hussein wished this kafir Somali would stop talking. The man claimed to be a Muslim, but how could that be? Perhaps he had been captured, a slave who had surrendered all his will. Or worse, he had made himself an infidel by choice. Either way, they had swayed him with their luxuries: He looked well fed. He had straight teeth. He wore a watch.

  My soul is worth more than a watch and pretty, girlish teeth, Hussein thought. He did not even know how to read a watch. The thing looked like a woman’s bracelet.

  Geedi and the older infidel helped Hussein sit up on the ground. They took him by the arms and pulled him to a standing position. He kept his injured foot raised, and he put all his weight on his good foot.

  “I hate you all,” Hussein said.

  “Very well,” Geedi said. “Be careful going down the steps. Colonel Parson will help you through the door.”

  “Go to the devil.”

  Geedi and the older white man helped Hussein place his left foot on the top step. Hussein bent to grasp the sides of the cellar entrance with each hand. He let his hands and arms take his weight for a moment, and he moved his foot down two steps. The younger white man, standing inside the cellar, took him by the right arm. Geedi reached down and grabbed him by the left arm, and they lowered him down the rest of the steps. Hussein stood on the cellar floor and leaned on the stairway, balancing on his good leg.

  The older man, the one called Colonel Parson, climbed down and turned on a tiny flashlight. The light revealed a dirt floor, and shelves of food lining the walls. One of the women tossed down the blanket they had used to carry Hussein, and Geedi spread it on the floor.

  “Let us help you lie down,” Geedi said.

  “Go to the devil.”

  “You already said that.”

  While Geedi arranged the blanket, Hussein considered whether to cry out for help. But he made no sound. He hardly had the strength and breath for a scream, and he contented himself with the thought that he really had no choice. He had taken a painful wound in battle with the enemy; anyone would say this soldier of God had come into a weakened state honestly and after long, hard fighting.

  In fact, the deepest part of him felt relieved to have the injury and exhaustion as a reason not to shout for his al-Shabaab brothers. Because, in truth, he did not know whether they would take care of him in his current state. He would slow them down and use up food and water. For a while, he would be no good to them. These infidels had at least bandaged his wound.

  I will bide my time, Hussein decided. I am wily like a fox. I will take from the gaalos what they are foolish enough to give me. When I regain my strength and when I see my chance, I will kill them all.

  Sooner or later, he reasoned, these infidels would put down his AK-47. He could let them believe he had lost the will for jihad, and then he would go for his weapon. Someday, al-Shabaab recruits would sing praises not only of Hussein’s strength and courage, but also of his wits. The brothers would tell the story of how he fell into the hands of the enemy, and how he fooled the fools.

  The one called Colonel Parson held the flashlight to show the spot where they meant for Hussein to lie down. Geedi and one of the women—the strange yellow-haired one who spoke in such smooth tones—helped him lower himself to the blanket. Hussein did not want this uncovered harlot touching him, but he did not fight her. She seemed to have a strange power over the others—or at least over the older man. Whenever the one called Parson spoke harshly in that awful sharp-edged language of theirs, Yellow Hair said something quiet that calmed him down. What manner of men took their orders from women? These gaalos were not just sinners; they were mad.

  “Try to rest,” the one called Geedi said. “You need to sleep.”

  Hussein made no reply, but he admitted to himself the truth of that statement. For a second time, Geedi had said something that was not a lie. Perhaps these devils spoke truth just often enough to made it hard to see their falsehoods.

  That, Hussein decided, was a matter he could puzzle over later. For now he would try to sleep. With all the infidels standing and sitting around, he barely had enough room to stretch out his bad leg. He kept his left leg bent, wi
th his arms folded across his chest. At first he thought the pain would keep him awake, but sleep came over him in a strange manner. The ache seemed to move an ever-widening distance from him. Hussein felt the pain like the fading barks of a dog running farther and farther away.

  He found himself dreaming of the lion he’d seen earlier in the day. The cat stalked effortlessly from his waking thoughts to his unconscious mind. In his dream, Hussein walked on an uninjured foot, with all his toes intact. The lion came bounding to him through the grass, and Hussein was not afraid. Somehow he knew the great cat would not hurt him. The lion stopped five feet from him, the sun shining on its fur, its tail lifted and curled.

  Hussein did not know what to make of this. The lion gave no sign of its intentions other than a reluctance to attack. Hussein came awake just long enough to realize he’d been dreaming. He’d always thought Allah sent dreams to tell of the future or to convey a clear message. Yet there was nothing clear about the lion—not the real one on the creek bank or the spectral one of his dream. The creature’s presence, Hussein decided, would have whatever meaning he chose to give it.

  • • •

  Once everybody got settled back into the cellar, Parson took the next watch. He sat on the steps, holding the AK-47 and cursing his luck. Things had gone badly enough to begin with; Osama bin Laden Junior here represented a complication he couldn’t believe. Parson had no idea what to do with this boy.

  The sun began to rise. As it climbed, the cellar filled with subdued daylight. The light, filtered by the threadbare tarp over the entrance, streamed from cracks between the planks of the door. The lumber that lined the cellar walls started to creak, perhaps from the rising temperature. Though Parson had never suffered from claustrophobia, he had the vague feeling he’d been buried alive. As a hide site, the cellar had little to recommend it except that it was big enough for everybody, and it was better than standing around in the open.

  Hussein appeared to sleep peacefully. His hands remained tied together; Gold had checked to make sure the bonds didn’t cut circulation. Apart from the tied hands, he looked like an eighth-grader about to wake up and get dressed to catch the school bus. Hard to imagine this child could have killed people.