by Sating, Paul
This blessed deployment made me lose focus on important things like this, maybe a warning sign that I needed to pay attention again. Wasn't that what Tamika meant when she told me to think about the impact a single person can have on others? Her comment wasn't only aimed at some grand, global perspective because I was an American soldier. She may have meant I needed to think about times like these, when I could make things better, even between just two friends I'd known for a few thousand years who needed to heal their relationship.
"Oh, okay," Bilba said. "We haven't chilled together in a while. I miss our conversations."
"Me too," Ralrek answered, sounding less invested than Bilba.
I changed the topic because I'd failed them both and had no idea how to rescue them from themselves. "Heard we're going back into Khadra tomorrow."
"Supposedly," Bilba said curtly, his eyes lingering on our tall, handsome friend.
"You're just hoping to see that nurse again, aren't you?" Ralrek said through squinty eyes as he examined me. I saw the playfulness on his lips, a playfulness he had not displayed to Bilba.
"You guys make it sound like I have a thing for any female who crosses my path."
"You do!" The pair said, synchronized.
I didn't appreciate their instantaneous agreement when they typically could not agree on the color of the sky. We shared a laugh just the same, a moment that nearly covered the whistle of a mortar through the air.
"Shit," I said, climbing down from the bleachers and walking to the overhang a few feet away. The tug-of-war stopped, and the players moved behind the closest T-wall barriers.
Bilba laughed when we were underneath cover.
"What's so funny?"
He pointed up. "Remember when an inbound mortar made us scramble and dive for cover? Now look at us. We can barely be bothered to stop a tug-of-war session."
I snorted and nodded.
"I think they're called matches, not sessions," Ralrek said.
"And I think that proves his point," I said, sitting at one of the picnic tables under the overhang. We waited. The mortar struck, somewhere in the black night, on the other side of the runway. None of us flinched, then, or when the shock wave sailed across the volleyball court, rippling the net.
Silence followed. A solitary attack.
"Probably some drunk Russian getting off a volley when his NCO wasn't watching," Ralrek said with a smirk.
I snorted, imagining him do something similar if the Army ever gave us access to mortars.
Bilba exhaled slowly.
"What's on your mind, bud?"
He grimaced. "Do you think we'll get so lax about these attacks that we'll get ourselves in trouble one time? Look at us; they could kill us if the Russians get lucky, and we're just hanging out near picnic tables. What will we be like in another month? What if we are in the path of the next one?"
Ralrek and I looked at each other. I considered the question. We still had so long to go. Bilba was right. I was completely relaxed on the picnic table. The attack interrupted a meaningless tug-of-war match, and some players grumbled. Yesterday, the soldiers in the recreation tent bitched because the power went out after an attack, cutting off the air conditioning and the movie marathon. Most soldiers only took cover out of automated responses and peer pressure now, but even the NCOs gave lazy commands when they demanded hustle. What was it going to be like in the next months or as we neared the end of our rotation?
I tilted my head. "I used to think how weird it would be to go back to the Underworld and not worry about death raining from the sky. You know, until you asked that, I can't remember the last time I even thought about that."
"Yeah, weird," Ralrek said in a flat voice.
Damn Tamika. It seemed like all of us had something to think about.
***
We took the long way into Khadra for the next patrol, heading north on Highway 1 and looping back once we reached Highway 97.
The convoys were more enjoyable as things around the city settled after the United States and its allies gained a stronger foothold, pushing the Russians across the Tigris. It also helped that Smith had been our last casualty. Time had passed, giving us time to numb, but not forget—I would never forget.
Progress manifest when we passed a busy market and no one shot us a dirty look. As we rolled by the police station, a pair of officers actually waved in greeting. I waved back, possibly too enthusiastically by the way they yanked their arms down, but the spirit of positivity encouraged me. However, even as tensions eased around the western half of the city at the pull back, rumors of insurgents using mosques as recruiting grounds and observation posts lingered. I never felt comfortable whenever we were near one—and it had nothing to do with Yahweh getting so many gorgeous buildings while Lucifer didn't have a single one dedicated to him.
