The Chaos Function

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by Jack Skillingstead


  A female Marine removed Olivia’s scarf-bandage and used scissors to cut away Brian’s pants. She tore the seal on an antiseptic swab and cleaned the bullet wound. It must have stung. Brian pulled a face and Olivia held his hand.

  “Hang in there, Bri.”

  “I’m hanging.”

  Visible through the open loading door, two Marines—one a lieutenant—stood in front of the madrassa talking to a tall, bearded old man with pale skin, his shirt hanging open. It was the same old man Olivia had seen strapped to the table in the torture cell. Add one more to the resurrection parade, she thought wryly. He really was unmistakable; the old man was so tall, he towered over the Marines. As if he could hear Olivia’s thoughts, his head turned slowly just then and he looked straight at her. Then somebody slammed shut the transport door, the engine started, and they rumbled out of the Old City.

  * * *

  Later, the administrator of the Green Zone infirmary arranged for the Red Cross to transport Brian to a state hospital on the western side of Aleppo, where they were better equipped to dig bullet fragments out of his femur.

  Olivia was not allowed to ride along, and because of the new curfew, she had to wait for morning before she could cross the city.

  The uprising had been disorganized. Not much more than a couple of car bombs, coupled with small-arms assaults like the one that wounded Brian and Jodee. A few RPGs. But the security crackdown hit the city like a steel tsunami.

  At midmorning Olivia finally managed to beg a ride with a BBC video team. She wedged herself into the back of their van, where she bounced around on top of duffel bags, cables, camera equipment, and assorted junk. On this outing she wore her body armor with PRESS spelled out in block letters, front and back. The heat outside turned the back of the van into a convection oven. Sweat poured out of her, soaking through her clothes. She removed her Kevlar helmet and lightly touched the tender lump on the back of her head, and winced.

  In her backpack she had stuffed her tablet, toiletries, a change of clothes, and her notebooks. She intended to see Brian at the hospital and then try to find a room nearby.  The state-controlled side of Aleppo had reliable cellular service, and she planned to take advantage of it to file her latest report to The Beat, a London-based independent news blitzer. Olivia pitched a lot of stories to Helen Fischer, the editor in chief, and Helen commissioned many of them. Olivia considered The Beat home ground.

  What took so long traversing the city were the checkpoints. At every one, soldiers in full tactical gear opened the back of the van, pointed M4s at her, and examined her credentials. Then they searched the vehicle thoroughly, opening all the bags and the cases of electronic equipment while Olivia and the BBC people stood around sweating, with whisper drones hovering above them like giant dragonflies armed with lethal stingers.

  At every checkpoint.

  After the last stop, once they were rolling again, Olivia said, “These guys are looking for something specific.”

  The reporter riding shotgun was a Londoner in her midforties named Toria Westby. Her red curls frothed out of her helmet, and her face glistened with so much sunscreen it looked like she had slathered herself with half a can of Crisco. She was new to Syria, a postwar video reporter, but she seemed competent despite her greenness. Olivia liked her.

  “Right,” Toria said. “Rumor is, somebody’s trying to smuggle a hot biological out of the country.”

  Olivia had heard the same rumors but hadn’t been able to substantiate them. She peeled a strand of hair off her sweaty cheek. “Any tips on what it might be?”

  “Weaponized anthrax, I heard.”

  “Bollocks,” the driver said. “It’s worse.”

  “What’s worse than weaponized anthrax?” Olivia asked.

  The driver shook his head. He was a stubby little man, like the unlit cigar he kept corked in the corner of his mouth. His name was Mike. “I don’t know. Something real bad.”

  Olivia touched the hard lump on the back of her head. Her fingertips came away slippery with clear fluid threaded with blood. Yesterday she had been so upset and focused on Brian that she had neglected to mention it to the medics. The whole thing with the contradictory memories felt surreal. If it had been happening to someone else, Olivia would have attributed the confusion to shock. But in her case that was ridiculous; Olivia had been in traumatic situations before—plenty of them—and it didn’t work that way, not with her, shock or no shock. Most likely, she reasoned, hitting her head must have at least slightly concussed her, thus explaining her confusion.

