by Tom Saric
He stepped to the sink and splashed a handful of cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked droopy. He hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in a week.
A squeak beneath him. He turned the water off and stared at the sink vanity.
Luka raised his weapon and with his left hand opened the vanity door.
Curled up inside he saw a young girl of about six clutching a doll. Her hair was done in two French braids. She wore a pink flowered dress. Eyes big. Blue.
Luka holstered his gun and lifted her stiff, shaking body out of the vanity by her arms. He drew her in and held her. She didn’t make a sound, but she didn’t resist. She was in shock. No point questioning her now about where her family had gone.
“Luka, come here!” he heard Čapan say, his voice breaking. Then even louder, gasping, “Now!”
Luka lifted the girl onto his hip and moved to the staircase that led to the basement. A rectangle of grey morning light filtering through a far window illuminated an otherwise dark room. Diesel fumes burned his nostrils. At the bottom of the stairs, Čapan stood motionless, the color drained from his face. Luka followed Čapan’s stunned gaze to the orange tarp stretched along the concrete floor. He twisted his flashlight on. The light scanned the tarp, moving along bump after bump. He felt his heartbeat in his throat. The beam kept moving towards the tarp’s edge, where something was poking out, something that Luka initially convinced himself was yellow hay. But no, it was too wavy, too smooth. Too shiny.
Luka put the girl down, his hands shaking. He took her by the hand and walked her to the stairs, then crouched in front of her.
“I want you to sit here for a moment.” He attempted a reassuring smile. “You can’t move. It will be like hide-and-seek; you like that game?”
The girl nodded stiffly.
“So you have to close your eyes and count to fifty. Okay?” He smiled at her again as she nodded and covered her eyes. “No peeking allowed.”
He walked down the stairs towards the tarp, then turned around and faced the wall, running his fingers through his hair, working up the courage to look underneath. He glanced at Čapan, and from the cringe on his face, it was clear that the private wasn’t taking the lead. Luka took a stuttered breath and peeled the tarp back.
“Jesus, fuck.”
He crouched down and stared. The smell of diesel was so strong he had to turn away to take a breath. Waves of nausea circulated between his head and stomach as his eyes shifted along the lineup of corpses, taking inventory. Fourteen. He counted fourteen bodies. Eleven women. Were they even old enough to be women? Three men. Each one of them with a maroon hole in their forehead. He looked at Čapan, who seemed to be asking the same question: was someone planning on torching the place?
Luka stayed on one knee, trying to focus on how to get fourteen bodies out of the basement without thinking about why eleven girls had been executed. Torn from their families. And with that thought, tears trickled down his face.
“Sarge, you okay?”
Before Luka could answer, before he could turn and look at Čapan with scorn, before he could pick him up by the throat and say, “Should I be okay with fourteen dead innocents?” he was interrupted. First, his eye caught the flicker of white light coming through the basement window. Then a sunburst of white cracks radiated across it, pierced at the center by a hole the size of a dime. The second and third shots shattered it entirely, sending shards raining onto the concrete floor. The three shots in quick succession thudded into craters against the concrete wall.
Before the second series of shots roared through the open window, Luka was on all fours, moving towards the stairs. He heard the four bullets pffft into the wall above him, showering him in a cloud of concrete dust.
At the bottom of the stairs, the girl was doubled over, whimpering and frozen in the chaos. Luka lifted her onto his waist as another series of shots peppered the basement. He dove and crawled with her behind an old dresser. Luka gripped his weapon. The shots had come from the backyard, and there were several windows on the main floor facing the woods. This meant that the shooter must have seen them coming, then waited to see if they discovered the bodies. When they made it to the basement, he had a clear sight line to ambush them. Only one weapon was fired. One assassin. Hopefully.
Luka poked his head above the dresser. Čapan took cover in an alcove fifteen feet away, his back to the broken window. Luka raised his index finger, indicating to Čapan that he believed there was a lone gunman. As Čapan nodded, a wine bottle spraying blue and orange flames flew through the window. It smashed against the back wall, spreading liquid fire all over the floor.
