Burning Sky

by Weston Ochse

  THE SCREAM CAME again. A scream not of fear, but of anger… of disbelief. Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran toward the sound. By the time Lore and Boy Scout got to the other room, the others were already there, blocking their view of what was going on. Boy Scout glanced at the daeva, but it was still chained and in its fugue state.

  “You did this! You killed him!” Faood shrieked.

  Boy Scout pushed through the wall of people to see Sufi Sam on the ground, his mouth open impossibly wide… so wide it was as though his jaw had become unhinged. All the color had been leached from his skin, leaving it cadaver gray. His eyes were wide open, unseeing, as if whatever had happened to him was a great surprise.

  “What happened?”

  “Your man killed him,” Faood sobbed as he gripped the old man’s shoulders. “He was one of the oldest among us. Did you know that he knew Rumi?”

  “Now hold on,” Boy Scout said. “None of my people were involved. We were all back in the room.” He went to put his hand on Faood’s shoulder, but the dervish angrily shoved it away. “There has to be another explanation.”

  “Explanation?” He lowered the dead mystic to the ground and stood. “What would you have?”

  “Perhaps the daeva,” Lore began, but stopped talking when she saw the murder in the dervish’s eyes.

  “No, it was you,” Faood said, approaching McQueen.

  He reached out to grab him, but before he could, McQueen shoved Faood square in the chest with the flat of his right hand.

  “Do not touch me.”

  Faood backed away and drew his sword. He danced a few steps, spun twice, and his sword flared in his hand.

  Before he’d met the dervishes, Boy Scout had never seen a scimitar in real life outside of a video game. This one looked immense, sharp, and deadly. The broadness of the wide, curved blade in the hands of the dervish reminded him of doing bayonet drills on a fog-shrouded field in South Carolina. The idea of being cut or stabbed seemed alien to him as a twenty-first century American. He’d much rather be shot or blown up, but here, with the dervish in this ancient site, it fit perfectly.

  Narco and Bully brought up their rifles and aimed them at Faood.

  Lore and Boy Scout had left their weapons in the other room.

  As had McQueen.

  “Whoa—whoa!” Boy Scout said, jumping forward.

  Faood took a step back. “Do not make me dance. I will dance you out of existence.”

  “If you can dance faster than my bullets, then go ahead,” Narco said.

  “I said stop! Everyone calm down,” Boy Scout said. To Faood he asked, “What is it you think happened?”

  “That one,” he said, pointing at McQueen with his scimitar. “Or another one of you. I’ve seen this kind of death once before. It’s because there is a creature in need. A creature of the Sefid.”

  All eyes turned toward McQueen, who’d readily admitted visiting the place.

  He shook his head. “Was not me.”

  “Then who?” shouted Faood. “One of you has a creature in you. You might not even know it.”

  That idea scared the shit out of Boy Scout but he kept his fear in check. “Okay, just tell us how to find out. Is there a test?”

  “I must touch you. I can feel the wrongness of it.”

  “Is that all?” Boy Scout asked. “You just need to touch us?”

  Faood relaxed a little, but still held his sword ready.

  “Okay then, touch me first.” Boy Scout held his hands in the air and started walking towards Faood.

  “Watch it, boss,” Bully said, stepping to the side so that she could have a clear shot at Faood if anything happened. “You hurt Boy Scout and I’ll annihilate you,” she said to Faood.

  “I’ll be fine, children. I’m just going to let the nice man touch me.” Boy Scout stopped within cutting distance of the scimitar. He eyed it warily, then stepped around it and into Faood’s guard.

  “Go ahead.”

  Faood raised his left hand and touched Boy Scout’s chest. He felt there for a moment, then adjusted his hand several times to be sure. Finally, he nodded. “You are fine.”

  Although he hadn’t for a second believed he had killed the old mystic, Faood’s warning that they might not even know if one was inside of them had been a little nuclear warhead of worry. He stepped to the side.

  “Okay, guys. It didn’t even hurt a little. McQueen, why don’t you come next.”

