Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I could hear someone talking through the now open doorway. “—something inside. I’m going to check it out.” He must have been speaking to someone on a radio because the next thing he said was, “Because this is a known rebel safe house. If the snipers missed somebody inside, they could wreak havoc on our rear lines.”

  Crap. The fighting might have moved past this area of town, but that didn’t mean that the army was ignoring it entirely. I should have known that anyone who was close to Sharif would be considered a priority target by the regime.

  I slipped behind a thick steel beam near the entrance to the shop. From my position, I could see the outline of a man duck under the door. As he stepped into the soft glow of the garage’s lights, I saw that he was dressed in an olive army uniform. His assault rifle was held in a low ready position. He was here to inspect the building, but he wasn’t looking for a fight. If we were lucky, he would look around for a minute, then give up and return to the street.

  The soldier slipped into my blind spot. I was careful not to move. As I sat there, I realized that, even if this scout failed to find us, we would be spotted as soon as we drove out of the garage. We had to make our escape with speed, before more soldiers arrived. If we took them by surprise, we could—

  “You there,” the soldier called out. Well, there went the surprise plan. Now I really wished that I had a gun. “Come out slowly and keep your hands up.”

  The soldier leaned forward and pulled someone toward him. “Let go of me!” Khamilah shouted.

  I sighed. Of course. It had to be Khamilah.

  “Come here,” the soldier grunted. “What are you doing here? Huh?” He shook Khamilah. “Where are the rebels hiding? How many of you are there?”

  “I don’t—” Khamilah panted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The soldier pushed her down to the floor and pointed his rifle at her. “Do you want to die?” he thundered. “Do you?” Khamilah shook her head and whimpered. The man continued to shout, “I have more important things to do. Now tell me where the others are hiding.”

  I did some mental calculation. They were about twenty yards away from me. If I could get closer, I could take the soldier out before he could get a shot off.

  Then Khamilah looked at me. It was just a moment, but the soldier spotted it. He pulled her up from her hair and shoved her forward. “Come on out,” he shouted. “Do it! I will kill her.” The soldier pressed the rifle into the back of her neck and Khamilah whimpered in fear.

  Dammit. There was no way that I could get to them in time. If I even moved, the soldier would kill Khamilah and, more than likely, me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of shadows shift behind the soldier. Maybe Azima was trying to get Hashim out of the line of fire. Maybe Nadir was trying to get into position to find his wife. For all I knew, it might have been Jamil darting between vehicles as he tested the key.

  The soldier fired a round in my direction. “Come out! I am finished playing games!” I was trapped. He only had to move a few feet to get a clear shot at me.

  The soldier was so focused on me that he was completely taken off-guard by Omar, who slammed into him and pressed the barrel of the rifle up toward the ceiling. Khamilah shrieked and ran while the two men fought for control of the weapon. The soldier struggled to bring his weapon to a useful angle. Omar’s knuckles where white. He couldn’t maintain his grip for long. Instead, he shoved the weapon back toward his opponent’s chest. The soldier lost his balance and fell onto his back, but as he fell his hand reached out and grabbed Omar’s shirt.

  The men squirmed around on the ground, throwing quick jabs at one another that did little real damage. The soldier tried to use the butt of his weapon as a club, but he couldn’t get the leverage that he needed. His left hand extended toward the radio on his belt. If he alerted his colleagues it would all be over. Omar spotted the maneuver and ripped the radio off of the soldier’s belt, leaving a pair of metal clasps embedded in the woven material. He swatted the radio across the floor and out of reach.

  Omar straddled the soldier and punched him in the face once, then again. He was putting up a good fight, but he didn’t have the training or stamina to keep it up much longer. I ran out of my hiding place to deliver assistance, but before I could get to them I heard the sicken sound of a muffled gunshot.

  Omar choked out a startled cry and fell to a kneeling position. He looked down in shock as a crimson stain spread across his chest. He started to hyperventilate. Blood began to trickle around the edges of his mouth.

