by Michael Bray
He reached the barn, the hulking structure towering above him. He half expected to see a cruel twist of fate to deny him, perhaps a lock on the door or some kind of an alarm. It seemed, however, his luck was holding out. There was no lock, and he could see no wires which would lead him to think there was any kind of alarm system either. Before he could lose his nerve he inched open the door and slipped inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Underground Sewer base
Iraq
Akhtar watched his brother as he played with some of the other refugee children, and couldn’t shake the feeling of terror which lived inside him. The idea of going into battle scared him, as did the thought or remaining behind and being powerless to do anything until the others were either victorious or failed. Either way, he knew things for his brother would change forever. Since losing touch with their parents, Akhtar had felt a huge sense of responsibility towards his sibling, as if it were his job and his alone to protect him, even though he himself was just a child. Too many sleepless nights had been spent wondering what the future would hold for them both and the wider world in general. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn’t notice Branning sit beside him. Like the rest of them, he was jaded and had lost weight. He tucked his knees up under his chin and watched Akhtar as he, in turn, watched his brother.
“You know it will be time soon,” Branning said in basic Arabic. “We will be moving on the camp.”
Akhtar said nothing.
“I know you must be afraid. We all are. It’s just….” Branning let his words fade. He was no good at this kind of thing. He had no children nor did he have any idea how to speak to one, let alone to tell him how he was expected to risk his life in a probable suicide mission.
“Can we win?”
Branning was caught off guard by the question. He squirmed, feeling Akhtar’s eyes on him.
Lie or tell the truth?
He wasn’t sure but knew the longer he delayed the more likely the boy would suspect the answer was no.
“We intend to try our best. That’s all we can do.”
“Why don’t we run? Why do we stay here?” Akhtar said, his lip trembling. He looked away from Branning and stared at his brother, blinking through the tears which welled in his eyes.
“Look around you. There are innocent people here. Lots of them. People like your brother. We can’t go into the streets and move them. It’s too dangerous. But if we can take the camp, we will have shelter. Supplies. More importantly a communication network. We have to try.”
“Surely we can just stay here. They haven’t found us yet. Maybe they never will.” Youness said, palming away the tears.
“They haven’t found us yet, that’s true. But what happens if they do? We have nowhere to run. No way of escaping. This was only ever a temporary solution. We have to make our stand.”
“I’m not a fighter. I don’t know how to shoot a gun!” Akhtar hissed.
“Look, I understand-”
“Just leave me alone. Please.” The boy turned away, showing his back to Branning. The soldier sat for a moment, unsure if he should say anymore. He noticed Hamada standing by. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, but was watching both carefully. Branning nodded and Hamada waved him over. Branning complied, crossing the room and leaving Akhtar alone.
“Is there a problem?” Hamada asked.
“It’s the kid. He’s afraid.”
“With good reason. His survival chances are slim.”
“Jesus, do you have to be like that?” Branning said.
“It’s the truth. Surely that is better, is it not? Would you rather lie to the boy?” Hamada said, keeping his dark gaze on Branning.
“I wanted to give him hope.”
“Fear of death is a much stronger motivator, Branning.”
“I’m sorry, I disagree.”
“That is up to you. All I know is how my own kind responds. It is very different to your American ways.”
“Then you talk to him.”
“Very well.”
Hamada walked past, Boots clunking on the ground. Curious, Branning watched as Hamada sat in front of Akhtar, blocking his view of Youness. Hamada watched the boy, eyes dark and sharp.
“Are you afraid?” Hamada asked.
Akhtar nodded.
“For you or for your brother?”
“What do you mean?” Akhtar asked.
“Do you fear death for him or for you?”
“For us both. I… I need to protect him.”
Hamada nodded and folded his massive hands over his knees. “And what better way to protect him than fighting for his freedom?”
“I’m no soldier. I’m just a boy.” Akhtar shook his head and glanced around Hamada to his brother.
“You have been shown how to use weapons whilst Branning and I were away, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I’m told you were quite good.”
“But I’m not a soldier. I don’t know how to fight.”
“What is your name?” Hamada asked.
“Akhtar.”
“Let me tell you a story, Akhtar. A story about a boy not much older than you. He lived in a village in the hills. A simple place. Quiet. Peaceful. The children of the village longed for adventure. For excitement. The elders of the village frowned at this. They understood how fragile peace was, and how every day with it was one to be blessed.”
Hamada paused, noticing that some of the other children had stopped playing and were now listening to his story.
“One summer day, the boy and his friends were sent to fetch water from a well. It wasn’t far, just a few kilometres outside the village. The children did as they were asked, each taking a pail to fill from the well. The day was hot, and the way difficult. Rocky terrain, little protection from the sun. The children, however, were used to such conditions. The five of them went without complaint, making for the well.”
Even Branning was now watching with intent as more of the children surrounded Hamada, sitting in a rough circle.