  The once big guy leveled his gaze at Boy Scout. He seemed about to comment, then instead strode forward in eight confident steps. He stopped where Boy Scout had, never once allowing his gaze to waver.

  Boy Scout held the gaze and didn’t let it go until Faood declared that McQueen had also passed the test.

  Next came Lore. When she stopped, she angrily said, “If this is all a plan to fondle my breasts, then I have to hand it to you. Good job.”

  Faood ignored her and soon declared her clean.

  Criminal passed, as well.

  Bully started to come forward, but Narco said, “You don’t have to do this. You weren’t even in the fugue.”

  Bully paused, then looked to Boy Scout, who nodded.

  She lowered her rifle and went to Faood.

  Boy Scout could see the worry on her face.

  But the worry was misplaced. She was fine and soon she wore a relieved smile as she stood beside Criminal.

  It was finally Narco’s turn. He’d walk through just like the others and Faood would realize that his blame was misplaced. Then they’d finally get to figuring out what really had happened to Sufi Sam… how he’d really died.

  “Your turn, Narco.”

  “I’m not doing it, boss.”

  “Narco, we all did it. Just do it and get it over with.”

  “I’m not about to let some Third World John Travolta blackmail me into doing something we all know is ridiculous. Like his touch is somehow equivalent to a supernatural MRI.”

  Lore took a step in his direction. “Come on, Dakota,” she said. “I’m with you and totally agree, but remember the rule of basic training?”

  “Cooperate to graduate.” He nodded. “I’m just not going to give the bastard the satisfaction.”

  “It’s in him. I know it,” Faood said. “I can tell even from here.”

  “You don’t know shit, haji,” Narco said. His rifle was snug in his shoulder and his finger was no longer disciplined, now worming above the trigger.

  “Dakota Ronald Jimmison,” barked Boy Scout. “Lower your weapon and stand down.”

  Everyone tensed.

  Boy Scout wasn’t playing around. Either Narco was possessed or he wasn’t. This Mexican standoff in the middle of an ancient cistern complex wasn’t helping anything.

  “Sorry, boss. This ain’t happening.”

  “It couldn’t have been him,” Criminal said. “We were together all the time.”

  “Always and forever?” Bully asked.

  Criminal’s earnestness failed then, because he couldn’t confirm it.

  Lore took another step forward. “Dak, give me your gun. Please.” She glanced back at Boy Scout and the others and gave them an encouraging smile. Then she turned around and took another step. She reached out. “Come on, Dak. You and me got this thing. Let’s not ruin it with this whole crazy business.”

  Narco stared at her, then spit onto the ground. “Bitch, we ain’t got nothing.” Then he shot her in the leg.

  She fell to the ground stunned, her hands over the wound to staunch the blood.

  Things happened quickly after that.

  Faood rushed Narco, but as promised, he wasn’t faster than a bullet.

  Narco fired three times, hitting Faood in the torso and stomach.

  Faood fell to the ground. His scimitar clattered as it bounced then skittered into the water.

  Narco spun just as Bully was bringing up her rifle.

  When she saw him aiming at her, she paused, the weapon only halfway.

  “Dro
p it, Bully or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”

  “I might get one off.”

  “And I’ll kill the rest of them if you do.”

  “Dak, what the fuck, man?” Criminal cried.

  Boy Scout wanted to wring the boy’s neck. If he wasn’t possessed, then he’d gone suddenly insane. Still, maybe they could figure out a way to save the kid. It worked in movies—maybe the Mevlevi dervishes had a method. He glanced at Faood, whose eyes were wide. He was breathing fast through his teeth. Gut shot. Boy Scout knew from experience that the pain was legendary.

  “I said drop the fucking weapon. I’m not going to ask again,” Narco said, jerking his rifle.

  Bully tossed the weapon aside, then crossed her arms, her muscles twitching in irritation.

  “Now what are you going to do, Slick?” McQueen said.

  “Gonna make like a tree and leave,” Narco said. “Gonna make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here.” He giggled insanely. “Gonna make like the Red Sea and split.”

