by E. M. Hardy
“Suppressing fire, yo,” quipped Eddy. Isiah laughed, teasing Eddy for his reliance on the weapon, even if Eddy really did know how to use his weapon well. He couldn’t count the times Eddy had saved his team by laying down a deadly but accurate barrage of fire, giving Isiah and the others time to either fall back or flank their pinned enemies. Sure, Eddy got his head blown off by a sniper a few times, but that was usually when Isiah and the rest of the team had messed up one way or another.
The soldiers waved the bus off and let it pass, moving on to the next vehicle in the line. Isiah and Eddy, however, where already in the middle of their game—popping heads and cutting loose with their guns. In the meantime, Kurdan quietly sat inside Isiah’s mind—taking in everything that the young boy saw, thought, and experienced.
***
“Holy cow,” muttered Isiah as he and the rest of the gang crowded around his cellphone. They goggled at a live stream of a furious firefight going down in Los Angeles. It came from the viewpoint of a masked Golden Sword terrorist holed up in a hotel, trading shots with police and the military. The cameraman muttered prayers in Arabic while surrounded by dead men, women, and children that he and his pals had executed earlier in the day. The cameraman swung his rifle over a window, popped a few shots off, and retreated as puffs of concrete signaled return fire. The cameraman looked to the side, speaking something to another masked comrade to his right. Their conversation continued for a few brief moments before said comrade collapsed on boneless limbs—high-powered 20mm rounds from an autocannon tearing through the concrete wall and ripping open his chest in a spray of blood and gore. The cameraman stared at the body for a fraction of a second before scrambling out of the room, additional rounds punching through the concrete wall like it was made of wet paper.
“Isiah… please… just turn it off,” begged Hasan, looking nervously left and right. Isiah nodded, turning off the screen of his phone. His dad kept telling him to stay off the raw feeds, especially the ones spreading terrorist propaganda, but he wanted to know exactly what was going down in California. Was it healthy? Probably not. Did it satisfy his curiosity? Yes, along with leaving him feeling sick to his stomach at the violence of it all.
“Hey Haz, did you catch what the guy was saying?” asked Bernabé airily, his emotions blank over the rawness of the footage.
“No, I did not,” hissed Hasan, turning an angry glare at the oblivious teen. “You know I’m not that good with Arabic.”
Bear backed up, holding his palms up in submission. “Easy there, amigo. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.” He then slapped a hand on Hasan’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Sorry. It’s just… why the hell are they doing this?”
Hasan sighed, slumping his shoulders. “You’re asking the wrong guy, dude. All I know is that I’ve gotta lay low, again, and hope that this stuff blows over quickly enough for my life to get back to normal.”
Olivia huffed and shook her head as she spoke up. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to stick your head in some hole just because a bunch of suicidal dumbasses are up to their usual crap.”
“Yeah,” echoed Abigail, joining Bernabé in slapping Hasan’s back. “Don’t worry about a thing, Haz. We’ve got your back.”
Isiah listened half-heartedly to their conversation, as he was already back on his phone and scrolling through other live feeds. There were riots in other parts of the country, calling for a complete immigration ban along with the immediate expulsion of all “non-Americans” as they so eloquently put it. He was both shocked and pissed that these groups were not only able to assemble so quickly but were immediately finding someone to blame—all while bombs and bullets were going off in California.
That’s when the school principal announced over the PA that classes were suspended for the day. Whoops and cheers sounded out from all over the grounds, followed by a mad rush out of the gates. Few of the students heeded the principal’s warning to go straight home, for all they really heard were the magic words ‘classes suspended.’ For many, the terror attacks were simply too far away for them to care.
“So,” Isiah said to no one in particular as he slung his bag over his back. “Anyone up for pizza?”
His gang just glared daggers at him, though they eventually broke down and started making plans for the day.
