Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  “…What about it?”

  “We’ve lost it, Emir.”

  “What?” Ibrahim slammed his fist into a laptop screen. “How much of it?”

  “All of it. The Iraqi army has taken it.”

  “The Iraqi army? Don’t talk shit Adil. It’s those kaffir Americans.” He squeezed the flesh at the bridge of his nose and sighed, then cringed when another explosion shook the very foundations of the building. “No more Ramadi? Ah, well. If it’s Allah’s will…” a great pity, he’d now have to take his honeymoon somewhere else.

  Having had enough of this shit, and just about everything else, Ibrahim retired back to the parlour, collapsed on the mattress that lay over the floorboards and prayed, but not before glancing back at the two black clad warriors who waited in the room. “Leave me.”

  “Yes, Emir.” They left and closed the door.

  With Ramadi gone it would only be a matter of months, maybe even weeks before Al-Raqqah, the caliphate’s capital also fell. There were times he’d thought about giving up, more so recently. What would happen if he called a truce now? Would he be permitted to carry on life as normal, to take his four wives and go live a life of peace in some tranquil part of the country, wherever that may be. No - He doubted the Americans would forget this, the genocides, beheadings and everything else.

  Another explosion, probably from somewhere on the same block, added to his headache, but the rattling…

  His head sagged forward against the stinking sheets. “Oh please, God, if I should continue, then please, give me a sign…”

  A knock at the door wrenched him from his melancholy. “Yes?”

  It was Hamid who stood in the doorway with a twitchy hand over his sword hilt. “Emir, you will not believe this, but there’s a man…a man claiming to be your brother and he wanted to see you and…”

  “…quiet.” Ibrahim held up a hand for his warrior to stop. “My brother?”

  Jalil was thought dead, or at the very least taken prisoner by the Iraqis, Americans, Kurds or Assad. Take your pick. But despite the lack of confirmation of his death, Ibrahim had already grieved for his missing brother. How could he be here?

  The warrior waited for permission to speak again.

  “And what did you do with this man?” The Emir motioned with a hand for the warrior to continue.

  “Emir,” there was a long pause before Hamid dared answer, “we put him in a cell.”

  Ibrahim thought he heard incorrectly so asked for clarification. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

  “We, erm, put him in a cell, in the sewer.” The warrior shuffled away and looked to the floor.

  It was unlikely that this man, whoever he was, would turn out to be the brother of Ibrahim anyway, but it wasn’t the kind of thing one could hear about without investigating further.

  So, Ibrahim’s bodyguard led the way. Down the stairwell with its blown away banister, across the corridor with its missing wall, outside with the stink of sulphur in the air and finally a hatch in the ground was opened with more stairs leading down into the abyss - It would make a fine hideout if the Americans, Kurds, Iraqis or Syrians came and Ibrahim was more than prepared to wait it out in the shit below the city.

  Together, they slushed through the rat infested faeces in the sewer of a city at war, several times disgusting stringy substances that dangled from the ceiling brushed against their faces. And then they arrived in an area that opened out, where the builders once kept the bricks while they were constructing the sewer but where the prisoners were now housed, or some of them, because down here only several hundred of the worst could be crammed.

  Some groaned as Ibrahim approached, others swore and spat but most, too tired and hungry to even lift their heads simply did nothing as they hung away from the walls, manacles around their bony wrists. Others, the lucky ones were kept in cages - At least they could stand and walk a few paces, even if they had to share their enclosure with several others.

  “My brother? Where is he?” Ibrahim demanded of Hamid, still doubtful it could possibly be Jalil.

  The big warrior manoeuvred his way through the arms that reached out to grab him, to pull at his hair, to inflict any small measure of revenge. One man came close and was promptly stuck through the belly by the warrior’s sword.

  They reached a cage that was smaller than most, causing even Ibrahim to baulk in horror, given how tall his brother was. Being kept inside such a thing was barbaric even for his tastes, almost. Inside, three men, naked but for their discolored underwear, huddled together for warmth as the city’s shit festered about their feet.

