On the day after the arrest, trial, and execution of Margaret Malcolm, the Janissaries held an award ceremony. With every member of the elite force present, the Janissary commander, Omar Faquar, called his troops to attention, then asked Mawsil and Amaar to step forward.
Mawsil and Amaar moved to the front of the formation, then stood at attention. Faquar lifted a paper and began to read.
“With the blessings of Allah, the all powerful, Husni Mawsil and Shurayh Amaar are here to be cited for meritorious service.
“Officers Mawsil and Amaar, while on patrol, did find a woman whose name is not worthy of mention, dressed as the whore she was. Further investigation by Mawsil and Amaar determined that the whore had but recently seduced an innocent young man. Acting upon this information, Mawsil and Amaar arrested the woman, who was subsequently tried, convicted, and executed for adultery.
“For their meritorious service, Officers Mawsil and Amaar are awarded, by order of the Great Leader, President for Life Mehdi Ohmshidi, the Crescent for Bravery, Third Class.”
Mawsil and Amaar stood proudly as the medals were pinned to their tunics. Their fellow officers applauded, and congratulated them.
Muslimabad
The “innocent young man” who had been beguiled by Margaret’s provocative attire was named Billy Donner. It was easy to find out about him, because he had given several interviews in which he discussed how the wanton woman had seduced him.
“It was my fault” [Donner said] . “As soon as I saw her dressed like she was, I should have turned my back on her.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Donner” [the interviewer said]. “It is a well-known fact that Satan works his way on men and boys by residing in the souls of women, all women. It is for that reason that women must wear the burqa, so that Satan be contained. Margaret Malcolm, by refusing to wear the burqa, released Satan to ply his ways.”
From the interview Chris learned that Donner worked in a convenience store less than one block away from where Margaret had been raped. He waited one month, then, to make certain that he still worked there, Chris went to the store to buy a can of coffee.
“Say, haven’t I seen you on television?” Chris asked Donner.
Donner smiled. “Yes. I’m the one who was seduced by the woman they stoned.”
“How did that happen?”
“I had just gone out back to empty some trash in the container when I saw her. And, well, like they said, it was the way she was dressed. Satan took hold of me.”
“Pretty, was she?”
“Oh, yeah!” Donner said with a smirk. “Only, she was pretty like a whore, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I do. So after you raped her . . .”
“The law says it wasn’t rape.”
“Really? Because from what I read, you forced yourself on her.”
“Yes, but that’s a mere technicality, don’t you see? I told you, it was the way she was dressed. The two SPS who come along seen that right off. Why, they didn’t do nothin’ to me, but they sure hauled her off to jail.”
“Were you surprised they didn’t do anything to you?”
“Well, yeah, I was at first. But then when they told me that it wasn’t my fault, I understood.” Donner laughed, then reached down to grab himself. “That kind of makes any woman who ain’t wearin’ a burqa fair game, if you know what I mean.”
“If it means what I think it means, you’ll be doing it again.”
“You better believe it. Next time I see a woman who ain’t wearin’ one of them burqas, well, it’s Katie bar the door. ’Cause I aim to get me some of it.”
“I guess the new Moqaddas Sirata law authorizes that, all right,” Chris said.
“Yeah. You know, at first,” Donner looked around the store to make certain he wouldn’t be overheard, “At first, I didn’t like the way things was. I mean, take for example no beer, no football or basketball or baseball. But it’s turned out real good. You might not believe this, but in the before time I wasn’t all that lucky around women. Seemed they didn’t like me for some reason. But now it don’t matter whether they like me or not. If I see one I like, why hell, I’ll just take her.”
“Rape her, you mean?”
“No, no, like I told you, it ain’t rape. If they ain’t wearin’ one of them pup tent things, why, what they’re doin’ is seducin’ me.” Donner grabbed himself. “And poor ole’ me, I just can’t help it, when I’m seduced.” He laughed.
“I know it’s asking a lot,” Chris said to Kathy York, the young woman who had been Margaret’s best friend. Kathy was the one Margaret had been on the way to see, on the day she was raped. “And I can understand if you don’t want to do it.”
“I’ll do it,” Kathy said.
“I want you to know what you are getting yourself into. This is the son of a bitch who raped Margaret, and I intend to kill him. That means if you help me, you’ll be an accessory to the murder.”
Kathy shook her head. “It won’t be murder, it will be justice.”
“You’re a good woman. No wonder you were Margaret’s best friend.”