***
Eddison slurped loudly on his milkshake. Olivia chased the dripping cheese with her knife and fork. Abigail grimaced as she wiped excess grease from her fingernails. Bernabé picked out the anchovies from his slice. Hasan bit down on his slice crust-first. Isiah chewed his lip at the corner, focusing intently on avoiding the enemy that was hunting him down.
They were at Olivia’s place, crowded around the game console in her living room. It was Isiah’s turn to play, and he was the last one left alive on their team; every other member of Isiah’s team had been wiped out by the opposing team. He was up against three other players and was setting up an ambush to catch them off guard. He peered down the scope of his rifle, guarding a corner of the house he was hiding in while keeping a careful watch on the drone’s feed. The drone spotted the three players moving up, the point man carrying a heavy ballistic shield. Unfortunately, the other team also spotted the drone and shot it up to pieces. Isiah uttered a curse and repositioned himself, leaving a remote explosive in a corner of the room before proceeding to an adjoining room. He shushed Bernabé, who taunted him with calls of ‘wussy’ and ‘just die already,’ and strained his ears toward the television set. The gang shut up when they realized what he was trying to do, and even helped shut Bernabé up since he was being a general nuisance to Isiah.
Isiah closed his eyes, listening carefully. He heard the soft taps of footsteps sounding off from the next corner. He detonated the explosive and rushed out, rifle raised, while spraying into the entrance of the room. The lead guy holding the shield was downed by the explosive and crawled off to bleed out. The guy following him took a few rounds to the abdomen and went down into the bleed-out position as well. A rush of delight filled Isiah, but it only lasted until he realized that one of his enemies was missing. The third guy had wisely hung back, however, avoiding both the explosion and Isiah’s blind-fire. The survivor peeked out of a corner and spat a few rounds from his rifle, catching Isiah in the gut. His character went down into the bleed-out position while the third guy leisurely strolled up to him, teabagged him twice, and executed him with a shot to the head.
Interesting, murmured Kurdan within Isiah’s mind, causing Isiah to jump up in fright. His friends didn’t notice it, however, as Bernabé was too busy whooping with joy and grabbing the controller for his next turn at the game.
The orc had been silent for so long that Isiah had completely forgotten about the strange voice that inhabited his mind. Isiah nervously looked around, saw his friends focused entirely on the screen.
“What’s interesting?” thought Isiah, forming the words within his mind while pushing out any other unnecessary thoughts.
“So strange,” replied Kurdan just as Isiah thought the orc couldn’t hear his internal monologuing. “I could almost taste the cowardice in you when you watched the deaths in your little slate. Yet here you are, relishing in your make-believe battles with the same joy that we orcs feel in the heat of real battle.” His subsequent chuckle was laced with contempt. “It’s rather pathetic, really.”
Offended, Isiah couldn’t help but grimace as he stood up from the couch and stepped outside, standing on the veranda of the well-manicured garden outside Olivia’s home.
“They’re not the same,” he thought angrily to Kurdan, “One is just fun and games, the other is reality. I don’t know about you and your crazy people, but me and my kind—we’re not like you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” mocked Kurdan. “The human you watched through your slate, the one who executed the kneeling humans? He didn’t seem to mind the bodies all around him. And you… even in these games of yours, you seemed to enjoy the sight
of dead enemies as much as I do.”
Isiah shuddered, remembering the live stream featuring the attacker’s point of view. He couldn’t understand a word the men uttered, but their voices were filled with pride at a job well done. They didn’t mind certain death if it meant killing ‘infidels’ across the world—the dream of so many terrorists around the world with a hard-on for taking as many with them before they died.
“Mm… terrorist,” said Kurdan, interrupting Isiah’s train of thought even as he absorbed every word passing through the boy’s conscious thoughts. “I like the sound of it, especially since it strikes so much fear in the hearts of weaklings just like you.”
“Stop,” barked Isiah aloud as he took advantage that no one was around to listen in on him. “First of all, screw you if you think that’s a good thing to call yourself. Second, what the hell is going on here?”