  The soldier rolled on his back and pointed the weapon in my direction. I was exposed, an easy target. “Stop right there.” I had little choice. I did as he asked and extended my open hands. The soldier wobbled to his feet. “I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish,” he spat. “But all of you are going to join your friend in the grave unless you do exactly as I say,” he pointed to Omar. The young revolutionary’s breath was unsteady and labored.

  “Listen to me, we’re not—”

  “Shut up! I don’t want to hear another word from—”

  The soldier’s words were cut off by a wet thud. He slumped to his knees, then onto his face. The back of his head was split open, blood pouring through the scalp.

  Khamilah stood over the man, a crowbar held in her grasp. She fell to her knees and began to retch, the weapon tumbling from her fingers as she did. She looked up at me with desperation in her eyes. “Is he . . . did I . . .”

  I bent down and put my fingers on the soldier’s neck. “He’s alive,” I confirmed. After another nervous moment, I added, “He’s out cold. But I don’t want to be here when he wakes up.”

  Azima appeared with Hashim from behind a stack of crates. Viewing the scene, she yelled, “Oh, God! Omar!”

  “Look for a first aid kit,” I said. “I don’t see one in here, but there may be one in Mosab’s office. Anything you can find is fine, just hurry.” Azima nodded once, then disappeared through the doorway to the waiting room. I knelt by Omar’s side and took his hand in mine. “Hey, buddy. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

  Omar coughed out a laugh. “You’re a terrible liar, Kyle.” His eyes began to flutter.

  I smacked him gently on the cheek. “Omar. Omar!” His eyes opened again. “Stay with me.”

  “Have you ever been shot?” he asked.

  “Once. Some idiot thought he could take me out with a hunting rifle. Dinged my helmet and knocked me on my ass. Felt like a wicked hangover, but I made it. So will you.” I looked up and shouted, “Where is Azima with the damn first aid kit?”

  I heard an engine roar to life and Jamil shouted in triumph. “I’ve got it!” he shouted. I turned my head to look. He was seated in a battered green Proton Arena pickup truck. The cab was small, only able to seat three passengers, but the others would be fine in the bed of the truck as long as we didn’t crash into anything.

  “You hear that, Omar? You did it,” I patted him on the shoulder. “You came through. We can get out of here.”

  “What—” Omar gasped. “What about the soldiers outside?”

  Jamil hopped out of the truck. “Let me take care of that,” he said. He pointed to the fallen soldier. “Nadir, go through his pockets. Find me dog tags, identification papers, or anything else with that man’s name on it.”

  Nadir was a statue. I had the feeling that death was not an unfamiliar experience for the man, so it was not shock that held him immobile. More likely it was rage. I didn’t care if he was angry, he just had to follow instructions. “Nadir.” My tone was firm. “Search him now.”

  After another moment of hesitation, Nadir did as he was told. Meanwhile, Jamil bent down and picked up the radio. He glanced at Nadir. “Anything?”

  Nadir gingerly rifled through the unconscious man’s jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Uh, his name is Corporal Malik Jenyat.”

  Jamil turned on the radio. “This i
s Corporal Jenyat,” he said. It was a remarkable impersonation of the soldier’s voice. “The building is clear.”

  The voice on the other side sighed. “Of course it is. Now quit being paranoid and get your ass moving. We’re making another push for the mosque, and Sergeant Mosa is assembling our unit two blocks east. If you’re not there in five minutes, I’ll tell Mosa that you defected.”

  “Very funny,” Jamil said flatly. “Jenyat out.” He turned off the radio and dropped it. “That should buy us enough time to get out of here.”

  “Wow, Jamil,” Omar coughed. “That was incredible.” His eyelids started drooping and his chin dropped to his chest.

  Jamil shrugged. “I have a gift for voices.”

  Azima came out of the office holding a small white box. “There’s not much in here. I’m sorry.”

  “If we can get him out of here, we may be able to find a doctor outside the town,” Nadir said. “Is he able to move?”