  She kept thinking about the old man and the one English word he had spoken before he died, or before she thought he’d died, the word that had sounded like “supers-potion.” Back in her room, on a notepad, she had written down a list of possible words that sounded similar. After a while, something jogged a memory from her college days, and she carefully printed out the word: superposition. The word itself was as far as the memory went, though, and it didn’t come up in her limited offline dictionary.

  Now, in the BBC van, she crawled up to the seats. “Hey, Toria, do you know what ‘superposition’ means?”

  “Uh, put one thing over another thing?”

  The driver answered, talking around his cigar. “It’s quantum physics.”

  Toria and Olivia stared at him.

  “What?” he said. “I’ve been to school.”

  Olivia said, “What’s it mean?”

  Mike took the cigar out of his mouth. “I think it’s like that experiment where they put a cat in a box.”

  “You’re thinking of Dr. Seuss,” Toria said.

  “Schrödinger’s cat,” Olivia said, remembering. In college, while working on the student newspaper, The Daily, Olivia had interviewed a quantum physicist who had arrived on a lecture tour. At one point he had described the thought experiment. A cat is sealed in a box with its life dependent on an observer collapsing the wave function of a subatomic particle entangled with the animal. Something like that. “Think of the cat as being both alive and dead at the same time,” the professor had said.

  Toria looked at her. “Oh, yeah. Schrödinger’s cat.” She winked. “I just like to give Mikey a hard time.”

  Mike said, “We’re here,” and plugged the cigar back in his mouth.

  He meant the hospital. Olivia grabbed her backpack, thanked them for the lift, and climbed out, anxious to find Brian. The cat is alive and dead at the same time . . .

  * * *

  The hospital smelled of Lysol and blood. An oscillating fan rattled in the corner of the postsurgical recovery room, pushing hot air around. Brian shared the room with three other patients, two of whom appeared unconscious. A morphine drip was attached to Brian’s arm, and a drain was attached to his thigh alongside some ugly sutures. His leg was stained orange by the antiseptic splash. Absent was the array of vitals-monitoring equipment that would have surrounded him in a British or American hospital. By the end of the war, rebel factions had begun targeting hospitals on the state side of Aleppo in retaliation for bombing runs on their own facilities—all sides recklessly abandoning human decency and the rules of war. Though the government-controlled part of the city suffered less than the rebel-held districts, shortages of equipment, some medicines, and qualified surgeons abounded.

  Brian looked like he was sleeping. Olivia stood by his bed, waiting—her backpack, heavy body armor, and helmet piled on the floor like a disassembled robot. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her back hurt.

  The young Arab man—a boy, really—in the next bed, whose head was wrapped in yards of gauze, said, “I have a chair. For my mother who visits? Please, it is for you.” He spoke with care, landing politely on the English syllables. The blanket below his waist lay flat where his left leg should have been.

  “I’m okay,” Olivia said, “but thanks.”

  Brian lifted his head. “Liv, for God’s sake, take the chair.”

  “You’re awake? You faker.”

  “I don’t
know how I’m supposed to sleep with all the talking around here.” Brian rubbed his eyes. He sounded groggy but otherwise like his usual self. “You look good.”

  “You’re not wearing your glasses.” (Lost when the firefight broke out and she shoved him.)

  “That has nothing to do with it. You’re a beautiful blur.”

  She pointed at his leg. “Hurt much?”

  He smiled tightly. “Ever pour vinegar into an open wound and whack on it with a meat tenderizer?”

  “Only once. I didn’t like it.”

  “Well. Then you know. Anyway, that was before the drugs. They got good shit in this place.”

  “Miss, please,” the Arab boy said. “Sit.”

  Olivia gave in. “Thank you.”

