by Schafer, Ben
The big difference, of course, was that this time the armed men were on my side. Supposedly.
Jamil had to yank Omar out of the vehicle’s path. The driver didn’t even seem to notice. Before the wheels stopped turning, four men leapt out of the bed and pulled with them two crudely improvised stretchers made from PVC pipes and bedsheets. If the sheets had any designs on them, they were washed out by dark bloodstains that radiated out from motionless figures placed upon the stretchers.
The men pushed past us with their macabre delivery. It was only when they began to descend the stairs that I could make out any details about the figures laid upon the stretchers. One was a young woman, roughly the same age as Azima. She had lovely features and dark hair cut short. She was also quite dead. The majority of her chest had been reduced to a bloody mess, nothing more than scraps of meat and cloth. I mumbled a quiet prayer for her.
I finished the prayer, then had to stifle a curse when I saw who was on the next stretcher: a kid, not even three years old, with a piece of rebar protruding from his collarbone. The bulge under his shirt near the bottom of his ribcage was probably the exit wound for the other end of the steel rod. His breathing was rapid and shallow. The poor kid’s eyes were closed, but he stirred as if suffering from a bad dream. I don’t know how anything could have been worse than reality at that moment. Even if he survived, he could never return to the sort of carefree innocence that all children deserve.
Azima had covered Hashim’s eyes and held him tight to her chest, singing in a soft but stern voice. It was the sort of song intended to chase away nightmares. My heart ached to hear the voice of my own mother one more time. But there was no song that could chase our grim situation away, no magic words that would make everything better. Our best hope was to survive this mess and trust that time truly did heal all wounds.
“I recognize her,” Walid said. His voice was thin and uneven. Whatever injuries he had suffered at that checkpoint, they were getting worse. “She’s the wife of one of Sharif’s lieutenants. I’ve seen her at Sharif’s compound once or twice. She is one of the kindest spirits I’ve ever met.” Something shifted in his expression. “She was.”
“Come on,” Omar said. “We’ve got to get you medical attention.” He looked to me. “Kyle, he’s fading.”
“Then get him down there as fast as you can. I’ll join you in a moment.” I turned to the rest of the group. “Wait up here. It looks cramped enough as it is without adding extra people. Besides,” I added, glancing at Hashim, “there are going to be a lot of nasty sights and sounds down there. I don’t want any of you to have to put up with that.”
“We can handle it,” Nadir said.
“I know,” I replied softly. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
To my relief he didn’t press the point. Instead, he nodded and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Khamilah didn’t shrug him off or protest. Instead, she turned into the embrace. It was the first sign of genuine affection for one another that I had seen.
Omar and Walid were halfway down the stairs by the time I moved to follow them. They had to move slowly down the uneven stairs, so I caught up with ease. Omar and Walid took each step with great care, not only because of Walid’s injuries, but also because they had to be careful not to slip on the various bodily fluids that had formed into little pools along the entire length of the entryway. Bloody handprints along the walls marked spots where the wounded and maimed reached out for support.
We were three steps from the bottom when the stench reached my nostrils. I felt the humid cloud brush against my face a moment before my brain could process it all. I wish it hadn’t. The air reeked of urine, sweat, and fecal matter. The source of those scents was a windowless cement bunker with only one door. The heat and humidity combined with the unholy cocktail of scents to form a sickening and cloying atmosphere. I could only imagine how the medical volunteers inside coped with their situation.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low light. Long fluorescent tubes on the ceiling gave off a soft glow and allowed me to get a decent view of the crowded bunker. It was one room, much bigger than I had anticipated. I guessed that it spread the entire length of the hotel above us, although it was maybe half as wide. Twin-sized mattresses lay on the cold floor along the walls to either side of us, likely pulled from the hotel rooms upstairs.
Bedsheets and shower curtains strung out on clotheslines gave patients a shred of privacy. I could make out human figures on the beds. Some of these figures writhed in pain and cried out for help. Others were still and silent. As we walked, a pair of men in overalls placed one of these unmoving figures on a stretcher and carried them outside.
While the battle waged in the streets above our heads, the men and women in this bunker waged their own war against the specter of death. And they were losing.
The lights were brighter at the far end of the corridor. There were what looked like plastic picnic tables set up under the intense light, each one with a body on it. I couldn’t make out the details of the people on the tables because they were surrounded by men in smocks. I realized that I was looking at the surgical ward.
There were more men, and a few women, adorned in aprons as a futile attempt to keep the blood off their clothes. They rushed from patient to patient, providing water and doing their best to comfort the wounded. It was obvious from the way they moved and acted that they had only the barest of medical training. They were volunteers, most likely, who were either unable or unwilling to fight alongside Sharif’s forces on the front lines.
Dust rained from the ceiling as another explosion rocked the neighborhood. The doctors and volunteers were too busy to care. Two of the men who had brought in the woman and the child were leaving just as we stepped inside the room. They were lost in their own conversation and didn’t even notice us as they passed. They were silhouetted in the doorway so I couldn’t distinguish their features. I could, however, hear what they were saying.
