Jibriil had told him no one would overlook him here. Allah had a plan for everyone and once Adem hit the ground with a rifle in his hand, he'd find his purpose. Smart guys like him were valuable for strategic planning. It all made perfect sense.
Except that so far, he'd been even more ignored than he was back in NPR except when the others were making fun of him. Jibriil had been dead wrong—smarts didn't matter. Instead, questioning less and showing a will to do more, no matter how awful, was what put you in the good graces of the higher powers. Jibriil was more likely to become a leader than Adem.
The truck rattled again, turned left and lurched and Adem fell from his bench and onto Garaad across from him.
"Idiot!" He kicked Adem, the dusty boot catching him in the shoulder. Adem fought to get back to his place, pummeled by more kicks. "You like this? You like getting kicked around?"
It took Jibriil to reach across, grab Garaad's leg, and say, "Enough!"
They listened to Jibriil, everyone there. Treated him like some prophetic warrior forsaking the pleasures of the world to do his duty. They loved him.
Adem just got in the way.
Soon after everyone had settled down again, the trucks stopped. The drivers got out, slapped the side of the vehicle, woke the sleepers. They all unwound and climbed to the ground, most of them sitting down again, the others stretching. It was very dark, only glimpses of moonlight, making everything indistinct and shiny.
The leader of the raid called over his top men, Jibriil being one of them. He hadn't told Adem of any promotion. Was that on purpose? Concerned about Adem's morale? He hated to admit it, but this was a reversal of their friendship in the Cities, where Adem had been the one who made the plans, decided what they were going to do and when. Jibriil always went along, at least until high school began to pull them apart, bit by bit.
After the huddle, Jibriil called over the men from his truck, explained their part in all this. "We want to destroy their supplies. Not steal, but decimate. We want to kill the men."
"The women? What about the women?"
Jibriil, no expression. "Whatever you want, as long as it doesn't get you killed."
The rest—partners, streets, escape route, time of operation, Adem absorbed without really paying attention. It sounded as if they didn't expect much resistance. The middle of the night, everyone asleep, far away from the frontline. Jibriil said they would split into pairs when they reached the village. Adem assumed Jibriil would keep him close, but instead teamed him with Madoowbe. It wasn't what Adem had hoped for, but it was better than being stuck with Garaad or the guy who wanted to rape the women.
Adem tightened his grip on the rifle as Jibriil kept on in hushed tones. The air was cleaner than it had been in the truck. He sneezed, tried to quiet it. His nerves were on edge like sandpaper, hard to touch anything. He scratched a bite on his leg and thought he might pass out.
Tonight he would have to kill someone. Not like he had with the thief, because no matter the intent, he had to accept that yes, he had already killed a man. This time, no accidents. No way around it. Adem would lift his gun and end the lives of men who were not expecting it. He was grateful for that part—not at all looking forward to the day the enemy was coming at him with their own guns.
He wasn't ready, but that was the point, right? Suffering through these long days of trial, waiting to hear the voice of the Prophet, when maybe it took action to open the doors. Taking the hand was the beginning, leading him to this. If that's what it took, okay. He would bind his fears and leave them waiting in the truck for when he returned. Hopefully, he wouldn't need them anymore.
Jibriil pointed the way, a half-mile walk west, and the crew followed, footsteps and darkness. Adem lagged behind.
*
An hour later he was running for his life behind two other soldiers, Jibriil behind them laying down gunfire at the pursuing men. Adem was sweating, cold, hot, out of breath, all at once. He'd dropped his rifle a long time ago. The Ethiopians had been waiting for them.
They all heard the gunfire, the first truckload of men being taken out by the waiting soldiers, before they'd even made it to town. Jibriil rushed ahead, told the others to stick to the plan and hurry up. He had to go see what had happened.
Adem and Madoowbe continued on, taking cover behind a makeshift hut, sneaking around to find it full of women and children. Awake. Afraid. Babies crying. More gunfire from behind. Adem and Madoowbe looked at each other. Reading thoughts—No way. Not me.
A shout from behind them. "Murderers!"
