The Demon Stone

by Christopher Datta

  “You de doctor?” he said again.

  “Go to hell,” said Bill.

  God, Kevin thought. Why is he provoking this guy? They’ll kill us all.

  The young, scarred face of the soldier hardened. “I kill me more student,” he said. “Maybe den I kill de teacher, too.” His eyes fell on Muctar sitting in his usual corner watching impassively. “But first, maybe I kill me anodder runaway boy.”

  Kevin realized he was identifying deserters by their facial scarring. His gun swung down to Muctar but Bill stepped between them.

  “Don’t,” said Bill.

  The soldier smiled. “I kill him, I kill you, what de difference? Just anodder dead student. Got plenty student. I need doctor.” He stared into Bill’s eyes, deadly serious. Kevin realized what Bill said next would mean the difference between life and death, maybe for them all.

  “If you kill me, you kill the doctor. Doctor dead, I think maybe your boss big time angry. Maybe he kill you.”

  The soldier laughed. He looked to the others and nodded for them to get Bill.

  As they grabbed him, Bill said he needed his things. He hastily packed a small bag with medical supplies and then followed them out. The leader stopped at the door a moment and looked back. He fixed Kevin with his eyes, his gaze cold and analytical. Finally, he said, “I tink you come, too.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” Kevin said.

  He gestured with his gun to follow. Kevin knew he could come or he could be shot. The choice was his. He went.

  Outside sat three battered white Toyota pickups, each equipped with a heavy machine gun mounted on a turret in the truck bed. The soldiers manning them constantly swung the barrels around watching for attack. Bill had already been packed off into one of the cabs and they hustled Kevin into another. Two soldiers jumped in next to him and they sped off.

  Kevin was sandwiched between the driver of his truck and the guy in the wig and woman’s housecoat. He sat, his rifle propped between his legs, grinning at Kevin. He thought of making a joke about his outfit but his mouth was dry and his hands were shaking. He was as scared as he’d ever been.

  They drove for more than three hours. The breakneck pace set by the lead vehicle was brutal considering the condition of the road. Kevin was repeatedly thrown against the roof of the cab when it took a rut too fast, to the great amusement of his companions. The truck in front threw up clouds of dust that choked him and made it hard to for the driver to anticipate the potholes. They hit one so hard that the butt of the soldier’s rifle smacked the floor and it went off, blowing a hole in the roof. That provoked gales of laughter on either side of Kevin and a lot of joking in a language he didn’t understand.

  They arrived at a small town and pulled up in front of a low concrete building. Unpainted, it looked like it might have been a school. Heavily armed rebels, most of them young enough to have been students in that school, lounged around them. They were dressed in everything from camouflage fatigues to jeans and tee shirts emblazoned with images of Kiss and Mick Jagger. Oddly, one just had the words, “My Dad Visited Jerusalem and All I Got Was This Lousy Tee Shirt.” They gazed at the trucks in idle curiosity.

  Kevin climbed out and shook off the dust. Bill jumped from his and stared at Kevin in disbelief. “Christ, I didn’t know they brought you,” he said.

  Kevin explained he’d been dragged along at the last minute.

  “I’m sorry,” Bill said. He looked stricken. “Damn, Kevin, I never meant for this to happen. I’m sorry you’re in this mess.”

  Kevin tried to smile but he felt wooden inside. Everyone stared at them, and after the tumult of the road it felt unnaturally quiet. Kevin glanced around to find they were in the town square next to a small open air market that included a dozen or so ramshackle wooden stalls displaying vegetables and fruit. A few scrawny white chickens strayed between the vendors pecking at the dirt. One booth had an assortment of candy for sale and Marlboro cigarettes in red-and-white boxes. Kevin didn’t know why that struck him as humorous, except perhaps that this looked like the classic border town in some B-grade Spaghetti Western, with the Marlboro Man expected to ride in on a horse at any moment.

  None of the streets were paved and a gritty red dust covered everything.

