I stood up and began walking towards the vehicle. I saw Tariq grasp the air in fury and frustration, so I gave him a jaunty wave and sauntered towards the soldiers. I was safe.
“Hey guys,” I shouted when I was halfway between the burnt-out car and them. I had stopped walking and had my arms raised high and wide. Didn’t want to give them an excuse to shoot.
They spun around, rifles raised to their shoulders, but they didn’t fire. They hesitated, obviously surprised and suspicious.
“I’m British,” I yelled. “I just arrived here. I’m looking for my dad. He’s a squaddie like you.”
That sounded as lame as it did unlikely, but it was the truth so it was all I had. I expected them to tell me to lie on the ground, hands behind my head, that sort of thing. But they didn’t move. One of them reached for his radio and muttered something to someone, then his colleague shouted: “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”
It took me a second to work out what he’d said, and then another to work out why.
“Okay,” I said. “But my shoulder’s pretty torn up, so bear with me.” Both rifles were sighted on my chest as I struggled out of my shirt. I let it drop to the ground. “All right? See, no bomb vest.”
“Now your pants.”
“Seriously?”
“Do it!”
So I unbuckled my belt and let my combats fall around my ankles. I considered making an inappropriate quip, something like “If you want me to take my boxers off, you’ll have to buy me lunch first,” but I thought better of it.
“On the ground, hands behind your head.”
I sank to my knees and lay down on the ground as he’d instructed. The gritty dirt burnt my skin, and a sharp stone jammed itself between my ribs, but I didn’t wriggle. I heard them walking towards me slowly, their heavy boots grinding the dust beneath them.
“Lie completely still,” said the talkative one. “If you move a muscle my friend here will shoot you dead.”
“Understood. Just be careful please, I disclocated my shoulder earlier and it hurts like fuck.”
I heard him fumbling with something, and then a thin strip of cold plastic was looped around my wrists and pulled tight. Then he grabbed my bound wrists and hauled me upright, grinding my damaged shoulder horribly. I yelled in pain and anger.
“Sorry,” he said sarcastically.
The talkative one pushed me ahead of him, back to the humvee, while his mate scanned the surrounding buildings for danger. I had so many questions I wanted to ask them, but I decided it would be best to keep quiet for now. These were frightened, frightening soldiers; anything could happen. Best wait ’til I was safe in their HQ talking to a senior officer. Shouldn’t take long to sort everything out then.
And yet… I didn’t tell them about Tariq and his friends, hiding in an alleyway behind us. I was probably concussed, certainly dehydrated, definitely scared, and it was only as they marched me back to the car with brisk military efficiency that it occurred to me, belatedly, that perhaps my judgement wasn’t the finest right now. So I kept quiet about the Islamists who had nearly beheaded me, the ones who could even now be taking up positions in nearby buildings and sighting their rifles on us. I think that maybe, through all my confusion and adrenaline, I’d started to have an inkling that I’d jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.
They shoved me into the humvee roughly. My shin banged painfully against the metal lip of the door, making me curse. The quiet one stayed outside on guard, while the one who’d bound my wrists sat opposite me. He was a young man, about twenty; Hispanic, with a wispy, bumfluff moustache. But despite his youth he seemed confident, in control, self contained. His face was hard and cold, and gave nothing away. I suppose his accent could have told me which part of the States he was from, but apart from New York and the deep south I don’t know my American accents well.
“Name, rank, serial number,” barked Bumfluff.
“I’m not a soldier.”
“You’re British, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Name, rank and serial number. That’s all you Brits ever tell us.”
“If we’re soldiers. And it’s the Second World War. And you’re Nazis. But I’m not a soldier and you’re not wearing jackboots.”
So the Yanks and the Brits weren’t working together. Maybe they were even enemies. Suddenly all my preconceptions came tumbling down. I’d assumed that the army would have retained some order and discipline in the face of The Cull, but sitting here, facing an American soldier who thought I was an enemy, that idea seemed wilfully naïve. They could have splintered into all sorts of warring factions. This led straight to the idea that maybe Tariq and his gang had not been all they seemed either, and I cursed my prejudices and my stupidity.