Three men running, dressed like shepherds, already lifting their rifles. Adem and his partner ran. Flinching as the shepherds' guns behind them popped with automatic fire. Shaking too bad to even think of firing their own. They ran fast. The soldiers behind them gave up, and the two ran towards another pair of their own, further along.
Before they could meet up, the gunfire rattled again. Flashes of light ahead like strobe. Two Somalis flailing in slo-mo, falling. One of them Adem recognized—Abdi Erasto, just fifteen, always happy. Shot down without a fight. Beyond them, more of their soldiers running like Adem had done. Another standing casually behind a stone hut, edging up and firing blindly around the corner, even into his own people.
The wall next to Adem and Madoowbe pinged several times, pieces of rock flying, cutting Madoowbe's face. He screamed, held his hand to his eye. Too dark for Adem to tell if there was blood. More pings and cracks around them. He grabbed his partner, pulled him down to the ground. Half a foot away from a pile of donkey shit. The cows and asses in town were freaked, braying and howling. More gunfire overhead on the wall. Shards of rock flying, slicing across their backs.
Then it was dark again. The gunfire stopped. Adem's vision was filled with bright specks, changing colors, and darkness. He blinked. Kept on. Couldn't get rid of the flashing ghosts. Finally caught a glimpse of men in sandals coming their way. Ethiopians shepherds.
One said, "A couple of prisoners?"
Another. "No, no, we hang their bodies in the square and desecrate them. Make sure God will not accept them in heaven."
Adem pushed himself to his knees, grabbed the other boy's shoulder, pulled him upright. Still pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. Adem couldn't find his own gun in the dark. He reached for Madoowbe's gun.
His hands were slapped away. "You can't have it!"
"Hey, we're going to die!"
"That's mine! Let me kill them."
Madoowbe pulled his hand from his eye, a sliced up bloody mess, already beginning to swell shut. He lifted the rifle and let loose. The bullets sprayed everywhere, like a fireman's hose, no control whatsoever. Lighting up the whole wall, probably not hitting a thing.
Then the shepherds fired back. Knew exactly where to aim. Precise. Right at Madoowbe's chest and head, ten, fifteen, twenty. Adem jumped back, scuttled on the ground like a crab to get away. His partner's body animated like a marionette for a moment before collapsing under the barrage.
Maybe they hadn't seen him. He felt around carefully, quietly for his own rifle. Nowhere to be found. He didn't have a pistol on him, not even grenades. He'd been afraid they would blow him up without warning. At that moment, he wished he hadn't been such a baby. Quick shallow breaths. Afraid he'd need to gasp and give away his position.
The shepherds had made it to Madoowbe's body, one reaching over to lay the guy out flat, search his pockets, take his gun. Another lashed a rope around his head, tied it into a noose.
The third was keeping watch around them. Adem lay flat on his stomach, trying not to breathe. He was close to a thatched fence and hoped it was throwing enough shadow to keep him covered. If only he had a pistol.
The shepherd looked directly at him. Squinted. Eased his rifle up. "Another one."
Oh, no, please, God, no, I'm so sorry, Mom, Dad. So Sorry.
The other two dropped the dead Somali. Turned. Rifles ready. The lookout pointed at the fence. Adem's exact location. "There, you see? H
e's trying to be still. See?"
One of them set off a flurry of shots. Puffed the ground in front of Adem, the fence behind. Grazed the backs of his legs. Stung like a bee. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep from calling out.
But he failed.
"Jibriil! Help, God, help me!"
More gunfire. Adem covered his head and rolled out of the way, through the donkey dung, wondering how he was not yet dead.
He looked up. More strobe. The shepherds turned and fired at someone else. Six or seven Somalis on the attack, running right towards the shepherds, one of them falling.
Someone grabbed Adem's shirt and began yanking hard, yelling, "Get up! Get up! Move!"
Jibriil's voice. Adem rolled onto his feet and followed Jibriil and two others out of the village. Jibriil turned, running backwards, firing until his clip ran out. The others—Garaad and a tall, caramel-skinned man from another unit. More Somalis sprinted away towards the other trucks as the last of the three shepherds fell, new men coming out of the darkness to replace them. Gunfire lit up the road behind them, zipping by or thudding into the ground all around.