The convoy stopped a few blocks deeper into Khadra and emptied. We might be cocky and comfortable while on the Baghdad International Airport complex of Army posts, but out here, we followed the rules and protocols.
"Jones, take your squad back down that street," Sergeant Rogers told our squad leader, newly installed after Sergeant Smith's passing. It wasn't the same with Jones. He had a harsher, rougher accent that made his words sound different, yet similar. I didn't know anything about Massachusetts, but if everyone there sounded like he did, even my immortal nature wouldn't help me understand a blessed thing anyone from there said.
"Stay smart," Jones said as we broke off and began our patrol.
I had a spring in my step as we rounded the corner. Tamika's clinic was only a block ahead. We would pass right by it during the patrol, and I was looking forward to possibly crossing paths with her again. "Sergeant Jones, can we check in on the clinic and thank the doctor? See if she needs anything from us?" Jones didn't need to know that Tamika wasn't a doctor, and he did not need to know I wanted to thank her for challenging me to think; he just needed to grant my request.
"When we get to it, sure," he said curtly. "But focus on your surroundings right now. Situational awareness. This is war."
Bilba covered my groan with a fabricated cough. Jones sounded like he tried to memorize all of Sergeant Smith's one-liners so he could build an air of authority, even though the military already awarded him with the formal variety.
As we neared Tamika's clinic, activity buzzed outside the front door. My instincts spurred me forward, but we were in formation and were not allowed to break it. Still, the urge to break and run was strong. Each step seemed intentionally slow.
We were close enough to overhear the conversation of the small cluster of women gathered by the door. Those whose faces I could see appeared upset. The one in a niqab was crying. I checked with Bilba and Ralrek. They heard too.
"Stay calm," Bilba whispered carefully.
I focused on the crowd to keep my face straight and avoid drawing attention from the humans because still, after all this time, I had not come up with an explanation for how I could speak Arabic.
"What are they saying?" Sergeant Jones asked Muhammad.
"They are upset. They have," Muhammad said, stopping abruptly to listen. Then he nodded when he had the gist of the conversation. Heat flushed up my neck at what the crowd was discussing. "There is an adolescent boy in the clinic. A car bomb went off in his neighborhood about half an hour ago and he is severely injured."
Sergeant Jones spun, raising a balled fist, palm forward, our sign to a halt. "Be on your toes, soldiers. We've got possible heat."
He radioed Sergeant Rogers to relay the details. The rising adrenaline from the squad was palpable as rifles were pulled from shoulders and heads jerked to scan the street ahead, behind, and above. I almost didn't recognize my hand slipping to my hip, feeling for Creed. Secured in the pocket inside my pants, I played it off by checking my ammo.
We hustled to the clinic now that Jones knew something serious went down, telling Muhammad to check in with the women to see if they needed help. I couldn't see Tamika fast enough. S
he had to be okay, because the crowd was here. It had to be Tamika who was treating him; I hoped.
As Muhammad approached the crowd, many of whom eyed us with suspicion, I drifted closer to Jones, feeling that if I kept the conversation between the two of us, I wouldn't put him in an awkward spot. "Sir, do you mind if I check in with a doctor?"
"She's tending to a patient," he said sternly, not pulling his eyes from our interpreter and the group of women.
"I understand that, sir. But we need to maintain relations in the neighborhood if we want good intel. I figure a couple seconds of her time will do that. She's an American, sir. We need to do right by her."
He considered my argument. "Make it quick. Don't disrupt her. Don't need these Iraqis turning on us."
I dashed past the cluster as a woman with a youthful voice mentioned a small group of insurgents holed up in a building down the street. I figured Muhammad would pass along the message to Sergeant Jones. Time was imperative here. I yanked open the door and bolted inside.