  It was a red plastic patio chair, sun-bleached to pink, like what you might find at somebody’s trailer park barbecue back in the States. Olivia pulled it around to Brian’s bed. It felt good to sit. Bouncing around in the back of a van didn’t count. Brian reached for her hand. Olivia’s was sweaty, but his felt surprisingly cool, which she guessed was an effect of the morphine.

  “How’s Jodee?” Brian asked.

  “I don’t know. They were taking him away when we came out of the madrassa. I’m worried about him.”

  “He’ll make it.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I guess I don’t really know it.”

  Olivia took her hand back. “I called a couple of likely hospitals from a landline. One didn’t have him. The other couldn’t understand me and hung up.”

  “Hey.”

  “I know. He’ll make it. Bri, I should have listened to you when you said not to go into the Old City.”

  “I agree.”

  “Thanks for making me feel better.”

  “Feel better? I’m the one that got shot.”

  “That’s my point,” Olivia said.

  “What happened isn’t your fault. Jodee and I are grown men.”

  “Right.”

  They were quiet for a minute.

  “Liv?” Brian said. “When I get out of here, I’m going home. Oregon Helps won’t let me stay after this. Besides, there’s stuff I have to deal with.”

  After a moment, Olivia said, “Ryleigh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ryleigh Magaw was Brian’s girlfriend back in Seattle. Or maybe had been—that part was still technically TBD. Olivia lowered her voice. “What are you going to tell her?”

  “I’m going to tell her the truth.”

  Olivia looked away, then back at Brian. “Maybe that’s not a great idea until we figure it out for ourselves.”

  “I have figured it out for myself.”

  “Look, I don’t want to wreck anything between you two.”

  “You’re not wrecking anything,” Brian said.

  “Got it.”

  “Are you mad at me or something?”

  “No,” Olivia said. “But I’m not on the love train yet.”

  “So you’ve said. And you don’t have to be. I’m telling you what it is for me.”

  “And Ryleigh thinks you’re in love with her.” Olivia watched a fly crawl across the cloudy windowpane behind Brian’s bed. This kind of conversation drove her crazy. It would help if Brian’s foot wasn’t in the door. It would be so much easier.

  “I’m not sure she thinks that,” Brian said.

  “Bri, come on.” She felt like an asshole hashing this out while the boy with the amputated leg listened. Talk about First World problems.

  “I thought I was in love with her,” Brian said. “But—”

  “But?”

  “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Like you’re not sure it’s me.”

  “Maybe I’m not.” She was thinking about her conflicting memories. She hadn’t actually seen Brian’s femoral artery wound, but she had felt the spurting blood, had slipped in a puddle of it, had blown rescue breaths into Brian’s dead lungs.

  He looked confused.

  “Can we talk about this later?” Olivia said.

  “I’d rather talk about it now.”

  “Okay.” Olivia suppressed her irritation, then changed the topic anyway. “Here’s my advice. Don’t break up with Ryleigh right away. Give yourself some time once you get back to the States.”

  “That’s shitty advice.”

  “Brian, we’re in a dangerous place. People hook up. It happens all the time. This is the Disaster. Back home, that’s a different reality.”

  He stared at her like she’d slapped him. “That’s what happened to us? We hooked up?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “You just did say that.”

  She took a moment. “I’m sorry. Goddamn it, this stuff is too complicated.”

  “Unlike a hookup.”

  Words lay between them like bear traps.

  “I have to go find a place to sleep tonight.”

  He patted the hospital bed. “There’s room here.”

  “I don’t think so.” She leaned in and kissed him quickly on the lips, unable to forget how cold and rubbery they had been. “Your breath is terrible.”

  “You’re complaining?”

  “Just an observation. Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  “Liv?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for staying with me when I got shot.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t have anything else to do that day.”

  He laughed. “You always say the right thing.”

  “I really gotta go.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “You could come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Home. Seattle.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t get shot or anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  He closed his eyes, and she picked up the chair and returned it to the boy’s bedside.

