by Michael Bray
He only grunted once as the first blow came down. She didn’t stop until she could no longer lift her arms and the tears had dried up along with her screams of rage. When it was done, Machete’s face was unrecognisable, a miss-shaped bloody pulp. She tossed the bat aside, the wood echoing against the concrete floor as it rolled into the shadows.
Suvari looked around, and saw the children looking at her, eyes wide and frightened.
Frightened of her.
She could only imagine how she must look, covered in blood after just murdering three men, three fellow human beings. She told herself they deserved it, yet it didn’t make things any easier. Her stomach rolled, and she thought it was a good thing she hadn’t eaten anything for so long, or she might have vomited.
"Come on," she said, surprised how steady and even her voice was. "We have to go."
The children followed without question, and she wondered if it was because they still wanted her as their protector or because they were afraid of what she would do if they didn’t.
"Don’t look, keep your eyes on me," She said, and then paused. "Wait here for a second."
She went back into the corridor and back to Red Cap. She went through his pockets again, this time finding what she was looking for, then returned to the children.
"Ok, come on. Remember, don’t look at anything but me."
She led them down the hall, past those she had killed. Despite her orders, she knew the children had looked. She heard them gasp, some started to cry, which cut her deep and caused her more pain than the physical assault she had just endured. She briefly asked herself what might come of it, about what vile diseases these men carried who had raped her. She pushed it aside, telling herself there was nothing she could do about it now either way. She led them downstairs, through the building and to the flatbed truck. She helped the children inside who obeyed wordlessly, the expression on their faces betraying their silence.
They were afraid of her.
Suvari climbed into the cab, and closed the door, seeing herself in the mirror for the first time since the attack. Her face was a mask of blood, but she was still the same Suvari, or at least, for the most part. There was something different in her eyes, she could see that much for herself, and yet couldn’t put a finger on what it was. Using the keys she had taken from Red Cap’s pocket, she started the van. She had no idea where she was going, and in a way, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the children and keeping them safe. Putting the truck into gear, she pulled away into the night as the city continued to burn at her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
IRAQ FOOTHILLS
AFGHANISTAN
IT WAS ALREADY HOT. Branning had watched as the sky turned from black to purple then orange and finally blue as the sun crept over the horizon line. Drenched in sweat, he walked alongside Hamada, tense and sharp, ready for anything. Despite their agreement to work together in order to recruit Hamada’s men, there was nothing even remotely close to trust. One thing which did amaze Branning was that up in the craggy landscape of rocks, you could almost forget the world was in chaos. It was already well over thirty-eight degrees, and the punishing heat of the day was showing no sign of abating.
"How far?" Branning asked, snatching for breath. He had removed his t- shirt and tied it around his head to keep the sweat from running into his eyes. The pale green material now a few shades darker.
"Not long," Hamada said. "My men should be close."
Branning said nothing. He had long grown used to the icy instinct inside him which told him everything about the current situation was wrong, and yet he wasn’t able to do anything to stop it. People were relying on them. Even so, hiding his disdain for Hamada was hard.
"So this is where your kind hide, up here in the rocks."
"We don’t hide, Branning. We choose to make camp here because it offers us security. Your people have taken over our cities."
"We came here to liberate this country from people like you." Branning hissed.
"People like us? Citizens of Iraq who are forced to flee like animals because of your countries propaganda."
"Don’t give me that shit," Branning said as they descended down a scrub of rock into a narrow valley. "Nine-eleven wasn’t any propaganda. It was real. People watched it on TV all over the world."
"So you think every man of Middle Eastern blood must be punished?"
"We're here to protect, not to punish."
"Come on, Branning. Surely you have seen by now our people don’t want you here. Of course, there are a few, but the majority just want you Americans and British to leave us alone."
"People want our help. If you people stopped pushing your agenda, things would be different."
"Our agenda?" Hamada snorted. "Look to your own leaders before you talk about agendas."
Branning was getting angry and had to remind himself how isolated he was and how far away from any help. He squinted up at the sun, and then to Hamada, feeling a pang of envy at how little the heat seemed to be affecting him. They walked without speaking, climbing ever higher and deeper into the hills.
"So," Branning said between breaths. "What do you think is happening here, with these attacks?"
Hamada didn’t answer, at first, waiting until the ground levelled out.
"When I was a boy," he said eventually, "My father told me a story, a legend passed down from my people about when Alexander the Great first came to our lands. Alexander had already conquered most of Arabia, Iraq and Iran, and had set his sights on entering Eastern Persian territory. At the time, it was known as Bactria. Today you know it as Afghanistan."
Branning glanced at the grizzled Middle Eastern man, his face framed against the pale blue sky.
"Alexander spent less than a year conquering most of the known world, yet found himself unable to conquer Bactria for more than ten years. Do you know why?"
"No," Branning said, genuinely interested in Hamada's story.
"Alexander struggled because the people of Bactria did not give up easily. They were warriors, they were proud, they did not like invaders and would do everything in their power to get rid of Alexander and his army. I’m sure this sounds familiar to you, Branning." Hamada said, glancing at the American.