Wailing greeted me as I entered the room. A weary man desperately held a woman about his age, presumably his wife. She was crumbled in his arms, the source of the wailing. Tears left trails on his dirty face.
They stood next to the bed in the corder of the room where a small boy lay. Tamika and Afra, her aged dagger-shooting eyes turned down, tended to him on bed sheets soaked in blood and smeared dirt. The boy only had one leg; the remains of the other in ragged shreds just below the knee.
Afra was assisting Tamika, holding a towel. She took the one, heavy with blood, from Tamika and handed the nurse a clean towel.
I rushed to them. "Can I help?"
Tamika looked up, her brows pinched together and mouth opened in response until she saw who I was. Her scowl shook before softening and disappearing. She wiped a forearm across her forehead, leaving behind a trail of pink in her loosely–curled hair. "Grab more towels from the back room."
I raced into the back, scanning the room. Medical equipment, generic bottles of prescription drugs, the aforementioned towels, and even a small refrigerator crowded every inch of wall. I grabbed a stack of towels and dashed into the front room.
"What should I do with these?"
Tamika looked up, her eyes welling with tears as she frantically worked to staunch the blood flow from the boy's missing leg. "Give me a clean one and hold the rest until I need you."
I did as she ordered and stepped out of the way, glancing at the terrified family just a few feet away. I wanted to reach out, to comfort them. I hadn't noticed when I first entered, but the family had another child with them. A girl of no more than four years, her wide eyes watched.
I turned to Afra. "Where did this happen?" I said in Arabic.
Tamika's head flicked in my direction and then returned to the boy. The little old woman, not bothering to cover her graying hair, answered while keeping her eyes on the patient.
"I'm not sure. They say it was near the butcher's shop. Three blocks south," she said in her native tongue, pointing with a bent finger as if I could see the building.
"Insurgents?"
She gave a succession of head shakes, as if trying to loosen the thoughts from a clouded mind. "I don't know. We've been busy trying to save this young boy's life. God willing, we will."
"See? This is what happens when you blessed soldiers can't put down your guns for more than a day," Tamika said through a shaking voice as she applied pressure to the boy's leg. Sweating, she pressed. "Afra, hold this. I need to elevate it."
The older woman dropped the bloody towel on the floor, where it splunked, and went to the bed. She leaned over the boy, taking over for Tamika. Spinning on her stool, the nurse snagged a pillow from the empty bed behind her and carefully, but expediently, elevated the boy's leg.
No matter how quickly she moved, no matter what she did, he was losing more blood. Her eyes were locked on the leg even as she said, "If you just let these people live in peace, none of this would happen. This boy's life, if I can save it, has changed forever because of men playing God."
I knew she was not personally attacking me. Standing in her clinic, I represented everything she was working against because I wore a military uniform. I hadn't even shared her ideological impact, and I would not get to it today, but I wanted to tell her how deeply I understood why she was so upset. To be honest, this upset me too. The boy looked tiny on the bed, his face beaded in sweat, the bleeding was the only real sign he was still alive judging from his pallid complexion. I sent a thought of gratitude to Lucifer that the boy was unconscious, hoping he wasn't able to recognize what was happening. That time would come soon enough.
"I'm sorry, Tamika," I said in a hoarse voice.
More water. More pressure. More blood. This was a losing fight.
"Sorrys don't save lives," she growled.
I stepped back.
Sweat dripped from Tamika's forehead as she worked feverishly. The leg looked worse with each passing second. Without looking at Afra, Tamika ordered, "We need to get a new IV and blood bag. You," she said to me, "take the family out of here. Say anything you have to since it's obvious you speak Arabic. Just get them out."
I swallowed and removed my helmet and set my rifle by the bed. Sergeant Jones would kill me if he saw what I was doing. But reducing the amount of body armor I was wearing would make me appear as normal to humans as a demon with white skin in the middle of Baghdad could. I took a few tentative steps toward the family, careful to not scare them. I softened my expression and tried to hide my worry.
