“No one can be blamed for repelling what he thought was a deadly threat if that's what happened. Grievous as those killings were, they were the consequence of a more general crime, a crime that you freely conspired in when you took up arms and invaded a country that was no threat to you in any way, shape or form.”
“That was not my decision that was a political decision.”
“No it wasn't Mr Crosby. You and you alone made that decision. You weren't forced by anyone to do what you did. God grants all freedom of conscience, the gift is inviolable. It therefore follows, does it not, that you could've made a different choice?”
“Yeah, well it's not as simple as you make it out to be lady. What was I supposed to do? Maybe you think I should've changed sides or something and betray my own country.”
“When you committed yourself to go to a foreign land and wage war, you betrayed your own humanity. War means blood, death and unspeakable agony. Knowing this, you gave yourself to its unholy rites. You knew it would be dark and beastly and you said count me in. That's your crime Mr Crosby not withstanding that act of sickening brutality when you needlessly slaughtered two innocent people.”
“You don't know what you're talkin’ about lady and if you did I wouldn't care, anyway. I don't care about those two people. I did my job and I did a lot more than that. My country called and I gave my country my best service.”
“Service, don't slander the word! Real service is godly. Real service is humble. Real service is offered through love. Your bloody work is something very different. Isn't it?”
“I don't care what you say. You don't know what you're talkin’ about. I say it was service.”
“Look!” Brianna says as she points. “This is your service.”
Tom Crosby is startled to see, appearing instantly out of nowhere, a young Arab boy standing only a few feet away. Barefoot and plainly dressed, his face and chest is splattered with blood, but most unnerving for Tom Crosby, the young boy is crying hysterically. The screaming pitch of his inconsolable wailing is heart wrenching. As he looks at the child and the boy looks back at him, he hears Brianna's voice again.
“This is your service Mr Crosby. His name is Abdul. He's seven years old. He was riding in a car with his parents and watched as they were shot to death in front of him at a military checkpoint. The blood on his face isn't his. As you can imagine when you're that close to two people who are shot over a hundred times. Blood gets splattered everywhere, so as you can see, the tears on his face now mix with the blood of his own mother and father. ... This is your service!”
“I've never seen this child before in my life.”
“That's right. You didn't pull the trigger. Not in this particular instance. What you did was help create the conditions that enabled it to happen. It's too bad you don't speak Arabic. Maybe you could explain to Abdul that the reason his mother and father were killed was because they were, as you say, ‘dumb enough’ to charge a heavily armed checkpoint.”
The intensity of the moment is unnerving for Tom Crosby. His breathing becomes shallow. He feels trapped and strongly impelled to leave this unfamiliar place.
“Lady, I don't know who you are or who this kid is. I'm not wasting any more of my time listening to you.”
As he walks away, he turns and looks back at Brianna.
“And since that's my truck, I'll take it with me.”
“Yes, you really do need to go.”
“I'll go where I wanna go, not where you say.”
Tom Crosby gets into the truck and seconds later, pulls away. He sees the darkened sky in the distance and takes a road that leads directly away from it and is soon out of sight. Brianna walks over to Abdul, and in her gentle, calming presence, his tears subside. A quiet sense of ease pervades and the child's mood becomes tranquil. Calvin has observed all and looks at Brianna.
“That encounter with Mr Crosby was dramatic. I'm so sorry for this boy. I can't imagine the pain he must feel.”
“By saying that, you've at least acknowledged it.”
“I'm so very sorry for Abdul.”
“So am I Calvin.
Tom Crosby is driving down a road that looks vaguely familiar. The countryside he sees is reminiscent of his native Virginia and as minutes pass, he becomes convinced this is a road he's traveled on before. After driving through a stand of trees that obscured his forward view, the road leads into an open field on both sides and he sees on the horizon directly in front of him, the ominously dark, smoke-laden sky he thought he was driving away from. He finds it odd that, though he's made no appreciable turns from the direction he's driven, he's still moving toward the threatening sky looming ahead.
He turns sharply on to a side road and hopes it will lead away from it but within minutes, despite driving straight ahead, he sees again the dark forbidding horizon in front of him. After another turn he comes closer to the darkness. He turns back in the direction he came from and thinks if he could just get back to the intersection where he started from, he could find his way out of this strange place. He drives on, but as before, it only takes him closer to what he wants very much to avoid. The road he's traveling on looks increasingly familiar and when he reads a sign that says, ‘Amherst 17 miles,’ he knows why. He's heading back to his hometown.
How is this possible? He remembers talking on the phone with someone and then something happened. A connection was lost, permanently lost. Tom Crosby recognizes the road he's on as one he's traveled many times, but the landscape is different. Some homes he's driven past have been burned to the ground and as he looks ahead, the dark sky is illuminated with the orange glow of firelight hovering directly over his hometown of Amherst.