Garraad, supposedly the baddest of the crew, ran fastest. Far ahead of the others, not looking back. Adem guessed that was how he had survived so long in this war—hit em hard and get out quickly. Just ahead of Adem, the tall man kept looking back, asking if Adem was alright. Checking on Jibriil, who had finally run out of ammo and was catching up fast, pistol in hand. Too dark to see how many followed, but bursts of rifle-fire lit up the black.
No way they were going to make it. No way. Adem's legs were way past cramping, now burning. The fire moving up his thighs into his chest. Garaad out of sight. The tall man still keeping pace with Adem, rifle strapped to his back. Surely he could run faster than this. But he was determined to make sure Adem and Jibriil made it.
Shouted, "We either all make it or none of us do!"
Jibriil shouted back, "No! You go! I'm in command now! Get Adem out of here!"
Jibriil in command? Then the leader was dead. The leader's right-hand man, dead. Jibriil now the highest ranking, holding it together. Adem could see what he was about to do. As soon as Adem and the other soldier were far enough along, he was going to turn and make a stand with his pistol. Total suicide. It was the only move they had left.
Adem wanted to slow down, talk Jibriil out of it. But he couldn't. He was on automatic pilot. Pumping those exhausted legs. Jibriil already slowing, giving them space. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be! They were going to fight together, discover what made them Somali to the core. Not this. A shit border town, an ambush, and a humiliating retreat.
Adem looked over his shoulder. Jibriil, still slowing, flashed him a smile and wink. Then Jibriil stopped, turned, and started firing.
Adem looked ahead on the road. Saw taillights heading for him fast. Way too fast, going to slam into him. He stopped, leapt to the side of the road as the truck screeched to a hard stop. It was their truck. Garaad leaned out the driver's window.
"Get up, you ass! Get in!"
Adem pushed himself off the ground and stumbled for the back gate. The tall soldier was already there, helped Adem inside. He fell on his shoulder. Hurt like hell. He hurried around and grabbed the soldier's hand as the truck lurched backwards again at high speed and made another jarring stop right before it hit Jibriil. He turned, tossed the pistol into the truck and grabbed their waiting hands. Bullets zipping by, slapping into the metal of the truck. All three inside, they shouted at Garaad to floor it.
He did, jerking forward, gaining speed. The Ethiopians were gaining, bullets exploding the side mirrors, back glass, barely over their heads. Jibriil grabbed Adem and they sank to the truckbed. Crowded together but alive. Jibriil and Adem breathing hard, staring at each other, before Jibriil's face lit up and he started laughing. Laughing as if he'd gotten off a roller coaster at Valley Fair, an amusement park back in the Cities.
The tall Somali joined in. Then Adem, not to be left out, but he didn't see what there was to laugh about. They had escaped, yes, but he didn't feel relieved. Instead, what was it? Terror. The sense that every day would be worse than the last. He would dream of strobelight silhouettes, bodies of boys he knew being dragged into the town square to be desecrated at that very moment as Jibriil and Adem were laughing on the way home.
When the sound of the gunfire faded, they sat up. Looked out in time to see another of their trucks beginning to pull away, not even half full. The third, beginning to fill, a young man climbing into the driver's seat.
Then the sky shook. The dark turned into fiery day, Adem having to squint to understand what was going on. His eyes playing tricks on him. The third truck had exploded, its frame on fire.
"Rocket launcher!" Jibriil crawled to the cracked window, yelled at Garaad. "Rocket launcher!"
Garaad began swerving. The truck behind them did the same. Sped up. They were in an open field. They needed trees, hills, anything. Too dark to see. Another blast behind both of the trucks, a miss.
Adem backed up against the front of the truckbed, pressing his back against the steel. Instinctually pushing, as if he could get away from the rockets by pure will.
"You've got to drive, man!"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"Faster!"
"I drive as fucking fast as I can fucking drive, alright? Why didn't you bring a launcher?"
Another blast. This one sent the truck behind them spinning into the air, on fire, flipping over and over, throwing out flaming, screaming soldiers. A wave of heat washed over Adem, still pushing. Nothing behind them now but clear darkness.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod." In English. "No no no."
