Stream of Madness

by Jim Roberts

  Sandor shook his head, coughing, “No, those are coming from behind us!”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Trust me, I’ve got good ears!”

  Sandor leapt back to his feet and peered out the window. Indeed this time the mortars were not coming from Saladin’s forces, but instead from the south of Dummaya. He saw a series of explosions strike the area just beyond the town square as the shooters adjusted their aim. In the span of ten seconds, Sandor counted at least five of Saladin’s mercs killed by the ballistic projectiles.

  “Who the hell is out there?” Sandor bellowed to Jamal over the din of exploding ordnance.

  From behind them, the waifish young tribeswoman named Valiqa carefully slid a window open to peer out. Jamal saw this and shouted to her, “Who is it?”

  “It is the rebels!” Valiqa called back in Arabic.

  Jumal looked back at Sandor, his eyes alive with hope, “It’s the FSA!”

  The Free Syrian Army.

  Sandor bit his cheek. The rebel forces of Syria made up a large, varied group of factions, each competing with the other for different regions.

  All of them hated Olympus.

  And now, here he was, smack in the middle of a conflict, easily identifiable as a member of the ‘Dark Army’.

  Jamal saw the look of worry on the Centurion’s face. “Do not worry, I shall speak with the rebels. They will understand how you helped us.”

  “Thanks, but with all due respect…” Sandor was interrupted by a burst of mortar fire just outside the home, “…I’ll be lucky to escape the next few hours with my head intact.”

  * * *

  VICTORY SLIPPED so quickly from one’s hands in this country. From his cover behind a battered four door car, Rashid had watched in fascination as the town square had broken away and fallen in on itself. The crater had blocked their initial attack on the errant Centurion’s position for a few moments.

  And then the shelling had started.

  It felt like a cruel irony. The Riders of the Scorpion had given up their safe location on the hill to enter the town and now they were the target of a mortar strike. Rashid had counted at least twelve casualties within the first twenty seconds of the mortar attack, almost a third of their overall force.

  “My lord, we must withdraw! This attack is costing us dearly!”

  Saladin barely winced as a mortar exploded a section of a wall beside him. “Who is shelling us? Can you see?”

  Rashid could barely see ten feet in front of him, let alone past the south of the village. He made an educated guess and said, “Perhaps al-Nusra forces or Syrian Opposition.”

  Rashid heard Saladin swear under his breath.

  “I cannot let the Centurion go, we must press on!” Saladin shouted above the gunfire.

  “My lord, we have lost at least a dozen men!”

  “I will not yield!” Saladin shouted.

  “How much is one Centurion worth?” Rashid’s voice was pleading now.

  Another mortar smashed into the home directly behind them, completely levelling the structure. A choking cloud of dust flowed over where they stood, causing both men to cough. Rashid knew he had to convince his master to make a retreat, if only for a time.

  “My lord, if we stay here, we are dead. There will be another chance!”

  Rashid feared Saladin would reject his advice. The second-in-command gripped his RPK tightly, hoping his master would make the right call.

  Finally, the Sand Scorpion closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and said, “Pass the word…fall back to the northern steppe! Get to the horses – this fight is anything but over!”

  Chapter 16

  Forsaken

  Dummaya, Syria

  July 17th, 2015

  “Sandor, look!”

  There was a triumphant tone in Jamal’s voice. Sandor Delacroix leaned up to look through the window where the young man was pointing. Here and there, he saw the forces of Saladin retreating back to the hill.

  Sandor heaved a sigh of relief, “They’re bugging out!”

  Behind him, Delacroix saw Ayishah stand up from helping Maisha, and join the two men looking out the window.

  “We have to find Sergeant Braddock!” She said, pressing a hand against Jamal’s shoulder. Her husband grasped it in response, giving it a squeeze.

  “Anyone see where he went?” Delacroix switched to Arabic as he spoke to the other Shaitat tribespeople.

  One of the younger men, Hadid, spoke up, “I saw him for a moment, near the well at the town square.”

  Sandor cradled his PSG-1 rifle, “What do you mean at the well?”