  “Thanks.”

  He smiled at her, revealing perfect white teeth. “Be happy, miss. Life is good.”

  Four

  Olivia walked out of the hospital, shouldering her backpack, and used her phone to find accommodations. It was a relief to have cellular service. The nearest hotels were clustered on Baron Street, six blocks away. She started walking, pushing through civilians crowding the sidewalks. Unlike the formerly held rebel districts, which largely lay in ruins, western Aleppo was battered but still standing, still functioning. She felt conspicuous in her body armor and helmet, but not enough to remove them. Snipers could as easily infest this side of the city as the other.

  Sweat soaked through her clothes. Her boot rubbed at the start of a blister. She stopped and sat on the low window ledge of a pastry shop. The smells of honey and butter drifting through the window reminded Olivia of her mother’s kitchen, of fresh baklava in the oven, and she felt an unwelcome stab of homesickness. Her mother was long dead, as was her father, and Olivia was estranged from Rohana, her stepmother, so the homesick feeling had no place to settle. The Disaster was her home, as much as anyplace else was.

  She loosened the laces of her left boot, slipped it off, and peeled the sock down. A dime-sized spot on her heel glowed red. She rummaged a blister pack out of her cargo pocket and applied it.

  A man stopped in the middle of the sidewalk a short distance away. Maybe a few years younger than her, he had wild, uncombed hair and was dressed in Western clothes: dark blue sport coat over a white T-shirt and black jeans. It looked like he wanted to approach her, say something. But when Olivia pulled her boot back on and stood up, he turned away and melted into the crowd.

  Don’t be shy, she thought.

  Olivia stood and resumed walking. Dragonfly whisper drones patrolled the skies. Peacekeeping troops stood in pairs on street corners, fingers pointed outside the trigger guards of long guns, barrels angled down. Periodically, she looked back. Twice she ca
ught sight of the man with crazy hair. A little worm of fear wriggled in her gut. Okay, not shy.

  Olivia reported the truth about the war, its aftermath, and the atrocities committed—by all sides. So it goes without saying that a lot of people knew who Olivia was . . . and that some of them did not like her.

  By the time she reached Baron Street she was limping. Despite the blister pack, her boot had rubbed the blister raw. Halfway down the block she stopped in front of the Hotel Baron, removed her helmet, and clipped it by the chin strap to her backpack. The hotel was three stories of traditional Islamic architecture, with balconies on the second floor. It had taken some war damage. Ropes secured a large black tarpaulin to one corner of the roof. The tarp heaved eagerly in the hot breeze, like a feeding bat. Olivia pushed her damp hair off her forehead and proceeded through the gate and into the lobby.

  * * *

  In her room—second floor, with a balcony—Olivia cranked the spigot. After a moment the pipes shuddered and dispensed a stream of water, slightly more vigorous than a trickle, into the claw-footed tub. She dropped her smelly clothes onto the tile floor and felt sweat trickle down her ribs. Her bra had left a red crescent under each breast. Sighing with relief, she sat on the toilet and probed the blister on her heel, teeth gritted.

  While the tub slowly filled, she retrieved a pocket mirror from her backpack and used it with the bathroom mirror to find an angle on the back of her head to investigate her wound. The lump didn’t look as bad as she’d expected, considering how much it had been hurting. A little lower, just below the hairline, was a scar. She turned her head, tilted the pocket mirror. A seam of crusted blood made a vertical line.

  She remembered the insect that had squirmed out of the old man’s hair and flown at her. It had looked almost mechanical, with its cobalt sheen, like the “flies” some reporters used to grab video by zigzagging over crowds or into otherwise inaccessible buildings. But this thing hadn’t been a video fly.  This thing had bitten her. But shouldn’t it be a simple puncture, not a slash? At least it didn’t appear infected. Then again, maybe the scar had nothing to do with the insect; she’d certainly gotten banged around plenty otherwise.

 

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