With the ongoing strife, most people had been without set homes for over a decade now. The de facto refugee camps encompassed most of the city: countless kilometers of one-story shacks and human refuse—which, in most instances, were the same thing. In this sector, there were few genuine streets—just corridors through the shantytowns: tracks through the refuse, which might tomorrow be covered over with trash and shacks, like wounds that sealed themselves with ugly scabs. In the center of the city, there were high-rise buildings—not skyscrapers, but buildings that perhaps reached seven or eight stories at most. And yet, even on the streets with high rises, there would be shacks within alleyways and on the sidewalks, as if the shacks were some kind of mange, spreading over the skin of the city. In the distance, the oil derricks stood out like giant mosquitoes, drawing sustenance from the diseased host. Another American base was in that direction, forming a protective ring around the derricks, so that the parasites could keep on feeding…
Within the armored personnel carrier, there was still none of the cheerful banter that usually prepared them for battle. However, the men prepared nonetheless. Some of them stared into space, conjuring their intimate fantasies; some closed their eyes and said prayers—either to gods or men or chance, itself. Across the aisle, next to the man with the welcoming eyes, a corporal was leafing through a miniature edition of the New Testament, the pages of which had become grimy from sweat and the Army-issue grease they used on their guns. The corporal’s lips were moving as his mumbled Bible passages. The soldier felt somehow that it was indecent to watch the man, so he looked away and scanned the rest of the unit. He was suddenly desperate for something to reassure him, but there was nothing, so he preoccupied himself by fastening his flack jacket. He thought about the man with the shiny shoes again, unconsciously shuddering. He had not told the other soldiers how the man had disappeared. One moment, the soldier had been looking at him, trying to digest what he was saying; and then, the next moment, the soldier had found himself looking into the darkness of the African night. The soldier had not told the other men how he had cried out—how he had tried to run, but been frozen by some kind of mortal terror…
The door of the personnel carrier opened. This was a relatively opulent neighborhood: there were asphalt streets and brick walls here. However, the night seemed repulsive—like something dead and rotting. Even the full moon seemed drained of life: its rays were faint, giving dour highlights to everything. With no sewage system in the sprawling shantytowns, the stench of excrement was always in the air. A wave of intense heat ambushed the unit as they exited. Some of them coughed inadvertently on the hot, dry air—and the pestilential stench it carried. A stray dog, which had been sleeping in front of the gate of the presumed terrorist’s home, fled as they emerged from the vehicle. It ran down to the next compound, then crouched behind a pile of garbage, watching them timidly—but not barking. The unit moved quickly. They had done this so many times that they hardly had to think. The sergeant glared at the soldier, as to tell him to stay out of their way. In turn, the soldier nodded and bowed his head, and slouched to the rear. Two other soldiers kicked at the front gate, so that it collapsed onto the dusty ground. The unit ran up to the door of the house. It was quickly kicked down as well. They entered, screaming out “clear!” as they progressed through the empty rooms… and at last, after about thirty seconds of searching and screaming, they realized that there was no one in the house. Following the lieutenant’s orders, a quarter of the unit fanned out to the backyard, looking for bunkers—but there was nothing. Eventually, they all congregated in the living room. The soldier, who had stayed back, came walking up with the same dazed expression on his face. The others looked at him, remembering his story. The lieutenant grew annoyed with them; refusing to give in to superstition, he made a call to headquarters, talking in an overly loud voice about how they had been given bad intelligence.
While the lieutenant talked over the radio in his stage voice, the rest of the unit grew increasingly anxious. All of them stared at the soldier. Their rational minds told them that men with shiny shoes did not pop out of thin air and foretell the future, but their eyes kept wandering over to the soldier—as if he had all the answers. Even the sergeant was looking toward him, his eyes unsure. The soldier felt self-conscious. As he stood there, waiting for the thing to happen, his skin felt hypersensitive. His mind seemed in shock somehow; and then, as he glanced out of the living room window, he saw it. Initially, there was a white blur, and then he saw it clearly: the white cat, sitting in the middle of the yard, staring at him.
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 31
