Mason groaned, the pain so intense he gasped until starved for air.
“Beg, dog. I said beg!” Scarface stomped Masons right foot, slamming the heel of his boot atop the fragile toes.
Bones cracked, and Mason let out a guttural howl of pain. The cameraman shoved the lens closer to Mason’s face. Mason’s breath returned as endorphins made an attempt to counter the pain. Mason nodded his head slowly and searched for moisture in his mouth.
“That was too easy, American. Your kind is soft. Too bad your comrades aren’t here to see how fast their leader folds.” Scarface backed away, giving the cameraman more room.
Mason ran his tongue across his front teeth and opened his mouth. With clarity, and with as much distinction as possible, he said, “Fuck you . . . you pig fucking piece of shit.”
The nightstick fell across his collarbone, and Scarface’s left fist smashed Mason in the nose. The room filled with Persian curses as Scarface worked over the American.
Mason closed his eyes. Pain exploded across his arms, thighs, every part of his body. The blows to his head brought a siren-like sound piercing his brain. Teeth broke like chalk, filling his mouth with rubble. Death remained an elusive comforter.
His mind drifted, attempting to escape to a happy place, some place far away from this den of horrors. Mason saw himself playing at the schoolyard on a warm summer’s day. The milk from the morning’s cereal tasted sour in his mouth as he ran, chasing two of his other friends in a game of tag. His body was chunkier back at that age, which had him being ‘It’ for longer than he really cared. His slimmer, faster friends couldn’t resist taunting him—as Matadors engage bulls ready to be jabbed by banderillas. This time he couldn’t catch a break and tag one of his friends. Mason fell to the ground, exhausted.
The world looked different as he lay on his back, one giant, pale blue ocean that presented no obstacles to stand in his way. It offered no perspective of his place in the universe either. There was no point to set an objective to swim to. His insides deflated with loneliness and a total loss of self-worth. Tears welled up in his eyes, diffracting the harsh sun’s rays. He squeezed his eyes shut and ground his back teeth. His sobs grew louder as he unknowingly sought to drown a growing hi-pitched noise in his head.
Scarface backed away from Mason’s still-breathing form. His dishdashah had become a canvas, a crimson splatter of gestural abstraction worthy of display. The nightstick bounced across the floor as he freed his hands to dry them across his thighs.
“I will not let him off this easily. Carry him outside and put him in the ground. We shall cut the heads off the American dogs that die tonight so that they will greet him when he wakes in the morning.” Scarface left the room while the soldiers freed Mason from his restraints.
***
Mason felt something hot and soft hit the back of his head. A cutting shoop sounded, followed by another impact of debris hitting him. Sand ground into the back of his neck between his shirt collar. He couldn’t move his arms, so he shifted his head. The more he turned his head though, the more sand seeped into his clothes.
Weakly, he opened his eyes to stare across the desert sands inside a military-style compound. From his vantage point, Mason saw several buildings and a fortified wall. To one side, a series of metal poles contorted into what he imagined to be an obstacle course. A tower manned with a machine gun perched over the edge stood vigil just beyond. Mason was coherent enough to realize that he was in a terrorist training camp and buried up to his neck in sand. Sand so hot his skin felt as if it were cooking.
Boots and a dishdashah blocked his view. The garment rose, exposing legs. Warm, acrid liquid hit the top of Mason’s head, and cascaded down his face.
“You looked hot, American. Your only relief is my piss to cool you off.”
Mason lowered his head and closed his eyes. Urine dripped from his upper lip down his chin. He expelled huffs of air to keep it out of his nose and mouth.
The shower of bodily waste stopped. Scarface backed away just far enough for Mason to see him in full view. He stood victorious, defiant as if the final battle had been won and the last American was about to die by his hand.
The horizon swallowed the last bit of sun. The wind kicked up and cooled Mason through the dank wetness.
“Very soon, the information given to us by your cowardly friend will bear fruit. We shall harvest American eyes. Hearts. Their very souls. We will bring them here for you to see. We will make you beg your countrymen to leave Iraq so that no more have to die.” Scarface held up a syringe. “You will be made powerless to resist our will.”
A low hum reached Mason’s ears and steadily increased in volume. Scarface jerked his head about as he searched the fast-darkening sky. A banshee howled from above, streaking through the night. It came to an abrupt end at the largest building in the compound. The building shattered in an explosion of bright orange and yellows. The shockwave that followed hit Mason like a two-by-four across the face.
Scarface hit the sand and sprawled on his stomach, hands tented over his head. The second blast hit the tower, lighting it like a torch, as a chorus of terror-filled screams and yells tightened the confusion.