The room was instantly engulfed in flames. The newspaper covering the bodies curled and turned orange. Tarry smoke billowed through the basement. Luka coughed and wheezed, staying low, trying to suck in the last bit of oxygen in the room.
The little girl wiggled out from behind the dresser and ran up the stairs, clutching her doll. Luka reached for her, but his fingers slipped off the edge of her ankle. He saw her reach the staircase and then evaporate into the smoke.
The girl had good instinct—best to get out before they all suffocated in that death chamber. But whoever was outside wasn’t going to let her run out of the building. Through the smoke, he saw the bottom stair and estimated its distance from him to be four meters. He held his breath and jumped up with his eyes squeezed shut to keep the corrosive air from burning them. More shots hammered the wall behind him like a snare drum.
Luka dropped onto his back. The fire raged. He inhaled more smoke and the sickening smell of burning flesh. The edges of his vision blackened.
He saw his pistol lying on the floor a few feet from the bodies. If he was going to have any chance against the assassin outside, he needed it. Čapan was still crouched in the alcove, eyes red from the smoke, covering his mouth with his collar and clutching his gun. Luka made eye contact and then held up three fingers, counting one, two, three. Čapan fired at the window. Luka pounced, sliding across the floor and grabbing his gun. A barrage of bullets from the assassin reduced the dresser behind them to splinters.
Then the shots stopped.
The basement fell silent except for the sizzling and popping of the fire. If the shots stopped, the shooter might be moving. And the girl was missing. Every second he spent in the basement was a second the shooter had to find her. Luka army-crawled to the stairs and dragged himself up on all fours, coughing and gasping. His lungs felt like they were filled with acid.
At the top of the stairs, Luka crouched and scanned the hallway. The little girl was nowhere to be seen. Čapan emerged from the basement. The main floor contained three bedrooms and a kitchen. Four possible exits. The shooter could cover three at most, if he was working alone. Less than a fifty-fifty chance of getting out unscathed.
“You go out the back,” Luka gasped to Čapan, barely able to get the words out, “and I’ll take the front door. There’s only one shooter, I think.”
“Or we can both go out the back and cover each other.”
As he weighed the options, Luka heard a squeak ahead of him. He stared at the front door. The handle was slowly turning. Luka pointed his gun. The handle moved down and the door opened a crack.
A fist reached in, holding a dark object. He noticed the tattoo on the inside of the wrist: a tiger’s head with a snake protruding out of the mouth. The insignia of the White Tigers, a ruthless paramilitary group.
By the time he caught a glimpse of the black metal and recognized the object in the hand as a grenade, Luka was already in a full sprint. He slammed into the door with his shoulder, crushing the assassin’s forearm. The grenade dropped, bouncing on the ceramic floor with a hollow thud.
Luka turned and ran the other way, grabbing Čapan by the collar and pushing him towards the kitchen. He willed himself forward, but his legs couldn’t seem to move fast enough or take steps large enough to outrun the blast. He had only made it ten yards when he felt a
sear in his thigh before a force lifted him off the ground; his head was thrown back, arms whipped wide, air blown out of his lungs. He felt weightless. And just as quickly, he dropped to the ground, sprawled on top of Čapan.
His head pulsated and he couldn’t hear a thing. Čapan’s mouth was moving, and he was wincing and holding his shoulder, but Luka heard nothing other than a single tone, louder than any noise he’d ever heard before. He took a deep, painful breath, trying to pull air into his lungs.
Through the hum he heard an echo, a knocking sound, like someone was hammering underwater.
Raising his head was painful, and it sent jolts down the back of his neck. He lifted his head just enough to see another grenade spinning in the hallway.
