by John Ling
Outside her window, nearly-bare tree branches shifted and crackled, like bony fingers silhouetted against the dimming sunlight. The skies turned steel-grey. Thunder growled.
She leaned her forehead against the glass, her breath hazing it.
Benjy was a straight-A student, an outgoing guy, Mum and Dad’s favourite, the one they always introduced to strangers first.
Why can’t you be more like your brother? Just look at how many hours ofstudy he puts in. What about you? You’re wasting your time with your silly stories and poems and sports. You think they are going to get you anywhere in life? Your father’s an engineer. I’m a lawyer. And your brother’s going to be an economist. What about you? You’re just content to continue dreaming. I’m ashamed to have you as a daughter. If I could, I would disown you. That’s right. Disown you.
Sara groaned.
Maybe it might have been better if she had died instead of Benjy. Then Mum and Dad wouldn’t be so miserable. After all, she was expendable, wasn’t she? Benjy wasn’t.
Behind her, the door opened, and the voices of family and friends drifted in from downstairs. She turned away from the window.
‘I thought I’d find you in here.’ Emma strained to smile, shutting the door behind her. ‘It’s all pretty overwhelming, huh?’
‘Yeah.’ Mrya shrugged, setting Fluffy down on the bed. ‘Overwhelming is the word.’
‘Thank you for helping me just now, back during the funeral.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Sara gave a thumb up. ‘It’s what every wholesome
sister-in-law does, right?’
They stood in lingering silence.
Emma reached for the bedpost to support herself.
Even in grief, she looked so beautiful—almond eyes, wavy hair, and radiant skin. A striking young widow.
‘I’m pregnant,’ Emma said simply.
Sara’s world tilted. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m going to have a baby.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I was going to tell Benjy. But, you know, I thought—’ She bit her lip. ‘I thought of waiting until his birthday. It was supposed to be yesterday. That’s when I was going to tell him.’ She sank slowly down on the bed, shaking her head. ‘No one else knows, Sara. This whole thing is my fault. I shouldn’t have let him drive back so early in the morning. We had already checked into a motel. But he got some call on his cell and suddenly he said we had to go home right away. That’s when it happened.’
***
Sara hurried downstairs.
At the bottom, Dad froze in mid -conversation, his hand flexing around his iced lemon tea. ‘Where have you been? You’re supposed to be down here entertaining the guests.’
Sara smirked and glided past. Around her, people stole glances, murmuring in hushed tones. She snatched her coat off the rack and was already out the front door when Dad caught her by the shoulder.
‘Sara, don’t you turn your back on me. I’m talking to you. Where are you going?’
‘It’s about Benjy.’
‘What about Benjy?’
‘You know how we thought he was coming back late from that business trip because he couldn’t get a motel room? Well, turns out he did get a room.’
‘Sara—’
‘But there was this phone call.’
‘Sara—’
‘He drove back because of it.’
‘Sara.’ Dad’s grip tightened. ‘I don’t want you running off right now. Don’t you realise how much you’ve upset your mother?’
Sara gently loosened his hand and pushed it away. ‘Emma is pregnant.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re going to be grandparents. That’s right. Grandparents.’
She unlocked her car and got in, her fingers drumming the steering wheel. Lightning reflected off the hood.
She hesitated. ‘Daddy, tell me something. Would it have made you happy if I had died instead of Benjy?’
He half-chuckled and turned away, sauntering back into the house.
The wind grew stronger.
Droplets of rain drizzled.
And in that moment of moments, Sara felt her heart break. She had her answer. Slamming her door shut, she keyed the ignition, reversing out the driveway.
EXCERPT: The Reckoning
Author’s Note: A techno-thriller that I started but never finished. It goes like this: a group of UN diplomats have grown tired of seeing war criminals escape justice, so they take it upon themselves to form a death squad. Their target? A man known as The General, inspired by real-life despots Charles Taylor and Robert Mugabe. In the end, though, I felt the story was too cynical to ever see publication. The fact that it kicks off with an omniscient viewpoint was also an issue for me. But have a read and decide for yourself.
***
A conspiracy was in motion.
With stiff smiles and a handshake, two men met in the lobby of the General Assembly building. Hundreds of footsteps and voices echoed, the air heavy with urgency and purpose.
The older man had a sad, ancient face weathered by a lifetime of having seen it all. Bent and fragile, he walked with a cane. The younger man, sashaying with all the confidence of youth, clutched his arm, helping him along as one would do for a grandfather.
Like specks in a human ocean, they moved towards the rest area, where the smells of coffee and bread were strong. Above them, curving balconies floated, and close by, a plate glass window rose fifty feet high, dominating the scene.
This was the headquarters of the United Nations. Neutral ground. The building was swept several times a day by electronics and sniffer dogs.
Even so, the men were careful.
By choosing this spot to meet, they hoped the crowd would interfere with covert listening devices. That is, if anyone actually dared to use such things here.
They settled into adjacent cushioned chairs.