"Alexander was a great warrior, and was used to winning, and so he also refused to give in. He became obsessed with conquering Bactria, so much so that it consumed him completely. Alexander was said to send a gift to his mother, Olympias, from each land he conquered. Olympias sent a letter to ask why his gift from Bactria had not arrived when gifts from other conquered lands had arrived promptly.
Alexander read her letter and then grabbed a bag and filled it with the dirt from the ground of Afghanistan. He sent it back to her with a letter which told Olympias the bag contained the reason for his delay, and that she should scatter the dirt in her chambers and see what happens so that she might better understand his plight. Curious as to the strange reply, Olympias scattered the dirt around her room and waited to see what would happen."
"Go on."
"You're curious, aren’t you, Branning?" Hamada said with a thin smile.
“Actually, I am. It’s interesting.”
“Very well, then I shall tell the rest."
Hamada composed his thoughts and continued.
"Later, Olympias had two of her guards come to check on her. Before they entered, one of the guards stood aside to allow his companion to go in first. The second guard returned the offer, insisting the first guard crossed the threshold first. This went on, Branning, back and forth, each growing more and more angered that their offer to allow the other to go first was repeatedly denied. The guards drew swords as Olympias looked on, and they fought until both were lying on the floor dead. Olympias, of course, had seen this unfold, and immediately knew what had happened. She responded to Alexander’s letter, telling him to take his time as she now understood the reason for his delay.
Alexander was said to write back to his mother to tell her
that the dirt of this land is very hostile, even to its own inhabitants, how could it be expected to be kind to invaders. It proved to be true, from that day until this."
Branning glanced at Hamada and then turned his attention back to the trail ahead.
"Do you understand why I tell you this, Branning?"
"Yeah, I think I do. You're telling me your people are willing to fight for what they believe in."
"In part, yes. The main point, in this case, isn’t so much about the American occupation, but more about the current situation. We are a small country, Branning, and because of that, we are underestimated. However make no mistake, we will fight for our freedom, and do whatever it takes to defeat this new enemy, as impossible as it seems."
"That’s something we agree on at least," Branning said.
"Soon, we will be with my men. Perhaps yet you might change your opinion of my people."
"Maybe. That all depends on what happens from here on in, doesn’t it?"
Hamada gave no response, and the two men walked in silence, deeper into the hostile Afghan terrain.
II
Branning could no longer deny his exhaustion. The intensity of the heat barraging the craggy, inhospitable landscape had become almost too much to bear. He thought he had done a good job of acclimatising to the harsh conditions during the time he had served, however, this was different. This was wilderness survival without the luxury of transport vehicles and fresh water waiting for him at the end of a patrol. They were a million miles away from civilization, so much so that Branning had to remind himself why they were even out there in the first place. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had been forced to respect Hamada's resourcefulness in helping them to survive. It seemed both of their respective cultures had every different methods of living off the land. Hamada found water where there should be none, digging in certain areas in the sandy earth, until the fine ground darkened and moisture was found. He also knew which native plants were good to eat, leaving Branning with little option but to put a little trust in his travelling partner, despite his personal thoughts. Now, at the end of their third day of walking, the sun had finally started to retreat, and hung like a giant, golden eye just above the horizon line, throwing their shadows into long, skinny shapes ahead of them.
Hamada found a cave, a hollow in the rocks large enough to give them a place to shelter and rest. The two had gone through their usual routine, finding wood for a small fire and sharing out the meagre amount of food they had brought with them. They sat now on opposite sides of the flames, soldiers from two different walks of life united together by the most unusual of circumstances. Branning was toying with a branch, dipping the end into the flames and letting it catch, before removing it and watching the orange glow fade away. As was his routine, Hamada had been to pray, which in turn made Branning envious that he couldn’t find enough faith in his own god after everything that had happened to want to try and speak to him. They hadn’t spoken since Hamada returned, content to enjoy the silence and rest for a while. The sky went from orange to purple, and Branning’s twig was slowly burned down to an ember before Hamada spoke.
"You look tired, Branning."
"I’m fine," the American said, locking eyes with Hamada. "I just didn’t realise it would take so long to find your men."
"We will find them soon, then we will have the soldiers to fight this war."
"I was actually just thinking about that."
"In what way?"
Branning thought about keeping it to himself, then realised he had nothing to lose by sharing his thoughts with Hamada.
"I was thinking about the people back at the sewer, the women and the children. They're not ready for what has to be done."
"No, I told you this before we left. Is that not why we are out here in the wilderness?"
"I know that, but my point is, even when we go back, it doesn’t change anything. Those people will still be at risk. They still won’t be prepared."
"Many of them will die," Hamada said.
"What?"
"Those people, the refugees and children, the frightened women and men. Many of them will die before this conflict is over."
"How can you be so damn cold?" Branning snapped.
"There you go again Branning, thinking the best of everything. All I do is speak the truth. It is not my problem if you do not accept it."