  Ibrahim’s eyes bulged as something in his belly lurched sidewards. “Jalil?” He said with the faintest of voices. “What? Why are you down here with these scum?”

  It was obvious why - The incompetent Hamid had stuck his own brother down here.

  Ibrahim turned on the maniac with a wild eyed glare. “Your sword…”

  “Emir?”

  “Your sword!”

  “Emir.” He pulled it from the sheath and handed it by the handle to the Supreme Leader of the Islamic State.

  “Let my brother out.” He hissed.

  Hamid hesitated for only the briefest of seconds before stumbling down onto his hands and knees, applying the key to the lock and opening the cage door.

  The sword came down across his neck and he’d never have known a thing about it.

  “Remain in there you filths.” Ibrahim demanded to the two cretins within as he pulled Jalil out from the shit.

  “Ibrahim…” Jalil croaked, unable to stand without assistance.

  “Save your strength brother.”

  Allah had indeed brought a sign that Ibrahim should continue.

  The Islamic State would prevail.

  ***

  Now that Jalil was in the light of Ibrahim’s parlour, he could better see his brother. He was weak, having wandered for two days through the desert until being picked up by a Daesh convoy.

  They hadn’t believed Jalil’s tale about having escaped from the Americans whilst being transferred to another base - The Americans weren’t thought to be quite that stupid or inept and so obviously the tall, bedraggled man had to be a spy and so he was taken in chains to Al-Raqqah, but not before being passed on to higher authority, as an insurance policy, just in case his bullshit story about being the brother of the Emir of the Faithful happened to be true.

  Ibrahim studied the lines upon his brother’s face, whom he’d not seen in almost a year, the bags below his eyes and the gray strands of hair more numerous than before. But most of all it was Jalil’s complexion that worried Ibrahim - And the shivering.

  However, despite having wasted away, his appetite was stronger than ever, which was greatly encouraging. Before he’d agree to sleep, Jalil demanded meat, any meat, even pig would suffice, for he was that hungry.

  Ibrahim laughed and clapped him on the back. “Still have your sense of humor, I see.”

  Jalil threw off his brother’s hand in a sudden rage. “Meat!”

  “Ok, ok. Calm down.” Meat was in low supply in Al-Raqqah, on account of the kaffirs blockading the city, but Ibrahim kept his own private stash of goat ready for the slaughter and would see to it that Jalil would get what he needed.

  It was an hour later when Ibrahim returned with goat steak on a plate and he sat and watched as Jalil tore through it like a starving panther, throwing aside the boiled carrots he’d taken much trouble to prepare.

  “More meat!” Demanded Jalil and after another steak was brought and vanquished in similar style, he had only one thing to say. “More meat!”

  Ibrahim narrowed his eyes but then ordered the rest of the goat be brought and hold the vegetables.

  He sat in stunned silence as his brother devoured the entire carcass, for the goat was no small creature and when all that remained were the bones, Ibrahim’s astonishment grew as Jalil commenced breaking them apart to get at the marrow inside.

  “Are you quite sat
isfied?”

  Jalil wiped his mouth but said nothing. How ever would he digest all that?

  Ibrahim shrugged and put it down to his brother having gone days without food and perhaps a little madness having been prisoner of those kaffir Americans - They would pay for this.

  “Sleep now, brother. I have a caliphate to run and many armies to destroy, for Allah has brought you back to me.” He helped his brother lay back on the mattress. “And when you recover, you will help me.”

  Ibrahim turned back to the door, unsure whether he’d heard a growl from behind, and posted Kamal inside the room. “Anything he needs during the night…You give him it, you understand?”

  “Yes, Emir.”

  6

  Chow Time

  It wasn’t the distant thudding of bombs that roused Jalil, but the rumbling of his belly. Lying there, all he could think about was food. Meat in particular. And he didn’t give a shit what kind of meat. Chicken feet, sheep intestine, even pig brain would do right now.