  I turned my hand to check Omar’s pulse, then shook my head. “He’s gone.”

  “What?” Khamilah gasped. “But he was fine. He was talking. He can’t be dead. He can’t.”

  I stood. “Jamil, help me get him into the truck.”

  “We’re taking him with us?” Nadir asked.

  I grabbed Omar’s shoulders. Jamil took his legs. “Yes.”

  “I mourn him as much as the rest of you, but we have to be practical,” Nadir argued.

  I blew out a sharp breath. Nadir was picking the wrong moment to start challenging me. “This isn’t a debate, Nadir. Until you can accept that and find something helpful to say, I want you to shut your mouth and get into the truck.”

  “But—”

  “He’s right, Nadir,” Khamilah whispered. “That boy died trying to save us. To save me. The least we can do is respect his remains.”

  “I found a plastic tarp,” Azima said. “We could, I don’t know, wrap him in it. Preserve him from the elements.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I replied. She came over with the tarp and placed it on the ground. Khamilah joined her, and together they wrapped Omar’s body while Jamil and I lifted it.

  Nadir unhinged the latch to the truck bed and climbed onto it. He helped clear away some tools that were in the bed of the truck: an x-shaped lug wrench, a hammer, and a couple of shovels. Jamil and I slid Omar’s body in the center with as much reverence as we could manage.

  Khamilah opened the passenger door. “No,” I told her. I pointed to Azima, who had retrieved Hashim and was carrying him toward the truck. “The kid rides up front, and his mother goes with him. That’s all, and that’s final.”

  Khamilah opened her mouth, then looked at the tarp in the center of the truck’s bed. She stepped away from the cab and her husband helped her climb into the back. I hopped up to join them while Jamil helped Azima and Hashim enter the passenger-side door. He circled around to the driver’s side and turned the key.

  It was tricky to maneuver the big truck around so many other parked vehicles. We scraped the paint off of the side of an old station wagon, but Jamil did an otherwise excellent job of it. The tires squealed as we hopped the curb and took off down the street.

  Given our track record, I expected machine guns to open fire the moment we drove out of the garage. Maybe throw in a tank or an assault helicopter for good measure. I was pleasantly surprised when we were able to drive down the street unmolested, almost like we weren’t in the middle of Armageddon. Soon we were clear of the city altogether.

  We were out of Rastan. But, as I looked down at the body at my feet, I wondered if the cost had been worth it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “THESE pistachios look amazing. We’ll take a bag, thank you,” my mother said politely to the shopkeeper as she handed him the money. The wizened old man’s hand trembled as he grabbed the cash, but he had no difficulty lifting the bag of pistachios. He began passing it to my mother, but she pointed to me. “My son will carry that for me.”

  The old man looked at me and a bizarre expression passed over his features. I took the bag and tried to turn my face as best as possible. I could only hope the man didn’t recognize me and call someone to arrest me for last week’s incident with Azima and that stupid donkey. The old man’s fingers barely released the bag when I began taking quick steps away from his stall.

  Until that point, I had done my best to remain invisible. My parents didn’t know about my little unauthorized field trip with Azima. But, of course, my mother had to go shopping in the same street market where the Azima and I had caused such a scene. So far, no one had cried out in anger or shouted my identity to the crowd, but every vendor we visited only increased my anxiety.

  “You’re being awfully quiet this afternoon, Kyle.” My mother’s tone was gentle. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing. I’m just bored,” I whined. “How can Miriam do this with you every week?”

  “Well, we use this time to talk,” my mother replied. “She lets me know what’s going on in her life. Your sister knows that she can trust me, that she can tell me everything.” She gave me a knowing look. “For example, if she skipped school to run around the city with her friends, this would be a chance admit to it.”

  I looked at the pavement. “How did you know?”

  My mother laughed. “Oh, Kyle, I work with people who have kids in your class. Some of them can be quite nosy. I knew about your absence by lunch.”