From the second I’d hit dirt I’d been reacting instinctively and without thought. I knew too well that that kind of thing gets you killed.
Engage your brain, Keegan.
“Tourist?” he asked.
“I flew here from England.”
“Economy?”
“You must have seen my plane coming down, light aircraft, two seater. I’ve been unconscious but I think it was yesterday.”
“Maybe.”
“I was shot down.”
“Not by us.”
So should I tell him about Dad? I couldn’t see why not. I had to ask someone, after all.
“Listen, I’m just looking for my father. He’s a sergeant in the British Army. He never came home after The Cull. I flew here to find him.”
“On your own?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re, what, fifteen?”
“Sixteen. Yesterday.”
“Happy fucking birthday.”
“Thanks. Do I get a cake?”
“I don’t have time for your bull, kid. It’ll be better for you if you just tell us the truth.”
“My name is Lee Keegan, my father’s name is John, he’s a Sergeant in the British army and I just want to find out if he’s okay. If you radio your base I’m sure they can just check their records and it’ll all be sorted out in no time.”
His eyes went wide with surprise and recognition. Obviously he knew my dad, or knew of him. So I’d been captured by two groups since touching down and both knew my dad. What were the odds? What the hell was going on here? Bumfluff was thinking hard. It looked like it hurt.
“John Keegan? Your father’s name is John Keegan?”
“Yes. Know him?”
“Oh, yeah. I know him. Our General is going to be very happy to see you.”
Something in the way he said that convinced me that I wouldn’t be so happy to be seen.
“Great,” I said, cheerily. “But look, I’m not whoever you thought I was, right? I’m obviously not a threat, and I want to come with you. So can I please put my clothes on? I mean, I’m getting grit in places you don’t want grit to get, know what I’m saying? And I don’t want to see my dad for the first time in two years just dressed in my boxers.”
He considered me carefully and I gave him my most innocent, pleading grin.
“Please?”
He nodded slowly. “Reckon it can’t hurt. Hey, Shane, go get the kid’s clothes. We’ll get him dressed then head back. We’re going to get so much kudos for this.” His friend looked at him quizzically. “This is Keegan’s son.” Shane gave a small whistle.
“Fuck me,” he said, nodding in appreciation. “Score!” Then he walked off to get my clothes, gun raised, scanning the buildings as he went.
“My dad popular then, huh?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Oh, yeah, kid. Everyone wants a piece of your dad.” He chuckled. I chuckled with him. Good joke. He was now completely convinced that he had outsmarted me in some undefined way. If it came to a battle of wits, I didn’t think this guy would be too much trouble. But the body armour, knife and guns did kind of give him the edge. I was going to need help whatever happened. Time to jump out of the fire and back into the frying pan; I just hoped
Tariq and his crew were still watching, because despite what they’d put me through I felt they were more likely to be my allies than the musclebrain sitting before me.
Shane got back and threw my trousers and shirt on the ground outside the vehicle. Bumfluff indicated that I should step down, and I did so. I turned, holding out my bound hands for him to untie me.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” he said.
“Look, I just want to see my dad. You’re going to take me to him. Why would I cause trouble?”
He grunted and sliced open the plastic tie with his knife. “I’m gonna be standing right here. You so much as twitch and I’ll stick you. Understand?”
I nodded. I shook the sand off my clothes and pulled them on. No point trying anything now; they were expecting me to. Once I was dressed I meekly turned around, put my wrists together behind my back, and let Bumfluff put on another wrist tie. Then he relaxed. Silly boy.
I struggled into the humvee and managed to sit back in my seat. Shane and Bumfluff took the opportunity to have a whispered conversation outside, and I undid my wrist tie.