  He sat up from the mattress, feeling his spine crack, unable to feel his arms and legs and not giving a shit about that either.

  “Sahib?” Kamal asked from his standing position against the wall. “No, no, you must rest, let me get it for you…what is it you’d like, sahib? Goat, cow, woman?”

  Jalil heard the voice but struggled to decipher the Arabic he’d spoken his entire life - Strange, but in the moment he didn’t care.

  “Sahib?”

  Jalil staggered toward the meat, reaching out with fingers aimed for the throat then lunged forward, missing the throat, but connecting with an eyeball. The screams were dulled by a nearby bomb that slammed into a building before being cut short entirely when Jalil’s mouth enclosed around the meat’s windpipe.

  Kamal collapsed to the ground pulsing, Jalil’s mouth never once leaving the meat as he tore through it. For several minutes the warrior provided Jalil with sustenance, but it wasn’t enough.

  And so, after completing his bounty, Jalil tried to discover more - Only to find a door complete with wall blocking his path.

  How could he overcome such an obstacle?

  He began to claw at the plaster, the wood, then back at the plaster for what seemed like forever while his belly ached and cried out for meat. His fingers turned raw and bloody yet still the room acted like a prison. A knob protruded from the door and he struck it over and over with his clenched fist, tried chewing it away and when nothing worked, finally Jalil attempted to throw himself against the door.

  After many hundreds of attempts, mercifully, the door threw open of its own accord and there stood some fresh meat wearing khaki pants and nothing above, speaking some incomprehensible Arabic. The meat held a bright light that stung Jalil’s eyes but the light extinguished itself with a smash as he sunk his teeth into the meat’s face.

  Finally, this new hunger could be tempered and within minutes the corpse was devoured but almost immediately after, the hunger was back and probably worse than ever.

  Jalil staggered out the room and into another containing strange devices with screens and flickering lights he didn’t like. As he shoved his way through, knocking over tables and smashing equipment, the stumbling motions of his legs were restricted as more and more meat pushed itself out of its own accord from his anus, to collect in a pile within his pants. No matter - As long as it remained there for the next time he was in a fix for sustenance.

  Noises from down the corridor hurt Jalil’s ears. It turned out to be two more pieces of meat with blinding lights at the end of their arms, so he limped toward them with the intention of splitting open their heads.

  He lunged with his arms but they jumped back, one pointing a long barrelled stick with a trigger toward Jalil’s head.

  “No, no, not him, it’s the Emir’s brother!” The meat lowered his own stick but kept the light pointed in Jalil’s eyes.

  Jalil didn’t like it, so he leapt on the man as his teeth ripped away the vocal cords. A light hand upon his shoulder disturbed his feast, so, incensed, Jalil grabbed the hand and sunk his teeth into it.

  The screams were dampened out by another boom in the distance which hurt Jalil’s ears and put him off the meat that lay twitching on the ground. The other was still connected to his mouth, but finding the hand to contain little meat, he went for the throat instead.

  But even devouring this whole carcass only increased the hunger that could not be satiated…

  …And so, Jalil set off down the corridor in search of more, bumping into stools and tables, tripping over boxes and loose floorboards and that was when he smelt it.

  This smell was familiar and wholesome like the first meal after the Ramadan fast and Jalil knew he had to follow it, he had to have it, to consume it.

  The only problem was that another one of those doors connected to a wall blocked his path and Jalil slammed into it, howling, scratching at the wood, butting the bricks, gnawing at wood and brick alike.

  Finally, the door opened and there stood the familiar meat complete with beard, squinting hard in his direction.

  “Jalil?” Came the voice in scratchy Arabic. “Why aren’t you resting?”

  Jalil dived on the meat and together they crashed to the ground. He resisted the hands around his neck as he strained with all his want and hunger, open mouthed for the wholesomeness below.