“I say we strike behind the lines,” one man said to the other. “I’ve heard from the scouts. The army left only a few men behind their main force to guard the parts of the city they’ve already taken. We could trap them in the center.”
“You know that Sharif would never authorize that. We don’t have enough men to—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. The men stopped and turned at the same time to face me. Omar and Walid continued ahead of me. “But did you say that the army isn’t leaving men behind to secure the parts of the city they’ve taken?”
“What do you care?” the first man asked.
“Don’t mind him,” his companion said to me. “Yeah, that’s right. We’re giving the army one hell of a fight. They’ve rushed all their men to the front lines.”
“So have we,” the first man complained. “What’s the use of an army of the people if we fight like regular soldiers?”
“I see,” I rubbed my chin in thought. We may have finally caught a break, after all. “Thank you. And good luck.”
“We don’t need luck,” the first man proclaimed. “We have Allah!” With that, both men disappeared up the stairs.
I turned and looked for Omar, but the place was a mass of bodies. Fortunately, Walid had a distinctive voice. I zeroed in on it and soon found them leaning against the far wall.
“I screwed up,” Walid said. “We should have been ready. We should have been behind our barricades.”
“Rest now,” Omar placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “My brother still needs you.”
Two men approached us. The first, an incredibly hairy man whose sweat-soaked white shirt didn’t quite reach his waist, seemed to recognize Walid and slid under his arm to support him. As they walked to a dank little corner where the walking wounded were gathered, the second man looked at us with a serious expression. He wore a blood-stained apron and, though he had gloves on his hands, various bodily fluids reached all the way up to his elbows.
“If you’re not injured, I need you out. We do
n’t have room for you.”
“Of course,” I nodded and started for the stairs.
Omar lingered another moment. “Promise me you’ll take care of him. He’s the only friend I have left.”
The serious man pursed his lips. “We will do everything we can.”
Omar turned to follow me and we made our way out of the slaughterhouse. I hadn’t realized how pervasive the stench was until we were outside in the clean air again. Even as I breathed in fresh oxygen, the smell of death proved difficult to dislodge.
When we reached the group, they were all staring at the young man who had carried the wounded child downstairs. The man was wailing in grief. A small cluster of men and women were gathered around him but left him space to vent his frustration and anger.
“The child didn’t make it,” Nadir informed me. His voice was soft and distant. I understood. None of us wanted to disrupt this poor man’s mourning. His wife and now his child had been violently ripped out of his life. He found himself facing the future alone, suddenly unable to share his most secret hopes, darkest fears, harshest failures, and most shining triumphs.
I could relate. I still had my sister, but I had not seen or spoken to her at any real length in the past two years. I always felt comfortable with my solitary path through life. But as I looked on the young father’s tragedy, I felt a sense of resonance in my soul. Maybe I would give Miriam a call when this was all over. I needed to hear her voice.
I shook those thoughts out of my head. I could worry about that after I got us out of this mess in one piece. “Everyone round up,” I announced. “According to one of the fighters inside, the front lines are a short distance away. Once we get past them, it should get much easier.”
“I’m sorry,” Nadir said, “but could you explain how it would be easier to walk through army-controlled territory?”
“My brother is fighting this battle like a conventional war, albeit with an unconventional force,” Omar explained. “His forces are fighting to hold ground, not to launch attacks at soft targets behind enemy lines. Because of this, and the fact that the army needs all the men they can get at the front, the occupied portions of the city remain relatively unguarded.”
“So all we have to do is take a leisurely stroll through the most intense areas of the fighting,” Khamilah said, her voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. “Oh, that will be easy. At last, I have some hope.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WE reached the front lines, such as they were, fifteen minutes later. The artificial canyons of the urban landscape carried the sounds of gunshots and explosions to our ears long before we ever saw any fighting. In fact, the sounds of war had become so pervasive that we were caught by surprise when we stumbled, almost literally, into the battle.
A group of twenty or thirty rebel fighters had established a fortified position in front of an abandoned mosque that sat on the corner of a row of residential and commercial buildings. This position was far better defended than Walid’s checkpoint had been. Concertina wire and sandbags were arranged in layers that provided the rebels with maximum visibility and good sectors of fire. Crude metal sculptures were scattered in the street. As I looked at them, I realized that those sculptures were anti-tank barriers like the kind found on the beaches of Normandy during D-Day. If the army wanted to bring any heavy vehicles through this street, the infantry would have to dislodge the barriers first. It was easier said than done while under constant attack from snipers. The rebels were determined to hold this position and, for the moment, it looked like they were succeeding.
It seemed that every man had brought along whatever weapon he preferred or, more likely, whatever he could find. There were men wielding assault rifles, handguns, and a wide variety of pump shotguns. The shotguns would be extremely useful in house-to-house fighting as the battle continued to move through the city. To my surprise, I even saw one man with a sickle in his hand. He swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, like a reed moving in a soft current, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the handle of his improvised weapon. Someone with enough skill in the close confines of an urban environment could make such a blade almost as lethal as the shotgun, not to mention a hell of a lot quieter.