An urgent thought seizes him. His family is in Amherst and may be in some jeopardy. The noise of automatic weapons being fired in the distance is faintly audible, and its muffled intermittent clatter is a menacing sound. Tom Crosby feels a strong impulse to get back home and check on his family's safety. As he gets closer, the surrounding landscape looks increasingly battle scarred. He can see buildings burning and the sound of gunfire becomes more pronounced as he progresses. He's at a complete loss for an explanation of what he's seeing. This must be some kind of terrible dream. This place can't be the same familiar countryside he knew as an adolescent years before. He recognizes a curve in the road up ahead and knows that just beyond it on the right side is the Little League baseball field he played on so many times as a boy. Seeing it has always brought back happy memories, but after making the turn and slowing down, Tom Crosby sees something shocking: a line of six or seven men standing on the baseball field with their weapons raised are aiming in unison at a man tied to a wooden post. The man is wearing a black hood on his head and these are the last few seconds of his life. When shots are fired his body slumps motionless and its dead weight becomes lifeless.
Utterly aghast and sensing danger, he quickly pulls away and is stunned to think about what he's just witnessed. He feels an imperative need to get home, to ensure his family's safety and after seeing someone executed, perhaps his own safety as well. ‘How can this be happening?’ he asks himself. Something must be terribly wrong. Now only a few miles from his house, he sees no-one in the street, but in the distance on both sides of the road, armed men in small groups are maneuvering around buildings and occasionally shooting at something.
Tom Crosby knows very well what guerilla warfare looks like and that's exactly what he's seeing. He keeps driving and soon glimpses ahead of him a small building alongside the road with a metal barrier blocking the way. It's a checkpoint. As he gets closer he's waved in by four men in uniforms with weapons. Tom Crosby becomes very uneasy and has no idea what to expect as he rolls his window down.
“I need to see your ID.”
As he reaches for his wallet, he can clearly see the two men watching him closely through the windshield on both sides of the truck with their weapons tra
ined on him.
“Here's my driver's license. What's goin’ on around here?”
“Insurgents are on the offensive. Okay, you can go.”
With this curt reply the barrier lifts and the soldier in charge waves Tom Crosby through. He doesn't ask the guard any more questions as he pulls away but his thoughts are buzzing with confused apprehension. What did he mean about insurgents on the offensive? This unsettling comment hastens his will to get back home quickly. When he approaches his old neighborhood, no one can be seen walking or driving in the streets. It's late afternoon, a time of day when human activity is usually at its peak but what Tom Crosby sees around him is hauntingly empty. The sky is heavy with smoke and fires are burning in different places. His thoughts are increasingly apprehensive as the worrying sound of sporadic gun fire can be heard.
Minutes later, he's driving on his home street and sees his house but it looks unfamiliar. As he pulls in the driveway, he sees the house has been painted black and cement blocks have been placed in the window spaces. Tom Crosby remembers his house looking very different, or was it a dream? He remembers driving to Richmond to keep an appointment, but doesn't remember why. Despite his confusion, he's certain that his home and his neighborhood have radically changed. Trees that were once in the front yard have been cut down and the sun-brightened landscape looks almost alien, but the dominant visual feature is its color. The entire house including the roof has been painted flat black. Even the yard, sidewalk and driveway have been darkened. Taken aback by what he's seeing, he sits for a moment in silence. Then the front door suddenly opens, and he watches as his wife Heather and their seventeen-year-old son charge out with automatic weapons and quickly assume defensive positions. Without eye contact, they aim out into the street and visually scan in both directions as if expecting an attack from somewhere. His wife and son are dressed completely in black and move with the precision and speed of trained military proficiency.
Surprised at their sudden action, he looks at his wife and asks, “What's happening? What's going on here?”
“Better get your vehicle inside, sir,” she says without looking back at him.
The garage doors unexpectedly open. The light-duty motor-driven aluminum door has been replaced with two large steel panels hinged on both sides that swing out from the middle and pushing the doors open is Tom Crosby's daughter Sara, who like her mother and brother, is wearing an all black uniform and carrying a weapon. Before he can think, Tom Crosby hears his wife's voice again.
“Get your vehicle in, sir.”
Suddenly the sound of gunfire coming from a source close by is heard and Tom Crosby scrambles to get his truck in the garage. As the doors close behind him, he hears the clang of heavy metal latches being bolted shut and after getting out of his truck, he sees his daughter staring back at him. Her joyless greeting is brief and impersonal as she salutes.
“Welcome back, sir.”
Without waiting for a reply from her father, she walks back into the house with Tom Crosby following.
“What's happening, Sara? Why are you dressed like that?”
At that moment the front door opens and Tom Crosby's wife and son enter, shutting and locking the metal door behind them.
“What's happening here? What were you doing outside?”
“We were giving you cover, sir. Insurgents are now active in this area.”
“What insurgents?”
“From intelligence reports we think they're an offshoot of the DRF,” Heather says.
“Who's the DRF?”
“It's the Democratic Revolutionary Front, sir. As far as we can tell they're the militant wing of that organization. They splintered off when we killed most of their commanders in a raid last month.
Tom Crosby sees his son John, and daughter Sara, exit the room as if returning to some unfinished activity.
“Where's John and Sara going?” he asks his wife Heather.
“There on duty, sir.”
“What kind of duty?”
“They're spotting.”
“Spotting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you call me sir? I'm your husband.”