  “The creature, the man-robot, it knocked the American into the well. I saw it clearly.”

  There goes my goddamn ticket out of here, Sandor thought to himself.

  “Okay, first things first, the rebels outside will be here any minute,” Delacroix said, placing his gun against the wall of the domicile, “Everyone drop your guns. Let Jamal do the talking. Anybody who can walk, follow me. We’re going to say hello to our rescuers.”

  THE SYRIAN opposition forces were a rather rag-tag looking bunch of soldiers. Little about the men spoke conventional military. Wearing combat vests over dirty t-shirts, sporting the traditional keffiyeh headdress and armed with AK-47 rifles, they looked like the very definition of a rebel force.

  The group of Shaitat tribespeople had trudged out of the ruined homes with their arms in the air, knowing their lives lay in the hands of the fifty or so soldiers that were approaching the town on foot. Several jeeps trundled through the arid steppe behind them and rolled up in front of Sandor and his people.

  Things did not go well, at first. The rebels had their weapons trained on the survivors, not trusting the ragtag group of Shaitats. But one of the younger rebels soon recognized Ayishah and Jamal and told the rebels to back down – these were friends, not enemies.

  The man who Sandor guessed was the senior of the insurgents – a tall, capable looking man who introduced himself as Nizar – listened closely as Jamal hurriedly told them the events of the past week. At first, the rebel commander was highly doubtful of the story the young gun-runner spun, but Jamal’s words were backed up by several members of the band who explained it was indeed true. Nizar ordered his people to give aid to those wounded in the group.

  When the rebel’s attention settled on Sandor, things got tense.

  Nizar recognized the body armor of an Olympus trooper immediately. He barked an order for his men to raise weapons and subdue the mercenary. Jamal rushed to his side, speaking Arabic to the Syrian rebel leader.

  “No! Don’t kill him, this man is our guide. He helped us get here!”

  “He is of the Dark Army. He is Olympus.” Nizar was not going to be deterred.

  “Please, without this man’s aid, we would have died in Deir ez-Zor.”

  Nizar was highly skeptical, but in the end decided to allow the Centurion to live. Rumors of the PMC withdrawing from Syria were abound, and to Nizar, another death would solve little in the grand scheme. Still, Sandor was relieved of any of his weapons.

  After Nizar’s forces had secured the town, he turned to speak to Jamal. Sandor cocked an ear to listen from here he stood, under guard. The Commander spoke Arabic quickly, almost too fast for the mostly fluent Centurion.

  “I was in command of the forces in this city until a few weeks ago. We were informed the Islamic State had captured this village. We were sent to liberate it from the scum. Where are all the people?”

  It did not take long for the Commander to get his answer. The Syrian rebels discovered the massive hole in the center of the town and the myriad collection of bodies thirty feet below the surface.

  Sandor and the rest of the Shaitat people were collectively horrified by the atrocity. The old well had been a dumping ground for ISIL as they committed one unthinkable murder after another.

  Ayishah tugged on Sandor’s arm as they looked down into the gaping hole full of bodies. “Where is Joe? S
hould he not be in there?”

  Jamal caught the eye of Nizar, “Is there a way out from the well?”

  “Yes, the reservoir on the outskirts of the town.”

  Sandor looked at the Syrian woman, his eyes full of hope. Maybe my ride hasn’t been lost after all, he thought.

  “Joe could have escaped out through there.” Sandor said to Ayishah.

  Ayishah nodded and said, “Hadid saw the thing, Brutus, went down the well with him. Where is he?”

  Sandor cast a final look down into the corpse ridden cistern, “Don’t know. There’s at least a hundred tons of rock down there. If Brutus is in all that, he’s probably dead.” The Centurion was not about to bet the farm on that possibility, but whatever was the case, Brutus was nowhere in sight anymore. He had either been killed, or had bugged out when the getting was good. Sandor looked at the rebel commander, “We need to check the reservoir. Joe could still be alive.”

