A Devil in the Midst (A Collection of Stories)

by Nathaniel Fincham

A Devil in the Midst

 

  …Vincent is silly, Pau. He misses you too. I know it. He sleeps all day long. I feed him his favorite treats and everything. But he still won’t play catch or anything. Mom said that he is heartbroken, whatever that means. You get my camel yet…

  “I don’t think you should wake him, Paul,” Tori called from the kitchen, insisting, but Paul was already slowly approaching the closed bedroom door. A half-full milk carton in her hand, Tori waved it back and forth to emphasize her point, “He cried himself to sleep, again. Poor guy.” She put the milk back into the fridge without pouring a single drop.

  “That is why I need to do this,” Paul replied. He tried to keep his tone a couple notches below his normal inside voice. “I have to make this right. To him at least.” Tori swiftly turned her face away and Paul immediately felt a sting, the same sting that Tori must have been given by the words that Paul said. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know…Paul,” Tori replied, taking the milk back out of the fridge. It was a direct opposite of her ebony skin, as was Paul’s own milky skin. But he always loved the contrast. The challenges of making the opposites work. Paul enjoyed challenges. Getting Tori to love him had been one. And the fact that Tori had a little boy had been the biggest challenge of his life. He became a boyfriend and a father figure at the same instant. But Caleb was beautiful and simple. Paul presently had another challenge in front of him, though, one seemingly impossible. He had to reassure a 7-year-old boy that he would be coming back, even though there was a good chance he wasn’t going to.

  Paul took a deep inhale and wished he didn’t have to let the air go. Reluctantly, he released the breath and gently knocked on Caleb’s door. “Caleb? Are you awake?”

  “Aren’t you gone yet?” The words hurt, but they were of anger and of love.

  “Can I come in?” Paul was turning the knob before the question fully left him. “I need to talk to you, buddy.” Sticking his head through a newly form crack, Paul added, “It’s important. It is guy stuff. That is why your mother is hiding in the kitchen. She is afraid of guy stuff.” Paul tried to smile.

  “I guess,” Caleb mumbled. “Make it quick. I have school tomorrow and need my beauty sleep.”

  The dark room was beginning to focus and Paul could finally make out Caleb’s small form lying on his bed. Paul started a step forward, but then paused and said, “I almost forgot. I have a friend out here that wants to partake in some guy stuff too. He is a guy, so it should be alright. Right?”

  Caleb perked up. “Who is out there?”

  “Can he come in too?”

  Caleb quickly nodded.

  Pushing the door fully open, Paul let go of the blue leash he had been tightly grasping. Vincent rushed toward the bed, his black fur nearly blending with the air of the dark bedroom. Putting his two front paws onto the top of the bed, Vincent began to viciously lick any part of Caleb that was uncovered.

  Caleb giggled happily. It was the most perfect sound. For 3 days Paul had hoped to see or hear happiness from the little boy.

  Paul found his way to the side of the bed, standing directly behind the spunky black mutt. “Would you like Vincent to stay with you for a while?”

  “You mean it?”

  “I want him to be here so that he can protect you, look out for you,” Paul began, “at least until I can come back and take over again. How does that sound? Caleb? Sound like a plan?”

  Caleb took his attention away from Vincent to ask, “Are you ever coming back, Paul?” The hurt made his voice quiver.

  “Of course,” Paul assured Caleb. “No matter where I go, I will always come back. I promise.”

  “Paul?” Caleb perked up again as he fought away the oncoming tears. Rubbing the tip of Vincent’s right ear, Caleb asked, “Will you bring me back a camel?”

  Paul laughed out loud. “I will see what I can do, buddy.”

  …Pastor Jared asked about you the other day. He wanted to know if you were keeping the sand out of your butt crack. It was so funny. You should have seen his face. It got so red. You would have loved it…

  The small church was bright and the air was filled with the deep voice of Pastor Jared, his fabulous tenor tone vibrating through the speakers as he spoke into the black microphone. “And in the end, in the end, Jesus walked out of that dessert pure and still without sin. He had looked Satan square in the eye and said…NO THANK YOU. He would not sin. He would not be seduced by evil. He would not serve in Hell. He would rule in Heaven, without regret, side by side with the almighty. He denounced the temptation of Satan and left the desert far behind him. All I can say is Amen to that. Do you agree with that statement?” Sweat was rolling down the Pastor’s forehead and puddling along his neck, just above the spot of white on his color.