“You're an officer. Our military protocol requires it, sir.”
“What's happening here? This place looks like a war zone.”
“Well, yes sir, as you know we're at war.”
“This is crazy. What are you people doing?”
Before she can answer, a rifle shot is heard from inside the house somewhere upstairs.
“What was that?”
“It might've been a kill. Let's go see.”
With this quick reply, Heather with her weapon still on her shoulder, briskly moves toward the stairs. Tom Crosby follows as they ascend and enter the main bedroom. He sees that the ceiling has been cut away and what looks like a loft with an observation platform installed. Large enough for two people, it's constructed with a narrow horizontal opening that looks out into the street below. Tom Crosby sees his son John, descending the vertical ladder, while John's sister Sara, remains above looking out through the narrow slit with binoculars. As John comes down, Tom Crosby sees his son carrying a different weapon than the one he had before. This rifle has a mounted scope and a longer barrel and is designed to be used by a sniper. Seconds later, John is standing beside his parents with a self-satisfied smile and proudly says, “that's nineteen.”
“Not ‘til it's confirmed,” Heather says, and looking up to Sara, she asks, “what do you see Sara?”
“Uh, so far no movement, a lot o’ blood.”
“He aint movin'. I drilled him dead center. It was a clean shot. How much blood Sis?” He asks his sister who still has her binoculars trained on the freshly bleeding body.
“A lot, a lot o’ blood. He's bleedin’ out.”
“That's right. I put one through his heart. My kills only take one shot,” John says proudly.
“Well congratulations then, that's your nineteenth. What's it look like Sara?”
“He's in a pool o’ blood, no movement. He's done,” she says with a thumbs down gesture.
“That's good enough for me. You'll have to sign off on it, sir,” Heather says to her husband.
“Sign off on what?” Tom Crosby asks.
“Confirmation of a clean kill, sir,” John says.
“You've done this nineteen times?”
“That number's for both of us. I have fourteen kills. Sara has five.”
“I have six kills,” Sara says in objection.
“No you don't. You have five kills, not six,” John says to his sister.
“That's not true. I have six kills.”
“You have five kills, Sara. Only five were confirmed,” Heather tells her daughter, and turning to her husband, light heartedly says, “they have a bet between them over who can get to twenty kills first, sort of a sibling rivalry, you might say.”
Aghast at what he's just heard, Tom Crosby turns away in disbelief.
“What's happened here? This is crazy. Have you all gone insane? What's changed you people? What happened to your piano music and ballet lessons? Don't you remember?”
“What are you talkin’ about? Ballet lessons, there are no ballet lessons here.”
As Sara comes down from her observation perch, she sees her mother and brother looking suspiciously at her father.
“Do you feel all right, sir?”
“Don't call me sir. I'm your husband.”
“Yes, sir, whatever you say.”
“Put that weapon down,” Tom Crosby tells his son. “I said put that weapon down.”
“Is that an order, sir? Because if it is, I'm afraid I can't obey.”
“You people have gone crazy. The whole world's gone crazy. You're killing people, sniping people from your own home and joking about it. You're insane. You've
all gone insane.”
Heather, John and Sara look at each other with suspicion and alarm at the unexpected words they’re hearing. Then, as if on cue. Heather says, “Listen sir, you must be a little tired after traveling all day. Why don't you take a quick nap and get some rest? Dinner's at 1800 hours. We'll call you when it's ready. Let's leave your father alone now so he can relax,” she says to her children.
With this, Heather, John and Sara leave the room closing the door behind them. Their exit seems curiously abrupt as Tom Crosby stands alone in the room. He sees the sleeping cot with its mattress a few feet away but knows it would be impossible to fall asleep. His mind is racing with questions. What is this place? What's happening to his family? He looks around the room. The smell of the spent bullet cartridge his son fired to mark his 19th kill still hangs in the air, a sinister reminder of the brutality everywhere around him.
The room he's standing in used to be the master bedroom of the house and holds personal memories for Tom Crosby. This is where he and his wife Heather once slept together through the early years of their marriage before he went overseas. That was the happiest time of his life, but that world now seems a universe away. His drifting thoughts are quickly dispelled as he looks around the room with its altered surroundings. The room's windows have been covered with permanent steel plating. The light of large fluorescent lamp fixtures on the ceiling make the room unnaturally bright, but the most conspicuous change in the room's appearance is the construction of a sniper’s loft in the roof area above him. The walls, once colored in soft pastels have been painted a drab gray, with no pictures or adornments of any kind, giving the stark interior space a sanitary, unwelcoming look. No trace of anything feminine or familial is in the room or any other part of the house. Everything around him reflects the relentlessly masculine qualities of battle-hardened military life.
He remembers the strange woman named Brianna who told him earlier that this would be his fate, that he would inherit a world of unending war and killing. Tom Crosby is not afraid of battle. He's accustomed to armed conflict and knows how to survive its dangers but this is something very different. Seeing his wife and children living, thinking and acting as battle hardened soldiers is a frightening paradox and the most disturbing element in this new inexplicable reality.
A Journey of Souls Page 23