Yes, I know, what kind of person travels around with a tiny scalpel blade gaffer taped to the inside of the back of their trouser waist band? All I can say is, when you’ve been tied up as often as I have you learn to take precautions, and it’s the kind of little detail that a cursory pat down isn’t going to uncover. I had one inside my right front pocket as well, just in case they tied my hands in front. And one in each of my shoes. And sewn into the hem of each trouser leg, in case they went for a hog tie approach. Back before The Cull it would have been crazy, now it was just part of life. Of surviving.
My life had brought me to the point where I took routine precautions against being hog tied. Jesus.
Now what to do? I could wait for them to get back in. One of them would sit in front of me and I could probably liberate his knife and improvise from there. But I’d be trapped in an enclosed space with two strong, armed men. Not an attractive proposition. Then an obvious approach occurred to me.
I reached forward, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it shut before they could react. I pressed down the lock and voila, I was safe inside an armoured cage.
I scrambled into the front as the two soldiers rattled the door handles, shouting and threatening me. I ignored them. The keys weren’t in the ignition. I couldn’t drive, but I figured I’d have been able to at least get the damn thing moving, but no luck. I needed another plan; assuming the glass wasn’t bullet-proof it wouldn’t be long before they just shot me. I scanned the controls for inspiration as I rifled through the glove compartments hoping to find a spare firearm. Nothing. I saw a radio clipped on to the dashboard, but who would I call? Then I noticed a tiny button next to it that said ‘loudspeaker’.
I grabbed the radio, flipped the switch and shouted “Okay Tariq, I trust you. Come get me.”
The two soldiers immediately shifted their attention from me to the surrounding buildings, raising their rifles to their shoulders, eyes going wide with sudden fear. It didn’t help them. There was a single crisp rifle shot and Shane’s back slammed against the side of the car. He left a red stain on the window as he slid down to the ground. Bumfluff started running for the street corner. I thought he was going to make it, and I was almost rooting for him, but then there was another crack and his head jerked sideways and blossomed with red. He fell to the ground and didn’t move again.
Two more deaths on my conscience. And what would happen when I opened the door? What if they decided to just shoot me too? I didn’t fancy the odds, but I’d made my choice and I had to live with it. What option did I have?
So I unlocked the door, jumped down, grabbed the rifle from Shane’s cooling corpse, and stood there waiting.
Tariq burst out of the side alley on his own and came haring towards me, shouting.
“Keys, get the keys.”
I didn’t move, keeping my rifle trained on him as he ran.
His face was a mix of frustration and fury as he skidded to a halt beside me.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” He fell to his knees and rummaged through Shane’s pockets until he found the keys then he ran around to the driver’s side and leapt in. “Coming?”
I heard the sound of an engine echoing down the street; someone was coming, probably more soldiers. I jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Tariq didn’t hesitate. He turned the ignition, revved the humvee, and we took off at full speed in a cloud of sand and dust.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Lying low. We’ve got to draw the soldiers away from them. We’ll meet up with them later.”
“If we escape.”
“If we escape.” He wrenched the wheel and we careened around a corner. “What changed your mind?”
“Call it a hunch,” I said
“Good call.”
“I’m still not so sure about that. Did you really need to kill them? You couldn’t have just fired some warning shots or something?”
He cursed in Arabic; obviously my stupidity was annoying him. “You told them your name, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But they didn’t radio it in, did they?”
“No.”
“If they had, we’d be in a lot of trouble.”
An armoured car appeared in the distance ahead of us. I was flung sideways as Tariq swerved into an alleyway littered with abandoned cars. We smashed our way through the obstacles, sending the hollow metal wrecks spinning and rolling as we slalomed our way between them.
“More trouble than this?”
“Fuck yeah.”