  “Amen!” The congregation rang out. Robinson shouted the word loudly, picturing what it would be like to be tempted in the desert. Satan seems to rule in such lands as those, dry and without mercy. “Amen,” Robinson repeated in a small breath.

  Robinson slipped his arm in and wrapped it around the back of Tori, who was sitting next to him, with Caleb on her lap. Her purple dress made her dark skin look like smooth caramel. Like a little gentleman, Caleb was very handsome in his dress pants and tie. Leaning over, he dabbed both of them on the sides of their faces with his lips. He was kissing two angels, those who will keep him pure in the desert. “I love you guys.”

  Tori glanced over at Robinson and smirked, “I love you too.”

  “Pay attention,” Caleb ordered with a whisper. “I’m trying to praise Jesus here and you two are too loud.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Tori replied.

  Robinson smiled. Moments like that were what he would take with him into the desert, and they would help him fight the devils that he would surely encounter there. There will be devils in the desert, in many forms, right in the midst of the war, ready to corrupt and conquer those who fight. They would make the pure twist themselves into demons in order to win the fight. Not him, Robinson swore. It would not happen to him.

  “At this time I would like everyone to bow their heads,” Pastor Jared requested, “so that we can say a prayer for Private Robinson and his family. Private Robinson is being sent to the belly of the beast over in Afghanistan, where the war against terror rages strong. The times will be harsh and death will be apparent everywhere, along with the dirty deeds that men are capable of. Him and his family, his girlfriend Tori and her son Caleb, will need God’s love to endure such a hard time. All together now, let us pray.”

  Everyone lowered their eyes.

  “Dear Lord,” Pastor Jared began, “we are sending another one of our own to fight in your name. He fights evil for you, Oh Lord, and we would like to ask one thing from you. Please, Lord, keep this good man safe so that he can return to his loved ones, whole and pure in heart. He will fight for you, tooth and nail, please, Lord keep him in your favor and fight for him as he fights for you. In your name we pray, Amen.”

  “Amen!”

  “Amen,” Robinson whispered.

  …I know that you don’t want me to say this to you, Paul, and my words might be falling on deaf ears…but…don’t be a hero over there. Keep your head down and come back in one solid piece. This war has been going on for a long time and will go on long after you are dead of old age. Come back to me, Paul. That is all that I am asking of you…

  Private Robinson listened closely to the recorded words. The memories attached to them could not be stopped, not even by the strongest and tallest damn built. They were too strong a river and the fear was too sharp a force and his life had nothing better to do than flash before Robinson’s eyes. Tori. Caleb. Their voice reached out to him from thousands of miles away. Even so, through the tiny recording device that Robinson had hid in his flack pocket, they were both beside him.


  Another loud explosion erupted outside, shaking the walls of the rickety house in which Robinson sat. He kept his back in a corner so that he could see the entire living room and kitchen of the house. No one was going to sneak up on him.

  A thin candle flickered, casting dancing shadows which swayed around a long couch and short table. The house was silent, but Robinson was ready to react to any person who might enter, friend or foe.

  The hole in the bottom corner of his gut was still pouring blood, even after Robinson forcibly removed the piece of shrapnel and patched it with the few bandages he had stashed on him. White cloths soaked up as much liquid as they could hold but it wouldn’t take long for them to reach their limits. He needed help.

  A jolt of pain shot from the wound, causing Robinson’s vision to sway like the candle and shadows. His ears range, and for a brief moment Robinson swore he heard deep laughing all around him. Shaking it off, Robinson grabbed his M-9 pistol and eased himself to his feet.

  Robinson placed himself along the side of a window, directly out of view. Groupings of gunfire could still be heard beyond the walls of the house, seemingly coming from every side of the building. Slowly, Robinson peeked through the corner of the window, just enough to get an idea of what was going on outside, along with where the other soldiers in his unit were.

  Darkness and outlines and an occasional flash of a weapon were all that Robinson could make out. Robinson recognized the Humvee, which remained several feet beyond the window, destroyed and useless. Robinson hoped that Pattern, Danny, and Sergeant Roberts had gotten out too. They had had little warning. Only seconds to react. “Damn,” he whispered, and the vibration of the word made his gun curse back at him. Robinson fought off a dizzy spell and tried to focus his eyes.