  Nizar, Ayishah, Jamal and the Centurion, rushed to the edge of town. After a five minute jog, they found the old reservoir that fed the cistern by a small one-by-one meter entrance. The access lead into a narrow tunnel with barely enough room to crouch.

  Sandor knelt down and called into the dark tunnel, “Braddock, do you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  The Centurion sighed, “We need to go in there. If he’s alive, I’ve got to find him.”

  Jamal hurriedly explained to the Commander about the man they were looking for. Nizar was surprised to learn an American had come to the aid of Syrian people, and after a good deal of persuading, gave his okay for Sandor and Jamal to search the tunnel.

  Sandor looked up at Ayishah and said, “You stay here, it’s too dangerous.”

  The Syrian woman shot the Centurion a heated glance, “Absolutely not! If the Sergeant is hurt, he will need my help.”

  Sandor marveled at the woman’s character. Jamal made another attempt to talk her down, but was similarly lambasted.

  This lady’s got nerve, Sandor thought. “Alright, whoever’s coming, come on.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flashlight. Clicking it on, he entered the reservoir, followed by the two Syrians.

  * * *

  JOE FELT his dead body being carried away from the crucifix. He knew he should be dead, but for whatever unexplained reason, he still breathed. He was still in the wasteland. The corpses were gone. Only Delacroix remained. The Centurion stood over Joe’s body.

  “You have lost, Joe. Your brother is dead. Now you are dead. Give up. Shut down.”

  “No…”

  “You’re no soldier. You failed all those who relied on you. Time to pack it in.”

  Joe Braddock’s eyes burst open as he gasped for air. He was soaked through by the light stream of water that fed the underground cistern.

  His mind was raging from a hundred different emotions, each one fighting to overtake his sanity. He tasted sour bile at the back of his throat. Choking it down, he stepped forward.

  A vicious scream of pain came from his ankle, and he lost his footing. He tried again and succeeded, holding himself up by the stone wall. The cavern that fed the now destroyed cistern behind him, was large enough to stand in, but began to narrow as it led up. There was still no light, and Joe had to feel his way forward.

  The bodies…people killed and dumped like animals…

  The images played throughout his mind like a slideshow of horror.

  He dug a fingernail into his palm.

  Focus…get out of here, find the others.

  But the pain only delayed the images from returning. The reality of the cistern massacre merged with the dreams and he could no longer tell the difference.

  A demon of hell had attacked him in a pit of darkness. A black morass crept up into the pit of his consciousness, threatening his sanity.

  Your brother…your men…they all trusted you.

  Sweat streamed down Joe’s face as he felt the darkness overtake him.

  You failed them…

  He dropped to his knees, the desire to walk leaving him.

  That’s right Joe, stop fighting. Death is all that awaits.

  Tears streamed from his eyes. Joe held his dirt encrusted hands to his face, trying to blot out the misery. The man in shadow was right…there was no point.

  Joe…

  It was easier to die…easier to admit defeat.

  Joe!

  He could end it all, right here.

  “Joe! Joe do hear me!”

  A voice. A male voice.

  Who’s voice? Can’t tell.

  Joe reached down and unholstered his Browning 9mm. Straight ahead from him, a dull light approached. He could see several figures rushing through the tunnel towards him.

  Braddock trained the weapon at the shapes, his hands shaking.

  He’s come for me…

  “Joe, where are you?”

  No.

  “I see something, just ahead!” A female voice this time.

  I’ll kill him before he can take me.

  Joe clenched the gun tight, his finger searching for the trigger. He called out to the shapes before him, his voice stone cold.

  “Stop! I know who are!”

  The three figures halted, then approached slowly.

  “Braddock, it’s us! We’re here to get you out!”

  The voice came from the tall one, dressed in obsidian black armor.

  It’s him…

  “Don’t come any closer!” Joe said, his voice defiant. “I know who you are. I won’t let you take my soul!”

  The tall man looked shocked at the statement, “Braddock, it’s Sandor…what’s wrong?”

  Joe spoke through clenched teeth, “I’ve heard what you have to say, now you listen…I am not afraid to die, do you hear me? I swear I’ll take you to hell with me!”