One car braced itself against another and they dug into the ground as we hit them. The humvee’s nose wrenched itself upwards and we rolled over the vehicles, bouncing madly, my head crashing against the roof. Tariq was yelling, but it was hard to tell whether it was in excitement or terror. Then we hit dirt again and the alley cleared ahead of us. Left on to another main road and that was that, we didn’t see another car until we pulled up at the dock ten minutes later.
Tariq hit the brakes and the humvee skidded to a halt just inches from the water.
“Out,” he barked.
I didn’t need telling twice. I clambered down, bruised and shaken, holding the rifle tight.
“Now help me,” he said, leaning forward and pushing with all his strength. I didn’t bother asking why, I just took up the strain on my side. Together we pushed the humvee into the water and watched it sink. Then Tariq turned and walked away. I stood and watched him for a minute then I shouted after him.
“Should I come with you, or what?”
“I don’t really care,” he replied, without glancing back or slowing down. “If Toseef or Anna are dead because of your fucking stupidity, I’ll kill you myself when we get back to base. But if they’re fine, you’re better off with me. Your call.”
He rounded a corner and was gone.
I thought about it for a moment, then I shrugged and ran after him.
AT THE NEAR-DERELICT building that Tariq’s group used as an HQ, an American deserter called Brett gave me anti-inflammatories for my shoulder, and patched and dressed my various wounds.
When he’d finished, Tariq apologised for being so harsh by referring to yet another online personality I’d never heard of — “Sorry, I was a dick. Wil Wheaton would not be impressed” — then spent a couple of hours telling me his story. We sat on a flat, warm roof looking out over the city as the dusk turned to darkness and he laid it all out for me. It was a lot to take in, and it raised almost as many questions as it gave answers, but I mostly let him talk without interruption. When he had finished we sat in silence for a while, and then I told him my story in return. By the time I finished I felt that we had reached an understanding; after all, our experiences weren’t that different when you got to the root of it.
Then he told me his plan and my role in it.
Then he gave me food and water and showed me where I could bed dow
n for the night. I slept well, woke with the dawn and went looking for Tariq. I found him on the roof, exactly where I’d left him the night before.
“Well?” he asked.
“Your plan is insane.”
He shrugged as if to say ‘what can you do?’ I laughed and shook my head ruefully.
“Our chances of success are…” I didn’t have a word for that amount of small.
Again he shrugged and smiled.
I looked out over Basra. The squat white buildings of the centre, the tower blocks in the distance, the docks full of abandoned boats. And on the horizon the columns of rising smoke as the oil burned out of the wells. I was so very far from home. I’d come here on a very personal mission, tired of having the weight of everybody’s expectations hanging on me, weary of making decisions that determined which of my friends would live and die. I’d figured that either I’d find my dad or I’d die trying. Either way, the only person paying for my mistakes would be me.
Now here I was, in Basra only a day, and a guy I barely knew was asking me to take on a huge responsibility. It almost seemed like fate was laughing at me. No matter how far I flew, I seemed to end up at the centre of things. I might as well just get used to it. I shrugged and held out my hand.
“It’s a stupid plan, but okay,” I said. “I’m in.”
So an hour later, unarmed and on my own, I walked up the main gate of Saddam’s palace and surrendered myself to the American Army.
CHAPTER THREE
IT TOOK MY eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness.
The cell, deep underneath the palace complex, smelt of sweat and bad breath, fear and urine. The silence was absolute once the footsteps of the American soldier who’d thrown me in here had faded away; no whirr of air conditioning, no echoes from the long corridor outside, no snatches of distant conversation. Which is how I could hear the soft breath of the cell’s other occupant.
I stayed just inside the door until I began to make out shapes.
Thin chinks of light filtered in through the square holes in the metal window shutter, picking out the concrete walls, the bucket in the corner beside me with the cloth over it to mask the stench, the filthy mattress on the floor and the man lying upon it, knees pulled up, arms around his legs, foetal. It was hard to make out details but he seemed wounded; something about the hunch of his shoulders, the way his head was buried in his lap, spoke of pain and endurance.
School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles) Page 28