  I frowned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I wanted you to tell me.” She stopped walking and put a hand on my shoulder. “Because I trust you. And because I want you to trust me. I will always be there for you. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answered on reflex. “I just didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  My mother removed her hand from my shoulder and tousled my hair. “Oh, I think we can overlook one minor transgression.” She gave me a knowing grin. “Besides, I think we both know that you were not the one who made the decision to skip classes. Mr. Zbida was honored that you were so concerned with his daughter’s well-being, by the way. He promised that we would all get together when she recovers from her illness.”

  “Please don’t be mad at Azima, Mom.”

  “Honey, I’m not mad at either of you. I was the same way when I was her age: impatient, stubborn, defiant, and restless. For a girl on her way to becoming a young woman, life can be confusing and overwhelming.”

  My mother paused to scan the sea of faces surrounding us. “In this place, with the expectations of this society in addition to those of her father, Azima is facing more challenges than I ever did. I understand the desire to run away every once in a while. I still have days like that.”

  She looked into my eyes. “But the two of you are growing up. You’re not little kids anymore. There are more expectations on your shoulders now. It might not be fair, but that’s the way the world works. You need to be more careful.”

  “I will, Mom. No more skipping school.”

  My mother sighed. “It’s not just that, Kyle. If I’ve learned anything in the past sixteen years, it’s that Damascus thrives on gossip. Right now you and Azima are in a delicate position. Your father, Azima’s father, and I are all in positions of influence. There are a number of people who would gladly spread rumors about what you and Azima are doing to advance their own interests. I need you to be careful how you behave, especially in public.”

  She chuckled quietly and rubbed her eyes. “Oh my God, I’m turning into my mother. She’d drop dead from shock if she heard that I was giving this lecture.”

  We both turned our heads at the sound of a car’s horn. A panel van that had bits and pieces of blue paint peeking out from behind a thick coat of dirt was trying to edge its way through the crowd. The crowd was parting for the unexpected intruder, but many of the patrons and vendors were shouting insults at the driver, a man in his early forties wearing a sleeveless shirt. My mother shook her head. “Idiot must have taken a wr
ong turn.”

  “Yeah, it’s the problem with street markets,” I said. “There’s always that one guy trying to use the street.”

  My mother laughed, then turned back to face me. “Where were we?”

  “You were saying that everyone in Damascus is out to take advantage of Azima and me because of our parents have important jobs.”

  My mother frowned. “Kyle, you know I didn’t mean it like that. But you have to realize that even families like ours have enemies.”

  “Why?” I asked a little too harshly. “Have I done something to hurt someone?”

  “Of course not, kiddo,” my mother replied in a soothing tone. “But we enjoy a certain amount of privilege, and there are plenty of people who want what we have.”

  I smirked. “Who cares? It doesn’t belong to them. They can go get their own stuff.”

  She smiled. “In a perfect world, everyone would understand such a simple concept. But we don’t live in a—”

  Her words were cut off when the driver of the van opened the door and stepped out onto the street. One of the vendors stepped up to him and began hurling insults in his face. The driver shoved the vendor back into his stall. The man was a vendor of musical instruments, and when he collided with his stall the bulk of his inventory fell to the cobblestones. The street was filled with the echoes of drums and cymbals, but the dull hum of conversation had all but disappeared.

  The altercation captured the attention of merchants and shoppers alike. My mother and I were no exception. So I was caught by complete surprise when I felt something bump into my back. I thought it was a donkey trying to get some food, so I waved it away. It was only when I felt a second, more insistent bump that I turned around.

  I found myself staring at a stocky man wearing a black ski mask and a long wool coat even though it was the height of summer. Before I could shout, he clamped a meaty hand over my mouth. In that moment, I saw what was in his hand. What I had felt as a hard bump was a stubby revolver that looked comically small in the man’s oversized hand. But it was no less deadly for that fact. Hand and gun were tucked into the sleeve of his coat to conceal it from any prying eyes. His caution was unnecessary. Everyone’s attention was still fixed on the confrontation between the driver and the vendor. I glanced for my mother.