I put my hands out to show them I wasn't a threat. "I'm so sorry about your child. The doctor is working very hard, but she needs to concentrate. She asked me to have you step outside so she can help your son."
The wife crumbled against her husband. He almost fell as he tried to hold her upright. The little girl scooted closer to him. Once he had a secure grip on his wife, he wrapped his arm around his daughter. "We're not leaving him," he said in a voice that shook like an earthquake was rolling through it.
"I understand," I said softly. "But she needs to focus. Please help her do that. She understands how difficult of a request this is, but she pleads with you to honor it so she can help him."
The father's eyes searched mine, examining me to see if I was trustworthy. Without a word, he guided his grieving wife and frightened daughter outside.
I exhaled deeply and started to turn around when I froze in mid-step at an icy feeling creeping over my neck and face, the only exposed areas of skin. My hand slapped against my leg, sliding into the cargo pocket for Creed.
Someone was conjuring.
I spun, still clumsily trying to yank Creed free. If I didn't die in this moment, I would need to rethink where I hid it.
Afra was crying in the back room, mournfully calling out in prayer to Yahweh.
Tamika was over the boy. And she was conjuring.
Water magic. Tamika was a demon!
I moved to the end of the bed and watched the nurse's hands move over the boy's knees in opposite circular motions. Water poured over his leg, and then she reversed the direction and the stream dulled to a bluish–white. With his leg set in ice, stopping the flow of blood, Tamika took a deep breath and wrapped it with the only clean bandages she had left. I stood by speechless, willing Lucifer to keep my squad busy gathering intel about the insurgents. When she finished, Tamika looked at me, her eyes unblinking as she measured my reaction.
I released Creed and pulled my hand out of my pocket.
"Afra, please bring the next IV," Tamika said, her eyes still locked on mine. She had been sitting rigidly in the chair, but now stood and crossed her arms. "I imagine you don't understand what just happened, but I need you to promise me something."
I didn't know who she was or what her Abilities were. Her magic was relatively low level, definitely a minor demon, and most likely why I did not sense she was one of my kind before. I needed to play this tightly. "Of course. Name it."
"What
you saw," she said carefully, "Tell no one about it. If I … if I hadn't done that, he would have definitely died, and I can't lose him. It might be hard to understand, but I need you to believe me. There isn't an explanation for what I did, but it needed to be done. For him."
The boy's breaths were slower now, the sweat beads evaporating from his forehead. Rest had come.
For the first time, Tamika sounded vulnerable.
Glancing toward the back room where Afra was retrieving the IV and blood bags, I asked, "Does she know that you're a demon?"
Tamika stepped backward, placing her hand on her chest. "What are you talking about?" She tried to laugh.
Thank Lucifer she was a great health care provider, because she was a lousy actor. I pointed at the boy as if he provided the evidence to solidify my opinion. "That was Water magic. Only a demon can use it."
I sensed the icy tingle of a new spell long before her hands moved. I stepped to her, grabbing her wrists and pinning her arms to her side. She flinched at my sudden touch. I leaned in, smelling her sweat, the payment for a saving a mortal's life.
"Listen, I'm not going to hurt you. And I won't tell anyone your secret." I pulled back, relaxing my grip on her wrist but not completely letting go. I needed to make her believe that or everything would change. And there was only way to do that; a secret for a secret. "I want to show you something. But I need you to relax and trust me. Can you do that?"
Her eyes had grown big. She nodded slowly.
I released my hold, and slowly slid my hand into my cargo pants, gripping Creed's knob. "I know your secret, and I want to show you mine so that you trust me. But I need you to not say a thing to anyone, not even the guys out there." I jerked my head backward, toward the squad outside.
Her eyebrows flattened, and her eyes drooped in skepticism. "Do something gross and I'll freeze you where you stand. I don't care who sees."
I moved my hand like I was bouncing a basketball. "I promise, this is nothing weird. I just … I can't let the mortals know or see."