“They reached the well a little after the middle of the day. Each boy drank his fill, relieved to taste those cooling waters. They filled their pails, each to the brim with water. This, they realised would be the most difficult part of the journey. They way back would have to be negotiated during the hottest part of the day and with the extra weight of the water to burden them. Still the boys did not complain. They walked in silence, heads bowed against the heat, concentrating on the way ahead. They didn’t notice the bandits coming up behind them. They were of the same age, but unlike the boys from the village, these were more akin to a pack of wild animals. They stole from the weak, robbing those who were too afraid to fight in order to survive another day of biting and scratching out and existence.”
Hamada smiled, and Branning noticed there was no humour in the expression.
“The bandits cornered the boys at the mouth of a valley. There were only three of them, but they were bigger and carried knives to go with their dangerous attitudes. The bandits demanded the boy’s water. As they had been taught, the boys from the village tried to reason with the bandits. They offered them a full pail of their own if they would grant them safe passage. The bandits, however, were not so easily swayed. Each of them wanted to impress their friends, and laughed at the offer. One of them pushed one of the boys from the village to the ground, his pail breaking open and feeding the precious water into the thirsty ground. The fate of the second boy was the same. He too was knocked to the ground, his water spilled.”
Hamada leaned closer, telling the story only to Akhtar despite his new audience.
“Two of the other boys say what was happening, and handed over their pails, backing away to avoid the same treatment of their friends. The bandits now had enough water, yet they still craved more. One boy from the village remained, standing defiant, placing his body between the bandits and the pail in order to protect it. The bandits demanded he hand it over. The boy or course
was frightened. His heart raced like a hundred galloping horses, and his body trembled with terror. Yet, he didn’t move, nor did he break the gaze of the bandit he had deemed to be the leader of the group. The bandits demanded the water again, telling the boy he would be sorry if he didn’t hand it over. The boy was immovable. He had worked too hard, toiled too long to get the water to just give it away to these bullies. The three of them surrounded him, intimidating the boy. Yet despite the absolute fear inside him, he didn’t remove his eyes from that of the leader.”
“What happened?” Akhtar asked.
“The bandits attacked the boy. Beat him. He fought back, of course, clawing and scratching, refusing to let the bandits beat him down. Bloodied and beaten, the boy refused to stay down. More to the point, he refused to give the boys his water. Eventually, perhaps seeing that the boy was not as easy to dissuade as his friends, the bandits fled. Taking the two stolen pails with them, but leaving the boy and his alone. Bloody and angry, the boy still found it in himself to smile.”
“Why? He was beaten. They lost almost all of the water.” One of the children said.
Hamada turned to answer but was cut off by Akhtar.
“No. the boy stood up to them. Although they lost some of the water, he still won.”
Hamada nodded. “Yes, that is correct. Although four of the five pails they had been sent for were lost, the one saved by the boy who refused to back down in the face of fear was, to the boy, at least, the sweetest, most flavoursome water he had ever tasted.”
“What happened to him? The boy I mean.” Akhtar asked.
Hamada held his arms out to his side.
“It was you?” The boy asked as the other children looked on.
“This is a story from my childhood. The boy from the story grew into the man sitting before you. You see, Akhtar, fear is a good thing. It reminds us that we are alive. I see in you the same bravery which I was forced to show to those bandits.”
“I don’t want to die,” Akhtar whispered.
“I understand. We are all afraid. But we must fight. We will fight against these monsters who force us to live underground like animals. We stand together, Akhtar. Boys and men, soldiers and civilians. We fight as one. We stop only with victory.”
Hamada stood, looking at his audience. “I won’t tell any of you not to be afraid. I know that beast already gnaws at you. All I will tell you is that together, we will stare it in the face and defeat it. All of us together. All of us united. For now, rest well. Soon it will be time to be counted.”
Hamada walked away, eyeing Branning as he crossed the doorway where he stood. Branning grabbed his arm as he passed.
“Hey.”
“What is it, Branning,” Hamada sighed.”
“Thanks. For doing that, I mean. I think you got through to them.”
Hamada looked as awkward receiving praise as Branning was in giving it. The two men locked eyes. “Come,” Hamada said. “We have much to discuss.”
Branning followed Hamada towards the makeshift war room, trying not to think about how many of the children who had just listened to Hamada’s story would survive the pending assault.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ALAN
EVE BARN
PRISON CAMP 124
The first thing that hit him was the smell, closely followed by the intense humid heat. Like a one-two punch from a skilled boxer, the twin blows left him reeling. The smell was a thick, pungent odour of sweat and sex with something else underneath, a coppery smell. Alan thought it was the smell of fear. He drew large gasping breaths against the unbearable humidity. It was only as he looked around the room that he saw why the temperature was so high.