A waitress approached, but the younger man waved her away. Inching closer to his companion, he leaned over his armrest. ‘I am afraid the ICC is not keen on pushing for prosecution. They seem to think the evidence is shaky, insufficient.’
‘Insufficient evidence is not a reason.’ The older man’s nostrils flared. ‘It is an excuse. Red tape strangling justice.’
‘We could give it more time.’
‘More time? Heavens, no. That monster is about to lobby his cause on the world stage. Seeking legitimacy. Signing trade agreements. Inviting corporations to come set up shop. God knows what will happen next!’
‘Very well. Since you feel so strongly’—the younger man prodded the armrest, his finger like a scalpel—’I can have a team prepared for deployment within sixteen hours. We’ll move ahead with your green light.’
Furrowing his lips, the older man stared out the huge window.
Many flags flapped in the wind, their poles catching the sunlight, representing the member states of the United Nations. How insignificant Project Solidarity seemed to be in the grand scheme of things. Five tiny nations stepping up to the plate, trying to fill the moral void left behind by the superpowers. Admirable, noble even, if one could look past the distasteful gray areas.
‘I take no joy in this, you understand?’ His eyes grew pensive. ‘When you get to be as old as I am—closer to the end rather than the beginning—you start thinking about your legacy.’
‘Legacy?’
‘That’s right. Legacy. I used to be out there on the front lines—fighting the Cold War—while my children were still playing with their Lego. You have no idea how much they resent me for being an absent father.’ He chuckled. ‘My grandchildren, on the other hand, think of me as some sort of... hero... an old knight, perhaps.’ His chuckle became a snort. ‘I am proud of what I did during the Cold War. That was for my children and their generation. But Solidarity is like writing my last will and testament in blood. Is this what I really want to be giving my grandchildren?’
The younger man studied him, nodding. ‘Your grandchildren are starting the
ir new school term very soon, I believe?’
‘Yes, quite so.’
‘Legacy or not’—the younger man jabbed the armrest, harder this time—’the things we do will never enter the history books they study. That shouldn’t trouble you. We do what we do because it is moral... genuine justice... something the world has forgotten. Do you remember how clear our vision was when we first started?’
‘I do.’ The older man fiddled with his tie, smoothing it. His gaze returned to the younger man, his expression hardening. ‘I’m not senile yet.’
‘Good. Now do I have your green light?’
***
The moon was a silvery crescent as Abdi moved across the field, the night alive with screeching insects and a whistling breeze. The flashlight on his AK-47 swept across the tall grass, reflecting off the small animals scampering through the shrubbery.
The humidity felt oppressive.
Under the beret he wore, his face was weary, his dark skin glistening with sweat. His uniform was two sizes too big, doing a lousy job of disguising his youth. In the West, he would have been too young to drink.
Pushing on, Abdi entered a clearing with a small tree ahead, its branches skeletal and its leaves few, marking the end of his patrol route. It was time for a break. Bending under the tree, he switched off his flashlight, sinking down on a protruding root.
He struck a match, lit a cigarette, and sucked long and deep. Savoring it, he exhaled, watching the vapor curl before being carried away by the wind. Plowing his boots in the soil, he tried to relax, tried to calm his nerves.
But he couldn’t relax.
Going without sleep for three days now, the insomnia ate at him, like termites burrowing through his skull. It was like being trapped in a permanent state of fatigue, a permanent state of depression.
Butchered bodies stretching out as far as the eye could see. The coppery stench of blood and burning flesh. The wailing of children being pulled from the arms of their parents and finished off with machetes and axes.
It wasn’t always like this.
He remembered better times.
What little education he had had been given to him by missionaries in a school in his village. It only had one classroom, where the smell of chalk peppered the air, and colorful alphabets and numbers lined the dirt-specked walls. He could still hear his classmates giggling, their hands leaping up each time their pale-skinned teachers asked a question.
His teachers had taught him not only to read and write and count, but also to respect what they called the sanctity of life. They insisted—oh, how they had insisted—that tribal warfare was wrong. In other lands, people resolved their disputes through dialogue and understanding.
He had found it difficult to wrap his mind around such a concept.
What about defending the pride of one’s clan?
What about punishing the enemies who spat on one’s honor?
His teachers had chosen an unusual way of demonstrating their point. Along with the other children, they had given him a rabbit to look after, a white one with black spots and a sniffling nose. It was to be his pet, something he found odd. He had never known animals to be anything other than a source of food or a source of labor.
In time, his views changed.
He noticed how the rabbit would amble towards him with a twinkle in its eye whenever he fed it. It even played a mischievous game—chewing on his finger before darting away, long ears swaying, daring him to give chase.
Oh, how it made him laugh.
Looking after it no longer felt like a chore. It became a delight. His teachers used this as a lesson—if a boy and an animal could grow to love each other, why couldn’t all tribes do so?
He was in awe of their wisdom.
Soon, they promised to introduce him to something called the Internet. They told him it would widen his horizons; allow him to communicate with other children across the sea. He had never been so excited in his life. He had no idea how this Internet worked, but he had absolute trust in his teachers.