  “Christ Joe, what is–?”

  Joe clenched the weapon menacingly, his eyes burning with hate, “I’ve seen hell, I’m not afraid to go back!”

  “He’s out of his mind,” a male voice, somewhere off to the right of the man in armor.

  “You’re him aren’t you?” Joe spat, aiming the gun square at the man called Sandor’s head. “You don’t think I see you for what you are? You don’t think I’ll pull this fucking trigger?”

  “Joe, it’s Ayishah. Put the gun down!”

  The female voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nothing felt right.

  They’re trying to trick me.

  “I’m going to count to three,” said Joe, his grip on the gun tightening, “If you don’t leave, I’ll shoot you, I swear!”

  The woman stepped in front of the man in black, “Joe…put the gun down.”

  “One…” Joe felt the word escape his lips, as if by accident.

  “Joe, please, you’re scared. You’ve seen horrible things, I know. Come with us, and leave this place behind.”

  Joe’s hand wavered slightly. Muscles spasmed uncontrollably in his face.

  “Two!”

  “Ayishah, get out of the way!”

  “No, Sandor. This isn’t you, Joe Braddock. You’re a Peacemaker. You help those in need, you don’t kill them.”

  “Th…thr...” Joe’s mouth failed to articulate the word.

  The woman slowly moved forward as if approaching a wounded animal.

  “Ayishah, come back!” The second voice called out. The woman ignored it.

  “You don’t believe in hell, Joe Braddock. You told me, back in the truck.”

  Joe felt the madness ebb for a moment. The woman was familiar to him. Beautiful, with eyes the color of creamy green.

  “…Jade?”

  The woman looked at him, her eyes not comprehending, “No, I am your friend, Ayishah, remember?”

  Joe felt his arms lowering. The darkness began to recede.

  “Ay…Ayishah. It’s you?”

  The woman’s face sighed in relief. She reached forward, clasping the firearm with her hands, “Yes, Joe. You a
re safe now.”

  Joe let go of the gun. His body started to shake. He fell forward, sobbing. Before he could drop to the ground, he felt the woman grasp him.

  Ayishah called out to her companions, “Help me with him!”

  Together, they carried the American out from the bowels of the cistern and into the waning sunset.

  * * *

  JOE BRADDOCK sat as still as a post on the back of a broken down beater car parked on the outskirts of Dummaya. He stared at the western horizon as the sun began to set behind the desert steppe. Around him, the Syrian Opposition rebels were taking stock of the area and wondering what to do about the horrible atrocity committed in the sewer below the small town.

  In front of Joe, Jamal argued endlessly with Nizar in the fast paced Arabic tongue. Behind Jamal stood Sandor, flanked by two Syrian rebels as guards. Joe could only understand intermittent phrases of the conversation.

  For now, he felt oddly in control – as if a great weight was beginning to lift. The darkness that had pulled so heavily on Joe’s mind was receding. It had taken falling to the very bottom of his sanity to realize how lost he’d become. He’d been able to pull back just in time, thanks to some help from a voice cutting through the madness. He wasn’t a hundred percent yet, but for the first time in a while, Joe was thinking clear.

  Ayishah walked up to the Peacemaker with a bottle of water.

  “Drink this. You look awful.”

  Parched, he took the bottle, taking a long swig.

  Ayishah smiled, outwardly glad her patient was doing what she asked of him. “That’s good. Don’t drink too much.”

  Joe handed the water back. Ayishah placed a first aid kit on the car and began fixing Joe’s wounds. His head was a cluster of dents and gashes. Blood caked what was left of his combat vest. The Shaitat nurse winced as she looked at Joe’s burned arm; scalded when the napalm got out of hand.

  “I’m amazed you’re still standing, Sergeant.”

  Joe was worried about whether the sight of a Muslim woman helping an outsider would anger the rebels. He noted several disapproving glances from the FSA soldiers. Ayishah noticed the glares and said, “I’ll be quick, Sergeant. I am a nurse. They will understand my indiscretion.”