Luka forced himself up, everything stiff, and dragged Čapan into the kitchen. He closed the door and turned the knob just as a wave of heat rose from underneath the door. Then a moving mass thrust the door off its hinges, tossing Luka backwards, weightless again. This time, he didn’t feel pain, or hear a sound, or see himself collapse across the room like a rag doll.
This time, his eyes shut.
INDICTED: Chapter 2
Natalia ran barefoot up the hill. She ignored the pain of rocks and thistle cutting her feet. When it got too steep, she dropped on all fours, hands grabbing, propelling her forward. Her legs felt hot and wobbly. But she had to go higher and higher. As far from the burning house as she could.
Her home.
Tata had warned her not to play in this field. Soldiers buried bombs here. But she wasn’t playing now. This wasn’t a game.
The Bad Man was down there. He had big, wide steps. She had to move faster. She glanced behind her, panting. Her foot caught something hard, her ankle bent, and she collapsed on her belly. Her cheek scraped against the ground.
She turned over, wincing from the pain in her foot. She wanted to cry, but why? Mama couldn’t kiss it better anymore.
She looked down the hill. No one was there. It was quiet except for a distant rumble. The Bad Man wasn’t chasing her. She felt a surge of energy. She could make it over the hill. She might be safe.
She got up on one leg, and as she put pressure on her sore foot, she stopped. She heard a noise. Holding her breath, she focused on the sound: crunch, crunch, crunch. Faster, louder.
Cresting the hill was a man all in black, holding a gun. Sprinting directly towards her.
No. She wouldn’t let The Bad Man get her, too.
She scrambled up to a standing position and ran down the hill. Lances of pain shot up her leg with each stride. She sped up, her feet barely touching the ground. She was flying.
By the time she realized that her feet couldn’t keep up, she was already doubled over, her head smashing onto the gravel. She felt her legs whipping over her head, her back skidding along the ground.
The Bad Man appeared beside her. Glancing up at his dead eyes as he held his rifle over her, she prepared herself for her fate. He stared at her, eyes moving from her head to her toes, studying. She shut her eyes.
“Alive?” he said.
She said nothing, keeping her eyes closed. She heard him shuffle, and then felt his warm body near hers. She could smell his body odor. Two thick fingers pressed her neck, just below her chin. She sensed a shadow looming over her.
Natalia opened her eyes and saw his ear a few inches from her mouth, listening.
No, she wouldn’t be scared. She wouldn’t let him hurt her like he’d hurt her parents. She opened her mouth and clamped down on his ear. The man screamed in pain, but she pressed her teeth together harder.
Natalia could taste his blood. Now he felt pain too. His head thrashed back and forth until part of his earlobe tore off in her mouth. She spit it out on the ground and leaned to run again when she felt his powerful hand grab her throat.
“Little bitch.”
He flipped her around, and she was face to face with The Bad Man, his dead eyes now alive and wild. She didn’t flinch as he cocked his head back and then thrust it forward.
Sitting in the backseat of the car, squished between the woman wearing a long, flowing dress and the window, Natalia listened. The two men in the front seats used the language of the people on television. Rough voices. Soldier voices.
She had been in the car for a long time, so long that it was now dark outside and the wind that came in through the open windows was cold and raised gooseflesh on her arms. She didn’t mind, though. The cool air soothed her scrapes and throbbing head. The headlights illuminated a brush-lined, crumbling road. The black mountains in the distance cut through the indigo sky.
Over those mountains, she tried to convince herself, her parents were safe. They’d escaped the house and were roaming the fields, looking for her. They were looking for The Bad Man with the gun, who had set the house on fire. They knew that he had run after her up the hill and that she couldn’t outrun him. Tata would know. He would follow the footprints to the house that The Bad Man had carried her to, where he’d handed her over to the woman in the dress in exchange for a thick envelope. The woman had said she would take Natalia to her home instead of an orphanage. “You don’t want to go to an orphanage, do you?” she’d said.
