Dead Boy Walking

by David Brining

  #9. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  Tuesday May 19, 11:23

  SAYED FOLLOWED Mr Ala'a down the corridor. He felt excited and happy for the first time in months. He had liked Ali but the boy was such a rebel. He had to learn. Whilst watching his friends being beaten, Sayed had felt sad but he had taken comfort in the knowledge that this lesson was for their benefit, to teach them the importance of obedience, of following the rules, of living within the system. After all, the teachers knew what they were doing. It was not for mere orphans like Ali to question their judgement.

  The thrashing of Samir was more difficult to accept. He had to be shown, of course, that he should follow the right leaders but it had seemed more brutal, perhaps because Samir had howled so much, perhaps because he had bled so much, perhaps because he had lost control of his bladder. Samir hated Ali now so perhaps Sayed had done him a favour too, shown him the pain that came from trusting the dangerous and misguided, from putting your faith in the wrong people.

  He trotted down some stairs at the end of the hallway. He had never been here before.

  ''Why are we going to the basement?'' he asked.

  ''You'll see,'' grunted Mr Ala'a.

  The basement was warm and windowless. At one end was a large window with a glass door on the right which effectively partitioned the room into two sections. Near the door stood a man in a white coat, another man in strange-looking white overalls and white rubber boots and the man in the grey suit who had watched the beatings, the benefactor of the Sisters of Mercy.

  ''This is Doctor Al-Sekem,'' Mr Ala'a said. The man in the grey suit inclined his head. ''This is Sayed.'' Mr Ala'a looked somewhat uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and keeping his voice low.

  ''I'm very pleased to meet you, Sayed.'' Doctor Al-Sekem sounded indifferent. ''You did a brave thing, betraying your friends for a cookie. Thank you, Mr Ala'a. That will be all.''

  ''This is my home,'' Sayed explained. ''I don't like trouble.''

  Mr Ala'a regarded Sayed sadly and shuffled away leaving the boy alone with the men. He did not say goodbye. Sayed suddenly felt nervous. He did not know these men, and he did not know what they wanted him to do, why they had chosen him.

  ''Well, well,'' said Doctor Al-Sekem. ''We need you now to show the same kind of bravery again.'' Sayed's heart leapt. ''We wish you to assist with a vital experiment.'' Doctor Al-Sekem ran a gold-ringed hand through Sayed's short hair. ''If we are successful, the work that you can help us with today will save the planet. You know how Mankind is destroying Nature, through digging up her resources and cutting down her forests…'' Sayed nodded. ''Well, I have devised an alternative to this waste and destruction, alternative power sources such as wind, water and the sun, renewable, sustainable and everlasting. Unlike oil, the wind will never run out.'' He allowed himself a small chuckle. ''But before we begin, we must carry out tests to ensure our power sources work, understand?''

  ''Yes, sir,'' said Sayed, a little reassured. It was only a test. He was good at tests.

  ''Excellent.'' Doctor Al-Sekem clapped Sayed on the shoulder. ''I want you to go into that room, behind the glass, remove all your clothes and stand under the white light.''

  Something rang an alarm bell in Sayed's brain. ''Why?'' he asked.

  ''Temperature test,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Will our solar panel be strong enough to keep you warm?'' He produced a chocolate bar. ''At the end of the test, I will give you this.''

  Sayed had not seen a chocolate bar for months. Salivating, he walked to the glass door and pulled it open. Although the floor was bare, rough concrete, the inside of the room was warm. He waved at the four men on the other side of the glass then took off his plimsolls and T-shirt, folding them carefully together. Self-conscious under the steady gaze of Doctor Al-Sekem and the two scientists, he slipped off his shorts and stood naked under a strong white light which was making him hot. He watched the men writing things down. He felt weedy and vulnerable, thin stick-arms, thin bony ribs, thin bony buttocks…he covered his genitals with his hands. On the far side of the room, a floor-fan clicked into life with a loud whirring noise and created a steady breeze which made him shiver slightly. The man in the white coat moved to the door and sealed it pneumatically. Sayed heard the hiss of escaping air. Then, from the centre of the light, a small colourless drop of liquid, just one small drop, fell slowly and splashed on Sayed's shoulder.

  Nothing happened.

  He shivered again. A second drop splashed on to his right foot.

  And then his eyes started itching.

  He rubbed them with his fists but that only made the itching worse. His eyes were on fire. Then his nose started running. He wiped up snot with the back of his hand but it wouldn't stop, it just kept coming, like a snot-tap had been turned on in his head. He sniffed fiercely. How much snot could one boy produce? He dragged his arm across his nose again.

  Something seemed to squeeze his chest sharply, as if an iron band had been suddenly yanked tight. He gasped but could not seem to get any air. He gasped again as saliva welled in his mouth and dribbled over his chin and on to his chest in long colourless strings. He gasped again and fell to his knees, sniffing hard, wiping up drool and trying to breathe. He felt nauseous, felt vomit rise through his throat and erupt onto the floor. He stretched out his arm towards the glass screen but the observers were making notes with cold detachment. And now he understood they had put him in here to die.

  He started crying and was sick again. Vomit splashed up his thighs as he lost control of his body. A stream of piss burst out then, worse, much worse, the rumbling in his guts exploded in liquid shit on the floor behind him and down the insides of his legs. The stink made him vomit again.

  Still his eyes burned.

  Still he could not breathe.

  Still his nose was running and the saliva dribbling.

  His limbs started twitching and jumping. It would not stop. His hands and feet drummed on the concrete. His chest, shoulders and head snapped and jerked. He fell sideways and jerked some more, his body convulsing in various pools of bodily fluids which coated his thrashing limbs with vomit, urine and diarrhoea. His breathing turned to shallow gasps as his lungs collapsed and his swelling windpipe burst inside his throat. Everything darkened as his brown eyeballs melted in their sockets. Then he had a massive stroke and his brain shut down. Paralysed and leaking like a pin-pricked water balloon, he lay still whilst his heart stopped. More fluids squeezed through the pores of his skin. He twitched once, and died.

  ''Two minutes thirteen seconds,'' said the man in the white coat.

  ''Excellent,'' purred Doctor Al-Sekem. ''Did the fan help the dispersal?''

  ''I believe it made the process quicker,'' said the other. ''But to test that more fully we should use a larger sample, say four boys in different corners of the room.''

  ''Very well,'' said Doctor Al-Sekem. ''I shall tell Ala'a to make it so.'' He turned to the man in the protective overalls. ''Decontaminate the room and dispose of that.''

  He regarded the corpse dispassionately. In two minutes and thirteen seconds it had been reduced from a living, breathing boy to a heap of shit-stained bones.

  Doctor Al-Sekem tore the wrapper from the chocolate bar and consumed it thoughtfully.

  ''I shall tell our friends in Baghdad to proceed with the order,'' he declared, ''And our friends in Damascus to organise the delivery, and then we shall make the Jordanians pay.''