It was exactly as Mike had said. The women were arranged in a semicircle and strapped upright to benches which were angled back. Their legs were spread and bound with thick leather straps, their arms likewise, pulled upwards and out. A memory came back to him then, a moment of beauty amid the horrors which now lived in the darkness of his mind. It was of him and his son on Cocoa Beach in Florida, both on their backs in the sand and making sand angels, waving legs and arms with abandon, his son's giggles filling the air with their melody, a song joined by the laughter of his Anna, his beautiful Anna.
He blinked, those good times fading back into the soup of horror.
The naked women made no effort to ask for help. He looked at them, flesh slick with sweat, skin bloodied and bruised, the way in which they had been displayed both degrading and horrifying. He let his eyes drift over them, hoping and dreading identifying his wife in equal measure. He had almost started to hope she had been spared when he saw her. He inhaled a sharp breath, held it and slowly released it.
Anna.
His wife, the women he had fallen for quite by accident when he was an awkward college student. Anna who he had met by chance on a cross-town bus ride, the woman who he always felt was out of his league yet somehow they bonded. His soul mate, his rock. His Anna with the beautiful smile and slightly uneven shape to her eyes.
It was only those, the blue brilliance of them which he could recognise.
His Anna, the one he knew, was gone. The shell of a woman on Eve station 17 was something else. He was sure it was just someone who looked similar and tried to convince himself it was some kind of freak occurrence, and she had somehow managed to escape their ordeal. However, the illusion was easily broken. He recognised the tattoo on her shoulder, the birthmark on her stomach which they always joked looked like a pink, abstract map of England. It was her. Her blonde hair was gone, shaved off as with the other unfortunate souls she was with. From her up-stretched arms, wires snaked and were attached to drips administering fluids. In front of each woman was a small electric heater, each strung to the next in a snake of plugs.
"Bastards," he muttered when the pieces fell into place and he saw what they were doing. It was a form of torture. He could see it now, Lucas standing in the centre of the room, back straight, chest out, a sick smile etched on his ratty face. Basking in the control. Revelling in the power. He could even hear his voice reverberating around the humid, sticky room, perhaps even repeating the same speech he had delivered to Alan and the rest of the men as they were bundled from their trucks.
‘My name is Lucas, and I am in charge of this facility. Make no mistake. This is the safest place for you to be. Out there you face starvation, death, and the constant threat of attack. In here you will be given shelter and food in exchange for your hard work. Any attempt to escape will result in death. Any breach of the rules will result in your death. Any attempt to go against the authority of my men will result in death. Forget any notion that someone is coming to help you. They're not. Also, forget any notion that you can escape. You can’t. The only way you will walk out of this facility is if I choose to let you. You are all now prisoners of a war in which there can only be one winner.’
Alan looked at the network of tubes snaking out of his wife’s skin, although he was still, for the time being too afraid to approach. In his head, the phantom Lucas went on.
‘You will be vessels, carrying the seed for my men. Do not resist them. You are hooked up to IV lines which will provide you with your nutrients and hydration. If you do not, you will bake and wither in the heat. Be good to my men, they will allow you to receive that which you need. Fight or resist, your IV lines will be shut down. Believe me that is something you don't want to happen. The temperature in here is forty-eight degrees. Without fluids, you will be lucky to last three days. Do as we tell you, and you shall all survive.’
Alan felt a rush of rage at the cruelty, and although he had no idea if the scenes in his head actually ever played out, he wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised. He realised as he stood there in the sweltering heat, his shirt clinging to his skin that he was putting off the inevitable. He crossed the room on legs which he felt could give out on him at any time. Now within touching distance of his wife, it was all too real. It was all too easy to believe what had happe
ned.
"Anna," he whispered, or maybe he just thought it. He was in a fuzzy, faraway place where he almost felt detached. His wife didn’t respond, she hung there, head down, chin resting on her chest, skin like waxy silicon slick with sweat. He reached out to touch her, then recoiled, unable to go through with it.
"Anna?" he said, this time sure the words had left his lips.
She stirred, a flick of the head, yet she didn’t look up at him.
"Baby itsth me," he whispered as the tears came, stinging his eyes and blurring the grotesque imagery in front of him. He lifted her head, her skin slick and hot. Her eyes lolled and rolled as if detached from their sockets. An ugly bruise covered her right cheek and she had a split lip, both injuries which were too fresh to have been inflicted by the crash before they were captured. He held her face, forcing her to make eye contact with him, and yet even when he did, her gaze was glassy and without recognition, which hurt him more than he could have ever imagined. It was then he understood the purpose of the IV lines. He traced them back, reading the bags hung by the side of each Eve station. Along with the nutrients and saline for hydration, was morphine. His eyes traced the line back to his wife's arm, where the needle was taped in place. It at least explained her lack of recognition. He could only imagine how easy it would be after such an ordeal for the brain to blow a fuse or two and maybe even shut down for good. This was a situation he could fix. If he could detach her from the morphine and get her outside, he half hoped they might be able to escape. He reached out to the needle in her arm when he heard Lucas's voice, although this time it wasn’t in his head, it was outside the door.