Kurdan remained silent, though Isiah could feel the orc’s thoughts churning within his own. “I am not sure,” thought Kurdan. “From what I gather from your thoughts, you have none of the capabilities of a human mage or priest—much less a cabalist or a necromancer, the most likely ones that have the ability to manipulate souls. You don’t even make for a passable slave, with how weak and useless you are.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Isiah murmured, still staring out into Olivia’s garden.
“That does not mean, however, that I will not exact my vengeance when I get out of this prison. You will be the first to die, then I will continue slaughtering every single one of your pathetic kind until I find the weakling that is responsible for trapping me this way.”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Isiah, debating whether he should ignore the voice in his head or seek psychiatric help. Was he going insane? Did someone give him LSD or something when he wasn’t looking? Insane was the most likely explanation, probably some dementia of some kind. Maybe it was something magical?
“Hardly,” barked Kurdan within Isiah’s thoughts. “Your world is so devoid of magic, it’s both laughable and pathetic. You play with your toys, your machines, your tools, yet you do not even know how to tap into what little magic you have at your disposal.” Kurdan’s thoughts turned sinister though, and Isiah could feel the malice roiling from the orc’s presence in his mind. “Speaking of magic… here, let me show you how it is done…”
As soon as Kurdan finished speaking, Isiah felt his chest tighten, his muscles contract, and his vision redden. His arms trembled as red splotches began forming on his skin. His legs turned to jelly, more bruises forming on his legs and calves. Isiah felt something wet and warm rush down his nose. He wiped away the wetness on his lips and reeled as he realized he was wiping away his own blood. Kurdan laughed as he began forcing more of Isiah’s blood to rush out of his body—threatening to pour out of any orifice it could find.
“STOP!” Isiah shouted in his mind. “You do NOT get to mess around with me this way! Just get the HELL out of my head!” The force of his command caused Kurdan’s consciousness to reel back, stunned from the impact of his order.
Kurdan recovered quickly enough before chuckling at Isiah’s expense.
“So the little human weakling can bark,” laughed Kurdan. “We’ll see how long you last when I’m finished with you!”
“Oh my GOD!” Isiah turned around and saw both Olivia and Bernabé staring at him with horror, Olivia with her hands on her mouth and Bernabé with his eyes wide as saucers.
Bernabé stood there dumbfounded, staring at Isiah as blood dripped down his lips and unto the patio tiles. “Dude! You… you’re… holy cow!”
Olivia recovered first, grabbing Isiah and pulling him to a nearby seat. “Go find Maria in the kitchen,” she commanded to Bernabé as she fussed over Isiah. “Ask her to get some ice, wrap it in cloth. Bear? Bear!”
“Whuh?”
Olivia gritted her teeth as she slowed her speech down. “Listen to me: go to the kitchen. Ask for ice wrapped in a cloth. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah… yeah, I’m on it!” Bernabé soon scampered off, leaving Olivia with Isiah.
“It’ll be alright, Zeyah,” said Olivia, rubbing Isiah’s back as she set him down on a chair. “What do you do in these situations again? Um, okay… just… calm down. Pinch your nose here, on the bridge. Not too tight. Now lean forward. Yes, that’s right… that’s right.”
Blood continued dripping from his nose as he and Kurdan tested their wills against one another. The orc battered Isiah’s body with his will, pushing and pulling blood as violently as he could. The boy continued screaming and shouting in his mind, weakening Kurdan’s grasp on his body. It was, however, Isiah’s body. He felt Kurdan’s will weakening, the orc unable to sustain his attacks.
Olivia was so preoccupied with Isiah’s nosebleeds that she didn’t notice the bruises on his arms and legs lighten and disappear. The blood stopped flowing through his nose, the broken capillaries healing on their own. The blood welling behind his eyes fell back, alleviating the pressure he felt behind his eyeballs. His ears lightened up and unclogged as the blood threatening to gush out returned on its own. Isiah’s body soon settled back to normal as Kurdan ceased his attacks, his consciousness tired and beaten.
“Yes,” panted Kurdan in Isiah’s mind. “You do have a little fight in you, don’t you?”