"You say it like you have no faith in them."
"I don’t," Hamada said.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, Branning, there are some people made for fighting, and some who are not. Those people we left behind are not. People like you and I are."
"Careful, Hamada, you'll have me believing you don’t hate me."
"I don’t hate you, Branning. In fact, I don’t believe we are very different apart from our respective beliefs."
"You're a terrorist. I’m a soldier." Branning snapped.
"Ah, but reverse the roles and I would say the same. I am a soldier and see you as the terrorist. Point of view makes all the difference."
"Look, that's beside the point. You're saying those people back in the sewers have no chance to survive, is that right?"
"Oh, I’m sure some of them will survive, for a while at least. Some will run and hide, but more will die. This is inevitable."
"Then why are we even bothering to fight at all?"
"Because we are warriors, Branning," Hamada said, the shadows dancing across his face as he smiled. "We know what is required to take a life. We know how it feels to smell blood and smoke, to know our lives could be extinguished at any given second, and yet we keep fighting. Why?"
"Sorry?" Branning said, not expecting the question.
"Why do we fight? For our country? For our belief? Or because it's in our blood?"
"Are you trying to say it's instinctive? You train to be a soldier, you're not born that way."
"Ah, you see, that’s where we disagree. I believe there are certain people who are more suited to a certain way of life. Great poets are born, not created. Great artists have an instinctive gift for transferring their vision to canvas. I believe warriors are the same. People like you and I, Branning, are born with the instinctive will to live the life we have chosen. This is why I say we are more alike than you may think. This is also why I say that, as unfortunate as it is, many lives will be lost before this battle is done."
Branning said nothing, taking a moment to think about Hamada's words. "It's not certain we will even survive this. Whatever is happening, it's global. Who knows how bad it is out there now."
Hamada shifted position, his face hidden in shadow thrown by the light of the fire. "Do you fear death, Branning?"
He thought about it, making sure to give the right answer. "No. I don’t suppose I do."
"Exactly. You can’t tell me that comes from training? From instruction?"
"Maybe you have a point," Branning muttered.
"See, Branning, you see me only in one way. You look at me, and you see a terrorist. You see a man with an agenda to destroy. However, I am far from this picture painted by the newspapers. I have a wife and family. Like those people in the sewers who we fight for, they are not warriors. When I talk about those who would die, I speak of my own family too. They will not last if this situation continues, which is why I would do anything to stop it. I fight not for myself, for I do not care about my own well-being, but for them. I fight so they can live in peace. If I am to die in the process, then so be it."
"You're no martyr. Nobody will remember you, Hamada. People like us, we will just be another statistic in a war that will kill millions. I think you have too high of an opinion of your worth."
"Perhaps you misunderstand," Hamada said, grinning across the flames. "Anonymity is fine with me as long as it leads to victory. As long as my children and my wife can live as free people, then I will have died a good death."
"In that case," Branning said, tossing Hamada a bottle of water. "I think we are i
n agreement."
Hamada grinned, and despite himself, Branning found himself smiling too. Hamada stood and stretched. "Get some sleep, Branning. Long day ahead tomorrow. We are close to my people, we should reach them by sundown."
"Best news I've heard all day," Branning said with a sigh as he untied his boots and pulled them off.
"Don’t forget to put those above the floor," Hamada said as he unrolled a blanket from his backpack. "Scorpions climb inside and will sting you when you put your feet in tomorrow."
"Thanks," Branning said, setting the boots on a rock before following Hamada’s lead and settling down to sleep. For a while, he looked up at the sky, the brilliant and breathtaking blanket of stars making him realise just how insignificant he and everyone else on the planet was. Gradually, he felt his eyes grow heavy as sleep took him to a dreamless darkness.
III
Rough hands yanked him from his dreamless slumber. Snatches of Arabic filtered into his groggy brain as he was dragged roughly to his feet. He squirmed and tried to free himself as a hood was placed over his head and his arm bent up behind his back. He was being dragged, his bootless feet scraping through the dirt. More snatches of Arabic filtered through the heavy, itchy hood, yet there were so many in unison that he couldn’t make any sense of it from the little he knew of the language. Any hope of assessing which direction he was moving in was fruitless. He continued to squirm, and this time, the Arabic was easier to understand.
Stop.
Don’t struggle.
You won’t be harmed.
Branning paid no attention. He knew well enough the consequences for lone American soldiers who were captured out here in the foothills. He could see it coming, him sitting bloody and beaten, tied to a chair as an extremist delivered a sermon to the camera, perhaps warning those who would invade to think twice. Perhaps they would try to get him to denounce the US occupation himself, maybe by promising him freedom which he knew would never come because he knew enough about situations like this to know how it would go. There would be a machete or a sword, and it would be shown to the camera, perhaps shimmering slightly under the low lighting. Those who were taking him would savour the moment, savour the fear which no training would be able to hide. Branning thought the worst part would be the waiting, the anticipation of feeling that cold steel against his neck just seconds before he was beheaded for the world to see.