  …I love you, baby…

  He thought about trying the comm. again but knew there would be a lot of static, like there was the first and second time he tried. It had been broken during the explosion that shredded the armored Humvee.

  Finally taking the earphone away, Robinson tucked the white device back into a pocket. The recording had come in the mail a week ago, filled with messages for him. It was the greatest thing that the mail had ever delivered to him. The device, though, should have never left base, but Robinson had the urge to sneak it, never honestly believing he would risk listening to it. It helped just having it near.

  Robinson strained his eyes so that he might be able see motion in the darkness. He wished that he had something that could see through the dense night, like night vision goggles. Only high ranking officers got things like that. Because of the never ending Depression, all Robinson was armed with were weapons that have been obsolete since 2012. He was given ancient tools to fight an ancient war. Irony was a bitch.

  Terrorist sects had better funding than the United States Military, which might be why the war on terror will never end, not the way that Americans want it to anyway.

  Footsteps. From somewhere in the house. Running.

  Robinson turned in time see a figure enter the kitchen through a side door, one that Robinson himself had not even noticed. The click clack of a weapon was easy to spot, and Robinson dove toward the side of the couch to avoid its wrath.

  As the wood of the wall became shredded by bullets, Robinson threw up his pistol and blind fired in the direction of the shooter. After 4 shots the spring jammed and the pistol became useless. But the cry and the wet thud told Robinson that he had hit his target at least once.

  Leading with the pistol, as if it were still deadly, Robinson stood up and slowly approached a gasping enemy. Rounding the couch, Robinson saw the enemy very clearly. Dying on his side. A young boy. Barely a teenager. Light brown skin. A little lighter than Caleb’s. Robinson had hit him in the chest and the right side of the face, and with his remaining eye the young boy stared viciously at Robinson. No. Not at Robinson. But past him. The boy was glaring so hard that Robinson turned, thinking there might be someone behind him. There wasn’t. Only dancing shadows.

  As the boy’s breathing quickened toward death, Robinson knelt to one knee so that he may pray for him. But the words were never uttered. They were cut short by shuffling feet and the creaking of an opening door. Click clack. Click clack. Swiftly dropping his spent M-9, Robinson snatched the AK-90 from the dying boy.

  The attacker was too close too fast and Robinson was unable to swing the rifle and fire. With a lunge, Robinson swung and connected the side of the rifle with the face of the attacker. The attacker stumbled and Robinson struck again. The swing hit, but Robinson lost his footing in the blood of the dying boy and tumbled forward, losing his grip of the gun during the motion. Robinson shifted his weight and aimed his falling body at the attacker, hoping to catch the person off guard.

  Landing on the attacker’s legs, Robinson immediately punched him twice in the groin, taking away whatever fight the person might have had left. Crawling and then straddling, Robinson looked into the face of the attacker as he began to choke the life from him. A middle aged man. Stubbled face. Grey hair. The boy’s father, obviously. The one who had taught the young boy how to loathe. The person who had taught him how to kill. Tightening the grip of both his hands, Robinson watched as the man thrashed and struggled until there was no more hatred left for him to struggle with.

  Quickly getting up, Robinson took the AK-90 from the dead man along with the clip from the dead boy’s gun. He then ran through the door they had both came in through, hurriedly fleeing before someone else decided to arrive.

  The door ended up being a back exit, putting Robinson back out into the night, onto a small narrow street that appeared to be empty. Once outside, Robinson tensed and quickly scanned the street, looking up and down, back and forth, using the barrel of the AK-90 as a finger. There was no motion that Robinson noticed, but the obtuse night could be hiding anything. Even Satan himself.

  A sharp thunder banged, followed by a ball of fire rising over a distant building. Robinson then heard a massive onslaught of machine gun fire somewhere close. Even though it was empty, the street was far from safe.

  Trying to keep his body moving, Robinson headed toward the nearest corner of the building. But before he managed a single step, his body jolted and then numbed, and Robinson sank heavily to his knees. He refused to cry out.

  Vertigo took away his center of gravity and Robinson thought he was flying to Heaven. Glancing to his backside, Robinson searched for outstretched white wings, but only found a pale naked figure lurking closely, staring curiously at Robinson. The figure flickered and then was gone. It was never there. It was never there, Robinson assured himself.