The woman now wrapped her arm around Natalia and pulled her closer. She smelled like strong perfume and cigarettes. She ran the back of her hand down Natalia’s cheek. Natalia stiffened and closed her eyes. She made a picture in her mind. It was her beautiful Mama holding her, not the lady with the wrinkles on her face. She pretended that the coarse fingers on her cheek were her mother’s gentle touch. Tata was driving the car. They were driving to the coast to go swimming in the Adriatic Sea. Just like last year.
“Don’t worry, beautiful girl,” the woman said, her voice deep. “We will keep you safe.”
Natalia kept looking straight ahead. She didn’t believe the lady. The soldier with brown eyes had promised he would keep her safe when he pulled her out of the bathroom. Before that, when The Bad Man had come to the house, Mama had whispered to her that everything was okay, right before she pushed Natalia under the sink. That was when she folded the photograph and stuffed it in Natalia’s dress pocket.
“Give this to someone you trust,” Mama had said, her face wet with tears.
Natalia didn’t trust the lady, so the picture stayed in her pocket.
The woman placed her fingers under Natalia’s chin and lifted it until Natalia made eye contact with her.
“I want you to know that we are your family now. You can call me Aunt Azra. I will take care of you. What is your name?”
Natalia said the first name that came to mind.
“Filipa.”
The lady smiled.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. But I’ll call you Pipa. Do you have sisters, my dear?”
Natalia shook her head.
“All of the beauty was taken up by you.” She let go of Natalia’s chin and turned towards the window. “You will meet your new sisters when we get to your new home. You will be the prettiest one of all.”
The car slowed down and vibrated over the potholed road. Bright lights were on ahead, and they joined a line of cars. At the front of the line, Natalia saw soldiers walking from car to car. Each had a machine gun hanging over his shoulder. Some of the men had sky blue helmets.
Natalia sat up. Her heart fluttered. When soldiers had come to her village last year, during the first bombing, Tata had said that she could trust the men in those helmets. They were there to help.
The lady who called herself Azra pointed ahead.
“These are dangerous men, Pipa. We must be quiet as they ask the drivers questions or they will kill us.”
One of the soldiers with a blue helmet came to the window and asked for documents. The driver passed the soldier a handful of little papers and booklets. The soldier then removed a flashlight from his belt and shone it through the car. When the light landed on Natalia, it stopped. Natalia squinted and put her hand in front of the light.
The s
oldier with the blue helmet said something in the language that the two men in the front were using, but Natalia couldn’t understand. They spoke too quickly. The man in the passenger seat opened the glove box, removed an envelope, and passed it to the soldier. The soldier folded the envelope and put it in the pocket on his sleeve.
He took two steps back from the car and waved to the men beside the fence. They opened up the gate, and the car drove through.
Natalia felt her eyelids become heavy as they drove down more highways. She only saw one street sign, blue with an arrow and the word Tuzla on it, before she allowed herself to close her eyes.
When Azra woke her up by stroking her face, it was light outside. Natalia rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. The car pulled into a gravel driveway outside a two-story concrete house. A concrete fence that was too high to see over ran along the perimeter of the yard.
She heard laughter and turned towards the front yard, a patch of asphalt. Two girls, both in flower-patterned dresses, chased each other on bicycles. Three men sitting in plastic deck chairs, sipping coffee underneath the shade of a trellis, watched them. Two of them smoked cigarettes. They talked loudly.
At the sight of the car, the two girls dropped their bicycles and ran over to it, giggling. Azra stepped out and hugged both of them, lifting them up in the air.
“Mateja, Julia, meet your new sister.”
The two girls waved for her to come out, but Natalia hesitated. She watched as one of the men—the oldest one—lifted himself out of the deck chair and lumbered over. He wore brown pants, sandals, and a white sleeveless shirt. He held a cigarette between his lips. He didn’t smile. The driver and the passenger walked around the car and shook his hand.
“Debeli,” the driver said to him. Fat Man.
Debeli pointed to the car.