  Something moved from behind, but the meat wasn’t fresh and it helped Jalil restrain the fresh meat that writhed below him. Together, they enclosed their mouths around the pulsating figure beneath them, Jalil feeling somewhat cheated about having to share this bounty.

  But no matter…

  …Because there would be more.

  7

  Forward Air Base Sykes

  “Some cake, Doctor?” The general beamed as he leaned back in his seat.

  The doctor took a slice of chocolate cake and savored his first bite as the smooth chocolatey texture coated his taste buds.

  “I believe congratulations are in order, Doctor. You may just have single-handedly defeated this damned insurgency, saved billions of dollars, millions of lives and America’s reputation. Not bad for a year’s work.”

  The doctor’s head went very light for a few seconds and he dared even think of the future - The house in Savannah, Georgia, he’d purchase, the ranch in Montana too and he’d be able to choose his next contract, wherever he wanted and name his price.

  But the doctor was a cautious man and shuffled in his seat. “How can you be so confident?”

  The general brought out two glasses from a drawer in his desk, followed by the now familiar decanter. “Because ISIS chatter has all but ceased, well apart from the chatter everywhere else, but we ain’t picking any up in Raqqah and for some strange unknown reason, ever since two days ago, we ain’t picked any up in the surrounding town either.” He poured the Scotch into the glasses and handed one to the doctor. “So, I repeat my congratulations, Alan…Oh, don’t worry, there’s only you and I here.”

  The doctor shifted more this time but, if the US military were confident his biological creation had succeeded, with all their expensive gadgetry and sophistication, then who was he to doubt them? He took the glass, clinked it against the general’s own and downed it in one.

  The general continued, ignoring the phone that buzzed on his desk. “Thanks to you we’ll all be able to clear away from this desert shit hole and head back to the land of the free.” He grimaced at the phone that refused to silence. “What’ll be, Alan, when you return…a ranch or town house?”

  “Actually, I was thinking both.”

  The general laughed. “I’ll be up for retirement myself…was thinking something along the same…fancied Florida myself…Oh that damned phone.” He leaned forward, disconnected the cord and helped himself to the last remaining slice of cake. “Always tastes better with coffee, don’t you think?”

  The siren bellowed from outside the room, jerking the cake from his hand. “What the fuck?” The sirens often sounded but
never the one this close to the general’s office, clearly the entire base was on alert. “Damned fuckers in control pressed the wrong button.”

  A staff officer barged into the room, only saluting after stammering out the first words, which was damned insubordination. “Sorry, sir…but you’re needed, at once,” he panted, “you need to see this.”

  “See what, you damned fool? Can’t you see we’re having a meetin’ here? Oh what the heck…”

  They strode from the room as two privates followed in their wake, through control, two corridors and up the stairs onto the airfield.

  “This better be good.” The general remarked, catching a glimpse of the doctor’s hair flying wild from the propellors of a half dozen nearby Apache helicopters.

  Troops were assembled on the northern perimeter but there weren’t many, this was a forward air base, after all. But it couldn’t be any sort of a threat, given ISIS were now all but vanquished and any remnants would be no match for the artillery. Besides, even they weren’t mad enough to attempt a charge across open ground - Surely.

  But whatever it was had spooked control enough to scramble the Apaches.

  The general reached the perimeter, looked out across the desert, at the dust that stirred in the air and at the hundreds of thousands of faces that came staggering across the sand - He felt the bowel movement.

  “Put the call into Joint Base Ballad and get some more troops over here this minute.” But as the staff officer made the call, the general knew they were two days away and the nearby Iraqi army could hardly be relied upon.

  The machine guns began pumping out rounds, then the artillery boomed, shaking the ground beneath them. Soon after, the Apaches rained down bombs and machine gun fire, strafing the rabble that just kept on coming.

  The great cloud of dust from so many feet was so vast it interfered with one Apache’s propellor blades - It went down among the great mass, exploding, taking hundreds with it. Soon after, a second chopper fell to the earth in similar style.