  A small man hurried to greet them, soldiers clearing a way for him. He wore a white suit that was notable for being immaculately clean despite the dust.

  “I apologize for being late,” he said, extending his hand. Numbly, Kevin shook it as the man introduced himself as Charles Diallo. He looked to be about thirty-five, which made him considerably older than the soldiers, and he carried a sheaf of papers instead of a gun. He shook Bill’s hand and welcomed them both to General Mosquito’s headquarters for the People’s Patriotic Front. He explained that, as the general’s chief of staff, he had been sent to thank us for coming.

  “We were made an offer we couldn’t refuse,” Bill observed dryly. “They killed one of my nurses.”

  Mr. Diallo looked shocked. He apologized and said action would be taken. The men had been under strict orders that no harm was to come to them. He turned on the man who had led the team and a fierce argument broke out. Soon the other rebels joined in, furiously pointing to Kevin and Bill and then off in the direction from which they’d come.

  With an authoritative bark, Mr. Diallo cut them all off. He continued to berate them, waving his papers at the commander, and Kevin could make out the phrase, “General Mosquito he say,” repeated often. Their captors stood glowering at them. When Diallo finished, the leader told him that the murdered man was a deserter.

  “Oh, well, in that case,” said Diallo suddenly smiling, “that’s different. Why didn’t you say?” He looked at Kevin and Bill and shrugged. “An army must maintain discipline. I’m sure you can understand that.” He spoke with a slight British accent. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his perspiring face. The sun seemed to bother his eyes and he squinted at Bill.

  “No,” said Bill, “I don’t understand it. All I know is that these guys came to my clinic, threatened us, killed one man and forced me at gunpoint to come here. I’m not prepared to play some charade that we’re here voluntarily.”

  Diallo stopped smiling and his dark eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry you feel that way, doctor. But no matter why or how you are here I’m sure you’ll do what you must. I would hate for things to become difficult.” He looked between them for a long moment and then smiled again. “But come,” he said, “I’ll take you to General Mosquito. He has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

  As they walked, he confirmed to them that the compound had been a school before the war. The classrooms, he explained, now served as barracks. “It’s a tragedy,” he said. “Our poor country needs schools, hospitals and jobs. That is what we fight to achieve. But, alas, first we must win the war. All else is subordinate to that primary goal.”

  He talked cheerfully on as Kevin followed him in silence. They entered the main school administration building and Diallo asked them to take seats in the reception area, a room of raw, unpainted concrete furnished with two white plastic garden chairs. Diallo disappeared for a moment and then rushed back. It seemed he was always in a hurry.

  He beckoned them with a wave and they followed him into another room. It was dim, the windows heavily covered. A few slivers of sunlight passed around the edges of the drapes, glowing brightly on the floor. In the light, Kevin could just make out someone lying on a bed and someone else sitting in the far corner of the room in an overstuffed chair.

  Instinctively, Bill approached the bed. He turned and threw back the curtain so he could see more clearly. After the dark, the light was so bright it made Kevin squint.

  On the bed lay a young girl of about ten. She was unconscious and heavily bandaged. “What happened?” said Bill.

  “Landmine,” answered Diallo. “She was out playing with friends. Two of them were killed.”

  Bill removed the bandages to examine the wounds and aske
d if there was anything around he could use to sterilize them. Diallo left to see what he could find.

  “You should have brought her to my clinic,” said Bill to the man in the corner, not turning from the girl. “I could do more for her there.”

  The man chuckled. He was slumped in the chair, his head resting on one hand while the other clutched a glass of what, even across the room, smelled like scotch whiskey. “Do you know who I am?” he said.

  “I assume,” said Bill without turning, “you are the infamous General Mosquito. Also known as The Butcher.”

  “Only my enemies call me that and even they don’t say it to my face. I prefer General Mosquito. It’s a name my comrades in arms have given me. They call me that because I attack but am never seen.”

  “I’m not your comrade,” Bill told him.

  “I can assure you that you do not want to be my enemy.” His voice was quiet and level.