“Oh, screw off,” muttered Isiah, still groggy from his ordeal with Kurdan.
“Well!” huffed Olivia, “Sorry for trying to be helpful, mister grouchy!”
“Huh? Oh, no, I didn’t mean you, Livy.” He shook his head, clearing the last of the dizziness as he stood straight and breathed in a deep lungful of air. “Yeah, sorry about that. Not exactly thinking straight right now.”
Olivia’s irritation morphed into concern as she checked up on Isiah. She was just about to say something when her maid, Maria, burst through the patio doors bearing a bunch of ice wrapped in a hand towel. The rest of the gang followed behind her like a bunch of ducklings, craning their necks and peppering Isiah with questions about his condition. Maria shooed them away, told them to give Isiah space, and handed him the bundle of ice.
“Here,” she said in thickly-accented English. “Put on your nose.” She handed Isiah another towel, this one moist with a little water. “Use this to wipe away blood.”
“Thanks, Maria.”
“Is no problem, Miss Olivia. Should I call ambulance?”
“Holy crap!” Uttered Eddison as he stepped closer, taking care not to step on the puddles of blood. “Dude, if you’re going to bleed to death, at least do it on the grass. I’m betting the tiles and the furniture you just ruined cost more than your house and mine combined!”
“Ha ha,” Olivia said. “Jerk.”
Isiah couldn’t help but chuckle even as he buried his face into the icepack.
***
Isiah sat in front of his desk, tapping away on his laptop. He was busy working on the homework his history teacher had assigned his class and was busy browsing over Wikipedia articles covering the second Iraq War—Operation Iraqi Freedom. Isiah had chosen to do a report on the progression of the war, from the initial invasion to the downsizing to the eventual withdrawal from the area. He’d also cover the results of the war, trying to balance between the positives and negatives of the outcome.
Organizations like Al-Qaeda, ISIS, and the Golden Sword kept popping up like mushrooms from the ruined country and other failed states beside it. The terrorists just seemed to keep on coming, no matter how many bombs and troops America, the EU, Russia, or China sent over.
He brought up maps covering the entire region, zooming in and circling key conflict areas. He reviewed opinion pieces from pundits that both attacked and defended America’s handling of the war. He brushed up on various “what-if” scenarios, from obscure academic research papers posted online to the ramblings of YouTubers with their own tin-foil conspiracies of the matter. He then studied up on America’s performance in other wars of occupa
tion in recent history, such as Operation Just Cause in Panama, Operation Desert Storm in Iraq, Operation Silver Anvil in Sierra Leone, and Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. He even went as far back as the Second World War, studying how America had managed to occupy Germany, Japan, and Korea. All three countries didn’t just survive—they flourished and became staunch allies. They were a pretty far cry from the more recent invasions, which seemed to create more enemies than friends for America. Then again, America had fought against actual states in World War Two, not extremist organizations that twisted religion for their own benefits while hiding behind civilians when the going got tough.
It was late at night when Isiah decided to stop, halfway through his report. He leaned back in his chair and groaned, rubbed the strain out of his dry and tired eyes. He had simply cleaned up and gone home after the incident in Olivia’s mansion, despite the insistence of his friends that he go to the hospital to get checked up. He had waved them off and said that he didn’t want to get into more trouble than he needed to. “Besides,” he said to them as he helped scrub away the blood he had spilled, “my parents are already having a bad enough time with those Golden Sword douchebags stirring up a mess in Cali. Mom’s all worried about Uncle Chunso, and dad’s probably preparing to go on assignment because of this. They don’t need another distraction in their lives.”
He didn’t tell them that an orc was squatting in his head, and that it was responsible for all the blood. He told nobody else about what went on with him as he refused his gang’s offer to chip in and get him a taxi, preferring to take the bus home instead. He didn’t tell his brother and sister as they pestered him to play with them, pretexting that he had homework to do. In reality, he just wanted to lock himself in his room and try to find some way to deal with this thing with Kurdan.