Jibriil clamped a hand down on his shoulder, shut him up. Leaned down to his ear. "Don't let it hurt when it happens. Go with it. Praise Allah and leave this all behind, my friend."
Adem wrapped his hands around Jibriil's arm. "Why like this? It's not supposed to be this way."
"Brace yourself."
The sound of the rocket screaming their way. Adem thought he saw the brief flash of flame from where they launched it. Squeezing Jibriil tighter, tighter.
Another blinding flash, another skyshaker, even worse this time. But they were still rolling. Still alive. The ground directly behind them on fire.
As they crested a hill Garaad turned on the speed. The wind whipped their ears, but the shouts of joy were obvious from the looks on their faces. Jibriil embraced Adem, held on for dear life, pounded his back hard. Tears streamed down Adem's cheeks, soaked into Jibriil's shirt. Miles and miles like that, it felt.
When they were far enough away, relatively safe within the Somali border, Jibriil said again, "The captain is dead. I led his men back across the village. I didn't know…"
He struggled, couldn't say it.
The tall soldier shook his head. "Are you sure? At the end there, when you wanted to be left behind—"
"You're saying I'm a traitor, Khalid?"
Held up his hands. "I'm not, no, just saying we have to investigate. You acted admirably. A true leader."
"Forget that right now. I did everything I could to tear up that village and get our men out alive. I'm no mole."
Kahlid dropped his eyes. "Forgive me. You're right. It makes no sense."
Adem asked, "Investigate what? I don't get it."
"Someone gave us up. They knew we were coming."
Adem pulled his knees to his chin, gripped his arms around his shins. He didn't want to think about it. All he wanted was to go home.
TEN
If they hadn't been packing guns, Bleeker would've twisted the ears of all these "Black Ice Boys" and made them stay after school for detention. Instead, he had to keep his mouth shut as he and Mustafa followed Tyrus into a sixth floor apartment in the center of Cedar-Riverside. The front room bare except for a couch, worn-recliner, and giant flat screen TV on a cheap stand. On the wall over the couch, a bronze-colored crucifix. Scattered all over the floor, wires
leading from the TV to a video game console, and more wires leading to controls in two of the Boys' hands. Lots of "Aw, yeah, fuck that!" and "All you, Dub, all you."
On the TV, a split screen showing two tricked-out street racers, almost like a movie. But the boys were controlling the cars, flying past other cars, crashing into corners of buildings and other racers. Seemed tense, the guys gripping the controls tight and turning them as if real steering wheels. They also pumped their feet like there were real pedals on the floor.
They ignored Bleeker and Mustafa for a long while, Tyrus not announcing them. He drifted away into the kitchen, then came back with a red can of sugary pop and joined the guys watching the race. Mustafa watched too. He crossed his arms and waited. Bleeker didn't give a shit about a kids' game. Last time he played a video game, it was because he'd cut class and spent ten bucks worth of quarters on Defender at the Pizza Hut.
The apartment smelled like pot and stale beer, sure, but also like cheap citrus air freshener. A mother's touch. Bleeker thought he'd heard a woman's voice from somewhere in the back. He wondered what she thought of her home being HQ for children with guns.
Bleeker stepped over to Mustafa and mumbled, "How 'bout I jerk the plug out of the outlet?"
"Easy. Do that and the whole night was a waste of time."
"Kids, man. Squeeze them, they pop like pimples."
Mustafa wrenched his head around. "Well, thanks, Mister. I'll be sure to remember that when I'm working out in the country. Might even use a pitchfork."
Whatever he was going to say got lost in the outburst from the gangbangers. Hopping a good few inches off the couch cushions, and the guys on the floor doubled over, the ones standing up high-fiving. On the screen, massive explosions, Game Over for the bottom half of the screen. One of the guys with a control looked pissed, saying "Fuck that shit!" three, four, five times.
He looked over at Mustafa and Bleeker. One of those stupid gangsta snarls. Bleeker could never figure it out. To walk like a gangsta, to talk like one, to dress like one, that took a lot of effort. No one just did it. The whole shooting match, all of it an act. Of course, wasn't the whole Minnesota Nice thing about as bad?
All the Young Warriors Page 8