As we drew closer, I saw a handful of figures moving on top of the mosque. If they had any sense, some of those men would provide tactical updates to their comrades below while the best shooters among them would eliminate any targets of opportunity that presented themselves. Then again, these men weren’t trained soldiers. They may have just picked a spot on the roof at random and started shooting.
Their opponents, however, displayed the discipline of a professional fighting force. There were at least two squads of infantry moving in on the rebel position, and there were doubtless many more soldiers on the way. The rebels had already been pushed out of their first line of barricades, which the army had seized for their own use. Sharif’s men were making a brave stand, but the army was determined to wash away any opposition in a tidal wave of men and machines. Even if, by some miracle, the rebels were able to stand their ground, the casualties would be horrific.
“This is—” I winced as a dull explosion roared. It wasn’t a rocket or tank shell, more along the lines of a fragmentation grenade, but it was close. “This is it,” I continued. “Once we get past these lines, the path should be a lot easier.”
“Uh, Kyle.” Omar’s voice trembled. “Can you back up to the part where we walk straight into the crossfire between two armies carrying all kinds of firepower?”
“Not to mention how we must sneak past several platoons of infantry massing on the other side,” Nadir added.
I saw Azima glance up and trace an invisible line across the city with her eyes. As I followed her gaze, I saw the plan forming in her mind. “No.” I said. “That is a terrible idea.”
“What is?” Khamilah asked.
Azima ignored her. “Really? Because I don’t know if Mr. Making-It-Up-As-I-Go is the best judge of that.”
“Best judge of what?” Khamilah screeched.
I ignored her. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”
“Maybe,” Azima shrugged. “But it’s still better than standing around waiting to get shot.”
“Will either of you just tell us already?” Jamil sighed.
Azima and I glanced at each other. At the same time, we both said, “Rooftops.”
“Oh, our mistake,” Khamilah said. “We thought you had a plan that wasn’t insane.”
“Thank you, Khamilah,” I replied.
“I hate to point out the armed men up there who seem to have the same idea,” Omar added as he indicated the rebels on the mosque.
Azima shook her head. “Those are just observers. And the mosque isn’t where we want to go, anyway.”
“Looks like some snipers up there, too,” Nadir said.
Azima waved the thought away. “Whatever. The point is, no one is trying to move that way. They’re just standing,” she stopped Nadir with a gesture before he could speak, “and shooting from that one spot.”
“And because we don’t have weapons, it’s unlikely either side will consider us a threat,” Nadir stroked his chin. “Especially when they have one another to worry about. They might not spot us at all.”
“That’s because no one would be stupid enough to think that would work,” Khamilah shot back. She pointed to Hashim. “Do any of you even remember that we have a child with us? Is he expected to jump across these rooftops with us, or are we just going to have him march across the battlefield by himself?”
“My son is my responsibility,” Azima said. “Just make sure you can move in that cloth coffin you’re wearing.”
As we spoke, three of the rebel soldiers began moving forward, crouched low to avoid enemy fire. It didn’t do them any good. The sound of a band saw filled the plaza as the army opened up with a stationary machine gun, probably a PKM or similar Russian-made gun. Two of the men died instantly, their torsos practically sliced in
half by the continuous fire. The third took hits to his right arm and his pelvis, but he was alive. He began crawling back toward the rebel position, but there was no way that he would get to safety before the soldiers adjusted their aim and finished him.
Before that could happen, a factory-new Toyota hatchback slid out of a concealed position near the closest minaret and positioned itself to block incoming rounds from reaching the injured man. A man dressed in little more than loose rags hopped out of the back seat and picked the wounded rebel up off the ground. I heard the distinct sound of a Kalashnikov being fired from the Toyota, which began crawling toward the rebel lines to serve as a mobile shield.
Azima shook my arm, and my attention returned to our group. “Right. If we’re gonna do this, we might as well get it over with.” I examined the buildings around us, a series of pink and cream blocks that looked like dominoes on the cusp of falling over. I pointed to a four-story building that overlooked the plaza. “That one there. It has decent cover and connecting access to the roofs on the next building.”
“It’s a good choice. I haven’t seen any fighters enter or exit the whole time we’ve been here,” Jamil said. We looked at him in unison. He shrugged. “Just saying it should be safe.”
Khamilah tapped her foot. “You haven’t seen anyone enter or exit because we’ve been here for five whole minutes.” She looked up at the structures surrounding us. “Once we reach the second roof, we’re stuck. It’s not connected to anything, and there’s a three-meter gap to the next building.”
“Three meters isn’t an impossible distance to cross,” Azima observed. “We just need to improvise a way to—”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘improvise?’” Nadir snapped. “I had hoped that your plan amounted to more than ‘let’s pray we find something we can use.’ That’s almost as bad as something he,” he pointed at me, “would come up with.”
“Hey,” I complained.