  Bill never looked up from his patient as he gently peeled puss-and-blood-soaked rags from her left thigh. “She may lose this leg,” said Bill. “The bone is shattered and infection is setting in.”

  The general rose from his chair. He was medium-sized and muscular. Strangely, in the dim corner where he stood, his eyes seemed to Kevin to have a dull yellowish glow. “No,” he said, “my daughter will not be amputated.”

  Bill shook his head. “This coming from the man who’s amputated countless arms from men, women and children across this country.”

  “I have not. That my men do it I don’t deny. We are at war. But remember this, those we fight are my countrymen and I love them. At this moment I don’t even like you. Imagine what will happen to you if you cut off her leg.”

  Bill turned to face him. “If the wound becomes gangrenous she’ll die.”

  “We all die but she will not be a cripple. I want her whole. You will make that happen or there will be consequences.”

  He brushed roughly past Kevin and left the room.

  Kevin was beyond terror. All he felt was the numb certainty that this girl would die and that Bill and he would be tortured to death for it. His arms weighed a thousand pounds, his mouth was dry and he simply stared mutely at Bill. Worst of all, he knew for a fact that if it would save the girl’s life, Bill would amputate that leg even if her father would kill them for it. Kevin was certain Bill would never let her die if it was within his power to save her, no matter what the cost.

  Bill looked into his eyes. Kevin was surprised to see his own terror reflected in Bill’s face. It was some comfort to know he wasn’t alone in his fear.

  “Do you have to argue with everyone?” Kevin finally said.

  “He’s more than an asshole. There are only a few real monsters in the world and he’s one of them,” Bill replied.

  “That’s my point, idiot,” Kevin answered.

  Chapter 2

  Minnesota

  They landed the boat on a narrow rocky shore. Hampton sprang out and ran down the portage a short distance, happy to be free of the canoe.

  When they were all out, Kevin held up a smaller canvas pack. “Do you think you can manage this?” he said.

  Liz took it grudgingly. “Why don’t they have college guys here you could hire to carry this for you?”

  “Easy,” said Kevin. “There’s no beer up here.”

  Kevin strapped one large green canvas pack on his back, and then another across his chest.

  “You can’t possibly carry all that,” Liz said.

  He grinned at her. “This is nothing. It’s the canoe that’s heavy. If you and Beth will flip it over and hold it up so I can get under it, we’ll get moving.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “No,” said Beth, grabbing the front of the boat and wrestling it over, “he’s a macho man. Didn’t you know?”

  “We can make two or three trips,” protested Liz.

  “Don’t need to,” said Kevin. “I can handle it.”

  Liz helped Beth lift the nose of the canoe high enough for Kevin to slip under. Bolted across the center of the boat was a metal bar, molded into a semicircle at the middle and fixed with two pads on either side of the midpoint. Kevin thrust his neck back against the semicircle and stood, the pads resting on his shoulders.

  “I wondered what that was for,” said Liz.

  “It’s called a yoke,” said Kevin.

  “That’s Dad,” said Beth, “strong as an ox, and now the yoke’s on him, ha ha.”

  With a soft grunt, Kevin started down the trail. Liz watched him maneuver through the trees like some clumsy metallic turtle.

  She heard the sound of metal scraping on rock out on the lake and turned to look. In the distance, beyond the reeds and grasses, she thought she caught a glimpse of a canoe passing behind a small island.

  “I think I saw another boat,” said Liz.

  Beth looked and shrugged. “It’s possible,” she said. “During the summer you’ll meet people up here nearly every day. There’s not very many this far north during the fall, though. We usually go days without seeing anyone.”

  They helped each other shoulder their packs and followed after Kevin, Hampton snuffling from side to side through the woods.

  The straps on the pack bit into Liz’s shoulders and she leaned forward to counterbalance the weight on her back. Still, she thought, it wasn’t too bad.