But it never happened.
One day, an artillery shell came shrieking into the school’s courtyard, slamming into the enclosure where the children kept their rabbits. The blast ripped them apart, disassembling them into chunks of flesh and bone.
Petrified, his teachers had packed their bags and piled into an old jeep. Before pulling away, they passed out candy and tearfully promised to come back as soon as the fighting died down.
For some reason, he knew better.
He knew they would never come back.
Soon, explosions pockmarked the landscape and machinegun fire streaked back and forth. Government and rebel forces clashed. Bewildered, he had huddled under his desk, cupping his ears, hoping against hope that his rabbit had survived.
Hours later, when the sounds of battle finally tapered away, he summoned up the courage to venture out into the courtyard. Under the dying sunlight, he had found nothing but lumpy remains. Melting into tears, almost screaming, he had scooped them up and slid them into his schoolbag.
He felt deathly sick.
Why? Why did this have to happen? Why?
Vomiting, staggering, he had peered past what remained of a collapsed wall. He watched as rebels streamed into his village, their faces leathery, their weapons caked with mud, as they chanted slogans about socialism, liberation, and land reform.
But the man leading them was cut from a different cloth. He stood tall and regal with a compassionate gaze that could pierce the soul.
Abdi had often heard the women of the village speak breathlessly of him. They called him The General. A myth made flesh. An ordinary village boy who—through pure force of will—had become something more.
The General strode towards him.
‘Young boy,’ he had said, his voice rising barely above a whisper. ‘Are you hurt?’
Abdi struggled to say something, anything, but words simply did not come.
Instead he fell sobbing into The General’s arms.
‘You poor, poor boy. The artillery of the government tyrants hit your school. Where are your teachers? It is okay. Speak to me.’
‘They... ran... away,’ Abdi croaked.
‘Unforgivable. These neo-colonialists are selfish. They tried to instruct you in their ways and trample on our good traditions, didn’t they?’ The General dabbed away Abdi’s tears. ‘I will take care of you now.’
Abdi had served The General ever since.
Thinking of it now, his eyes grew misty.
The emotions of the past remained fresh.
He felt indebted to The General, just as so many other youngsters did. He had given them so much and expected so little in return. Or did he expect so little in return?
Abdi shivered.
Butchered bodies stretching out as far as the eye could see. The coppery stench of blood and burning flesh. The wailing of children being pulled from the arms of their parents and finished off with machetes and axes.
That excruciating experience one month ago had left him with nightmares that were growing more frequent. They suffocated his psyche, forcing him to wake up several times a night, gasping and shaking, turning him haggard, giving him bloodshot eyes. Now the only duty he was fit for was sentry duty.
He slipped off his beret, wiping his clammy forehead.
With trembling fingers, he touched his hair. It felt wispy, like spider strands, having dropped so much this past week.
How he longed for sleep.
Yet he shunned sleep.
He could no longer serve The General. These nightmares were affecting his health. As hard as it was, he would go back to his village. He would eke out a new life as a farmer. He would exchange his rifle for a scythe.
Yes, tonight’s crescent moon looked very much like a scythe, didn’t it?
He heard a rustle.
Startled, he looked over his shoulder, just as a blurry figure came bursting out from the undergrowth. A switchblade hissed. Black steel glinted under the
moonshine. In that split-second, he could have sworn that his attacker wasn’t human—the face rushing towards him had two robotic eyes.
He fumbled for his AK-47.
Too little, too late.
His hair was grabbed, his head yanked.
The knife entered the back of his neck.
It felt icy cold.
Then blazing hot.
Then something cracked.
The sound of his brain stem disintegrating.
He jerked, going rigid.
His eyes went wide.
His breath wheezed.
His cigarette fell from his lips, hitting the ground, spreading embers. He tumbled and slumped, trailing blood on the tree, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.
***
Haider stamped out the cigarette with his boot.
Steadied his heavy breaths.
Allowed his racing heart to slow.
The sentry was only a kid, no older than his own son. The most difficult part about killing at close range was not the physical effort but the emotional detachment. He had passed that threshold a long time ago.
Wiping his blade against the sentry’s hair, he retracted his knife and dropped to one knee, bracing his SIG carbine against his shoulder. He was cloaked in woodland camouflage, his face blackened by carbon. With night vision goggles clasped over his eyes, he saw everything in ghostly green, the moonlight amplified many times over.
His skin prickled.
His uniform felt scratchy.
He tugged at the curve of his collar, even though he did not sweat. Special pills had suppressed his perspiration. Only practical, since he did not want his body odor to give him away. But still, damn, the sticky heat made him uncomfortable.
Behind him, five commandos emerged in a duck-walk, sighting down their weapons, sweeping for targets. They were alert. Special pills had adjusted their circadian rhythms.
He knew his men wouldn’t falter.
With a hand signal, he split them into two teams—Alpha and Bravo.
Then, leading Alpha, he rose, sprinting with his head tucked low and his body bent over. The wind started to howl, the grass around him hissing.