  Gravity would not hold him, Robinson swore before pushing himself back to his feet. Instantly, the rifle was back up and Robinson was moving forward, toward and around the corner of the building.

  Immediately Robinson came upon 2 figures, whispering in what seemed like gibberish to an untrained ear. Before they could call out for help, Robinson fired shots into both of the men’s midsections, dropping them neatly. Rushing by, Robinson put another pair of shots into their foreheads and then moved on.

  Returning to the main street, where his group had been brutally ambushed, Robinson halted and remained partially contained within the alley. The night would hide him for once. Suddenly a flare was shot and spread into the sky, lighting up the massacre before him. The thick cloak of darkness was so much better, because the light often revealed wicked truths.

  …There will be evil, Brother Robinson, all around you, naked and thriving on darkness. Stay true to what you believe is right and the devils can’t touch you. Do the good work and you will always find a way home…

  Soldiers were dead, blown to nothing but bits of flesh and blood. Their bodies were contorted, frozen in their final fury and fear. Robinson lost his breath as he looked upon his dead friends, but was quickly filled with rage. Was th
ere anyone from his unit still alive besides himself? There was fighting going on in the distance, Robinson could hear it.

  Why him? Of all those in his unit why did he survive? Luck. Anyone who survived combat owed it to luck and nothing more. Not God, because the Lord would never chose one man over many to survive. Would he?

  10 feet away Robinson saw Pattern; his dark skin reflected the red glow of the falling flare. Pattern twitched. Or did he? Robinson wasn’t sure if it was a trick of light but it appeared that Pattern might be breathing, alive. Robinson tried to peer closer as the light from the flair began to fade. And then Pattern turned his head as if to glance in Robinson direction, as if asking Robinson for help.

  Trying not to think, Robinson checked his flack and helmet and rifle, making sure everything was ready before he scanned the immediate area and then darted toward Pattern. His rifle never went down and his eyes took in everything at once. He was well aware how stupid the rush was, but he couldn’t let Pattern die too, not if he could save him. It was that good work he always heard about.

  Muzzle flash from a roof. Bullets whizzed by his face as Robinson turned and fired in return. Pieces of the roof’s ledge shattered forcing the shooter to back away for cover.

  Robinson hurried, trying to jog faster, but his gut throbbed and vomit was near to his throat.

  A pair of gunmen ran into the street from an alleyway. Robinson was quick to spread a straight line of bullets across the 2 men, sending them sprawling to the ground, but not before one of them got a shot off. Robinson felt the sting of metal entering his hip, just below the flack. He stumbled but continued on.

  Reaching Pattern, Robinson could see that he was definitely living, barely. The rooftop shooter once again sent bullets whizzing by Robinson. Snatching the last grenade that Patter had on his flack, Robinson launched it up and onto the roof. It exploded, but Robinson didn’t wait to see if the threat was gone.

  Grabbing Pattern’s jacket, Robinson began to drag the large man back towards the alleyway he had come out of. Pattern was heavy and Robinson was hurting but adrenaline made anything possible.

  Once they were beyond the alley entrance Robinson’s legs gave and he tumbled to the ground. Crawling, he got his body back over to Pattern, searching frantically for a working comm. “Hang in there, big guy,” Robinson told Pattern. “I can be your angel. Big white ass angel.”

  Pattern spoke but Robinson had to lean in to hear it. “They tricked you, Soldier.”

  And then Robinson saw the light, flashing like a beacon of death. Away he tried to scramble but the detonation was too soon to completely escape from. Flesh and hair struck Robinson from behind, and flying bone forced itself into any unprotected surface. He went down hard at the center of the alley.

  The air was filled with static. Robinson looked up and tried to make sense of the world. A pale and naked figure was coming down the alley toward him, moving with smoothness of a snake. There was a smirk on the man’s face. He was enjoying Robinson’s humiliated fate.

  As the figure drew closer, Robinson could see speckles of blood all over the man’s skin. Stooping down, the naked man got nose to nose with Robinson and began to laugh. Hysterically. But also with slight frustration. No matter how close he got, the pale man never touched Robinson and Robinson was thankful.

  And then Robinson faded to black, hoping for a white light.

  …There will be evil, Brother Robinson, all around you, naked and thriving on darkness. Stay true to what you believe is right and the devils can’t touch you. Do the good work and you will always find a way home…

  Be Still