  The trail she followed started on the level but quickly rose into the trees. The rocky ground forced her to pick her way carefully, which was made harder by the unaccustomed weight she carried. Stepping to the side of the path to avoid a fallen tree branch, her pack shifted and she nearly lost her balance. Beth caught her from behind.

  “Thanks,” said Liz. Then added, “I don’t see your dad. How’d he get so far ahead?”

  “He’s moving fast. That load doesn’t get any lighter over time.”

  Liz continued walking, entering deep forest where gray boulders cut randomly through a thick carpet of moss and the damp, cool air smelled of the sweet decay of rotting wood and mildew. It surprised Liz the forest was clear of underbrush. She had half expected to cut her way through the trail, probably the result of seeing too many Tarzan movies as a child.

  It was primarily a pine forest but she sometimes passed stands of birch and other trees she didn’t know. The bright yellow and orange leaves on these shook in the afternoon breeze, producing a vibrating dance of color and shadow that Liz stopped to admire. “It’s pretty,” she said.

  Beth halted next to her. “I guess.”

  “Not much impresses you.”

  “You do,” said Beth.

  Liz looked at her, surprised. “Why do you say that, sweetie?”

  Beth shrugged. “You’re pretty. You’re smart. You know how to stand up for yourself but men like you anyway. I, on the other hand, fail at everything.”

  “Honey,” said Liz, “you’re very pretty and smart. You’ll do fine. Just give yourself time. When I was your age…”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “God, how many times have I heard that? ‘When I was your age kids did this or they did that.’ Yeah, you were so much more together than us. I already feel inadequate enough, thank you.”

  Liz didn’t know whether to laugh or shake her. “If you’d give me a second, I was going to say I felt exactly the same way. You’re coping with tough stuff. Growing up. Your parents’ divorce. How you feel about boys and sex. ” Liz hesitated. “What happened to your grandparents. You’ve got to cut yourself some slack.”

  Beth bit her lip. “You don’t understand.”

  Liz sat down on a recently fallen tree next to the trail. She shed her pack, dropping it to her feet, and patted the bark next to her. “Let’s take a break,” she said.

  Beth sat next to her. She looked conflicted, her eyes on the ground.

  “What’s the matter?” said Liz.

  Beth looked at her, eyes glistening. “My life is ruined. I’ve screwed up everything and it’s all my fault.”

  Liz was startled by the s
imilarity between this and Kevin’s statement after the deaths of his in-laws. “It’s all my fault,” he’d said. What, she wondered, was going on with this family? “What’s your fault, Beth?”

  “Everything,” she repeated, looking away.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  Beth shook her head. “You won’t understand. No one can. I don’t know that I do.”

  Ah, thought Liz, the isolation and alienation of youth. Then she mentally kicked herself for being flip. “Give me a try,” she said. “If I’m as smart as you seem to think, maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  Tears sprang to Beth’s eyes as she kept her gaze averted, clasping and unclasping her hands. “You don’t know what it’s been like, Liz. Dad isn’t the same since his trip to Africa. I don’t know what’s wrong, but for a while I thought he might commit suicide. Days went by when I didn’t even see him. He was never like that before. Not ever.” She shuddered. “I can’t help feeling there’s something I did, something that really made him mad.”

  “Beth,” said Liz, “he’d just lost his best friend. We don’t know how, but something terrible happened. It wasn’t anything to do with you.”

  Beth shook her head. “Mom’s always been difficult, you know. She gets mad so easy. I mean, nobody loses it like Mom, so you’ve got to watch your step with her 24/7. But Dad was different. He was steady, and when Mom went bonkers about some stupid thing, Dad was there for me. He never really stood up to Mom except when it came to me.

  “But then it was like he didn’t care anymore. It didn’t matter what Mom did, or what anyone did.”

  She added the last, Liz noticed, with real bitterness, and she wondered just what “anyone did” meant.

  Hampton trotted up to sit next to them. Beth scratched his ears absently. “I don’t have any friends except Hampton, and he’s a stupid dog. He’d think I was God even if I came home and gave him a kick every day.”