  “Soon that thing inside of you will eat you up,” Faood said between gasps. “You must let me help you get it out.”

  Narco stepped over and looked down at him. “I told you my bullets were faster than your dance.”

  Faood managed a grin. “But I already danced.”

  Narco frowned, then grinned again. His face took on an insane look. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” He backed out of the room and waved merrily. “Okay, now. Gonna make like a terrorist and blow this place.”

  Then he was gone.

  Silence reigned for about seven seconds until Lore called out, “I can’t believe that motherfucking possessed piece of shit Narco shot me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Kholm, Afghanistan

  BOY SCOUT ORDERED Criminal to grab the rifle Bully had tossed and hunt down Narco. Then he had Bully retrieve the first aid kit from their room. McQueen was already seeing to Lore. Boy Scout ran over to make sure everything was okay and knew by the sheer amount of cursing coming from Lore that she’d live. Then he turned to Faood. He, on the other hand, was heading south fast.

  Boy Scout kneeled beside the dervish. He pulled off his own shirt and used it to compress the wounds. Although it looked as if it would work, the man’s heart was strong and pumped blood straight through the fabric. If they couldn’t stop the bleeding, Faood would die within minutes.

  Criminal came back into the room. “He’s gone. He took one of the Land Cruisers.”

  Bully came running out with the bag.

  Boy Scout called over to her. “Got any QuickClot?”

  She rifled through. “Only one patch left,” she said. “And I’m using it on Lore.”

  Faood nodded. “Fix her first. You’re going to need her when you go after him.” When he saw the look on Boy Scout’s face, he said, “You are going after him. You need to get him. You need to see for yourself.”

  Boy Scout had been wondering exactly what they were going to do when they eventually caught him and voiced that doubt.

  “It’s going to eat right through him. You need to get him back to me or find another one of us. Only we can—” A spike of pain silenced him.

  McQueen ran over with a handful of tubes that looked like huge hypodermics with tiny pill-shaped sponges on the inside.

  “Got some X-Stat.” He gently shoved Boy Scout aside and removed the blood-sodden shirt. He took one of the hypodermics, placed it into the nearest wound, and depressed the plunger.

  “Faood, let me tell you what’s going on,” he said. “Inside this turkey baster are about ninety tiny sponges. They can soak up to a pint of blood and when they do, they’re going to block the other blood from escaping.” He dropped the empty hypodermic and grabbed a full one, placed it in another bullet hole, and depressed. “These babies can stop the bleeding within twenty seconds.” He paused to look at Faood. “Do they hurt?”

  The dervish was woozy but alive. He shook his head.

  “Good.”

  Bully came over. “It was a through and through with Lore. Tissue damage, but no arterial damage and no broken bones.”

  “Can she walk?” he asked.

  “Just fucking try and stop me,” Lore yelled from across the cistern.

  McQueen applied a third X-Stat to the now unconscious Faood. McQueen checked his vitals.

  “His heart is steady, but he’s going to need medical attention.”

  “If we find some of his men, we’ll send them back.”

  “Why not bring him with us?” Boy Scout said.

  They both looked at the daeva.

  “It’s not like Faood can do anything in his condition,” Boy Scout said. “I’d rather take him with us in the event we find a doctor or some real medicine. It’s his only chance. Everyone grab your kit and meet me at the vehicles.”

  They hurriedly donned their combat kits. With the exception of Bully, their clothes were already hanging off them. Once Boy Scout put on his gear belt and his body armor, he realized how truly and utterly his body had changed. Gone were the muscles he’d carried since ranger school. The body armor was so loose he could slide it on without unbuckling it. McQueen was so thin he looked like he was a child wearing adult armor.

  They ran out of the cistern.

  “I kept them in working order,” Bully was saying. “They might be dusty, but they’re running.”

  “Not anymore,” Criminal said, pointing at the wheels.

  The front two tires of each vehicle had been punctured.

  Lore limped to the back of one and began to remove the spare.