Rotating blades swooped in, cutting the desert air, vibrating the earth. They were followed by barks from 30mm chain guns. The rounds hit the sand digging shallow trenches. Mason felt wind from projectiles narrowly missing him on either side and watched their trails charge forward, peppering Scarface as he lay on the ground, across his head and back.
AK-47s rattled in the background, and Mason caught M16s answering back with authority. There was no doubt in his mind that the United States Army would win this battle with relative ease. What he did doubt, was that he would be alive to witness the victory.
Chaos reigned in the firefight with ululations intended to strike fear in the heart of the interlopers. Mason’s mouth formed a weary grin as the battle cries were snuffed out one by one.
Rifle fire diminished to sporadic bursts. Multiple boots hitting the sand and orders given, told Mason that his mission was about to come to an end, finally.
“Hey, Captain! Over here. I think we found one of ’em. He’s alive, I think. Someone get a medic!” A U.S. Army Private First Class had come within ten feet of Mason and had his flashlight out scanning the buried man’s face.
“Help . . . me.” Mason’s words were barely audible.
A large figure approached, stooped down, and wiped sand and crusted blood from Mason’s brow with his hand. He didn’t hide a grimace. “Good God, man. How bad off are you?” As the man waited for Mason to respond, he called, “Get some men over here and dig this soldier out! Where is that damn medic?” He returned his attention to Mason. “I’m Captain Hart. There were three of you. Where are the other two? Can you tell me where the other two are? Are they . . .”
Hart stopped speaking while Mason shook his head. Hart rose from his feet and placed both hands on his hips. He coughed as the wind shifted, forcing smoke laced with the smell of burning debris and flesh into his face.
Within minutes, Mason was out of the hole. Two medics attended to his care. One gave him a sip of bottled water as the other cleaned his smashed face, taking care to wipe away all the sand and grit that had become impacted in his wounds.
“Find out his name.” Hart lit a cigar.
The rich, leathery flavor drifted down on Mason and replaced the petroleum essence of war.
“He says his name is Mason Guillot.” A medic called out.
A soldier ran out of the gloom. “We found the other two,” and shook his head.
Hart dropped his gaze and spit out a bit of tobacco. As he turned to leave, the medic called again.
“He’s trying to tell us something.”
Mason lay on his back and brushed the medics away. He managed to call Hart over with a hand gesture. The Captain’s expression showed he was impressed that the soldier still had the ability to ask for his presence.
Hart expelled a cloud of Do
minican pride and knelt by the injured warrior. “What is it, son?”
“They know . . . mission . . . Khan Bani Sad . . .”
“Save your strength, solider. There is no mission into Khan Bani Sad. Never was.” Hart took another puff off the cigar.
Mason’s eyes widened, struck by the fiercest blow yet. He lifted his arm and placed his hand on Hart’s forearm. “W-what?”
“The Army knew there were Iraqi soldiers working with us on the base that were in cahoots with this terrorist. We just didn’t know which ones. Your team was given false information where our next strike in Iraq would be. Not only that, but we leaked your last mission. The informant got the news to the insurgents. They were waiting for you even before you entered the hotel. They also knew you were members of the invading team and would have the strike location.” Hart looked away. “What we didn’t figure on, was that they would kill any of you before the rescue. We expected you to break and give up the location. The insurgents normally keep prisoners alive for weeks, even months to use as bargaining chips.”
Mason lifted his brow. “You used us for bait?”
“No, son. War is a chess match. You were pawns sent to protect your king. The plan didn’t go as anticipated. Happens sometimes.”
Mason dug his fingers into Hart’s forearm. “You sent us here to die?”
“No, I told you we sent you here to give a false location. The insurgents at the base were captured right after they set the IEDs along the roadside. We let them return to the base before we arrested them, gave them time to report to their leader over here that their mission was a success. We got your location out of them in no time. You’re a hero, son.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m a sacrifice.” Mason’s fingers dug deeper into Hart’s flesh.
“The Army had a problem that needed taken care of. Orders are orders. You have no right to question orders.” Hart tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t. “Let go, son. You are in a lot of pain. Damn rag-heads fucked you up good. Once you get all fixed up, you’ll see we did the right thing.”
With renewed vigor, Mason squeezed Hart’s arm with the last of his strength.
Hart yelped and tore his arm away in a sudden jerk.
Mason felt bits of wet skin underneath his nails just before a blanket of darkness covered his mind. He quickly succumbed to unconsciousness, and was granted the peace he had been desperately craving.
Insurgent Z is available from Amazon here
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
Rancid: A Zombie Novel Page 23