  Criminal saw what she was doing and did the same in the back of the other.

  Together they removed the front tires of one of the vehicles, then replaced them with the spares.

  While they worked, Boy Scout fumed as he adjusted the straps on his body armor, then helped McQueen with his. They grabbed the weapons and ammo bags from the back of the ruined vehicle and put them in the back of the serviceable one.

  They wouldn’t be driving two SUVs, but they at least had one.

  Boy Scout drove with Lore in the passenger seat.

  Criminal and Bully sat in the back.

  McQueen had loaded Faood in the far back. He was giving the man an IV as Boy Scout started the vehicle and quickly ran through the fuel level and other gauges.

  The cistern complex was situated amid a group of ruins in a hidden, bowl-shaped valley. Everything looked like brown moonscape with barely any scrub marring the ground. The valley was about ten miles across in all directions surrounded by low hills. A single dirt track ran east. The dirt clouds created by Narco’s passage still hung in the air.

  Boy Scout had forgotten how wide and blue the sky could be in Afghanistan. He’d also forgotten how hot it could get. The temperature had to be over a hundred with not a hint of a breeze. He thumbed on the air conditioner, aware that he had to keep an eye on the engine heat indicator. If it started going too high, they’d have to turn off the AC and drive around in the oven.

  Boy Scout jerked the Land Rover into gear and gunned the engine.

  “Do you know where he’s going?” Criminal asked.

  “There’s only one road out of the ruins and into town,” Bully said. “It’s a shit road with sheep herds on either side. He can’t be going fast.”

  “Unless he doesn’t care about the sheep herds,” Lore murmured.

  Her words turned out to be prophetic because they hadn’t gone a mile before they saw a massacre. By the looks of the bodies, Narco hadn’t even slowed down. He’d plowed right through the sheep. At first, there were just dead bodies, but soon they could see sheep with wounded legs. One looked as if its spine had been crushed, but was still alive, bleating weakly.

  If the complete disregard for the animals were indicative of the inhuman creature that had its talons in Narco, then they were truly up against a being that lacked any shred of human empathy. For as much as Boy Scout wanted to get to Narco and save him, he wouldn’t disregard the sanctity o
f life unless the lives of his team were at risk. So Boy Scout had to slow the Land Cruiser to almost a crawl at times just so they could weave their way through the minefield of dead and dying animals.

  A scrub bush held the bodies of six mutilated sheep in various positions. Boy Scout’s eyes fixed on the ignoble slaughter and he slowed to a complete stop as he tried to make sense of it. He couldn’t breathe. He felt a tightness in his chest. The scene was alarming and he realized that the reason it affected him was because it was so reminiscent of a notable passage from Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. By and by they came upon a bush that was hung with dead babies. These small victims, seven, eight of them, had holes punched in their underjaws and were hung by their throat from the broken stobs of a mesquite to stare eyeless at the naked sky. Although these Afghan sheep were far from the babies killed by the Comanche war party in the book, there was an equity of the tragic, a validation of innocence. The murder of the lambs and sheep were no less recreant than those of the babies.

  It also wasn’t lost on Boy Scout that their chases were mirror images of each other. Where he and his TST were pursuing a possessed soldier across the Afghan wilderness, the hunting party from the book had been chasing the Comanches across the American West, both quarry fashioning a bloody swathe of violence as their signature. Boy Scout wondered who had the potential for more violence. Narco? Or Cormac McCarthy’s Comanches?

  He finally shoved the SUV back in gear and let the scene pass behind him. Only once did he let his gaze flick back, to see the bloody face of one of the sheep staring sightlessly towards the sky.

  At one point, they had to stop while Criminal and Bully dragged three out of the way.

  They were a little more than halfway across the killing fields when an Afghan carrying a shepherd’s staff ran in their direction, waving his arms and screaming.

  “Pissed off haji at four o’clock,” Bully said. “What should I do?

  “Does he have an RPG?” Boy Scout asked leadenly.

  “No.”

  “Does he have a rifle?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Then let him rage.”