That same day, at closing time, Kathy was standing by the trash container that was behind the convenience store where Donner worked. In these hard times, it wasn’t that unusual for people to go through trash containers, especially behind stores, to see what they could salvage. What made this a little different, is the way Kathy was dressed. She was a beautiful girl, with long dark hair, and big brown eyes. Her face was visible because it wasn’t behind a veil. Her voluptuous shape was clearly evident by her short skirt which showed a long stretch of legs, and she wore a very low-cut blouse.
The back door opened and Chris, who was concealed behind the trash container, saw Donner coming out back with a bag of trash.
“Here he comes,” Chris hissed.
Kathy bent over toward the Dumpster, causing her skirt to rise up some, and cling tightly enough to her as to outline her derrière, just as Donner came through the back door of the store.
“Well now,” Donner said. “What have we here?”
“Please, sir,” Kathy said. “I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m just looking to see if I can find something to sell for food.”
“If you’re going to look through my trash container, you’re going to have to pay for it,” Donner said as he began to unzip his trousers.
“No,” Kathy said. “Never mind, I’ll find another container to look through.”
“Too late, whore.” Donner chuckled. “I’ve done had me one woman, and guess what. She’s the one that got arrested. Maybe you heard about it. They stoned her ’cause of the way she was dressed. And it wasn’t as bad as the way you’re dressed now. I tell you what a nice guy I am. After we have our fun, you can go on your way, and I won’t even report you for seducing me.”
Donner reached out to grab the front of her blouse. He jerked it down, and her breasts spilled out.
“Oh, yeah, I’m goin’ to like this.”
“I don’t think you will,” Chris said, stepping up behind Donner. Reaching around with his knife, he sliced through Donner’s carotid artery. Donner put his hand to his neck, as the blood literally spurted through his fingers.
Chris stepped around in front of him, then pulled a silver flask of whiskey from his pocket. He took a drink, then raised the flask toward Donner in a macabre salute.
“I was in love with the woman you raped, you sorry son of a bitch. And I want my face to be the last thing you see before you go to hell.”
Kathy had brought a burqa with her and now she stepped around behind the Dumpster and slipped it on over her clothes. Leaving the alley, they walked back to Chris’s apartment building. Then, making certain no one saw her, Kathy went into the apartment.
Kathy took the burqa off, with a sigh of contentment.
“Who the hell came up with this monstrosity?” she asked, tossing the burqa into the corner, then sitting on the sofa.
“Don’t you know? It is th
e dress of the enlightened.”
“Enlightened, my ass.”
“Would you like to engage in a little sin?” Chris asked.
“What?”
Chris laughed, then poured two glasses of whiskey before he came back to sit on the sofa beside Kathy. He gave one to her.
“Oh, you meant this kind of sin,” Kathy said with a chuckle. She took a sip of the whiskey. “Sure, I’ll sin. But I thought you meant something else.”
“And if I did?”
Kathy took another swallow of her drink, and stared at Chris through smoky eyes.
“Do you mean something else?”
Chris put his drink down, then pulled Kathy into his arms, kissing her deeply.
“I’m sorry,” Chris said. “I had no right to do that.”
Kathy touched his cheek and held her fingers there for a long moment as she looked at him with a small smile playing across her lips.
“You shouldn’t apologize for doing something that we both wanted,” Kathy said.
“It’s just that Margaret . . .”
“Has been dead for a month,” Kathy said. “And I have a strong feeling that she would approve.”
Chris smiled back at her. “You know what? I do too.” His right arm was on the back of the sofa. With his left hand, he brushed her hair back, then he put his thumb and forefinger at the tip of her chin and leaned toward her. She came to him with her lips already parted so that their second kiss picked up at exactly the place where the first had left off.
At last they came up for breath, and when she looked at him, her eyes were deep and diaphanous and he could see all the way to the bottom, to the Kathy that was inside . . . elementary, hopeful, and very vulnerable.
“Chris?” she said. Her voice sounded small, and far away. “I don’t think Margaret would mind, now.”
Chris’s heart raced and he had to take a gasping breath of air. He felt light-headed, then emboldened by the fact that she had just placed herself in his charge. Kathy rose at his bidding, then, without protest, let him lead her into his bedroom.
An airliner just taking off from Muslimabad International, perhaps heading for New York, or Mexico City, or London, roared overhead, but Chris and Kathy were oblivious to its passing. There were only the two of them, alone in their private cocoon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Weeks Bay, Alabama
At one time the campground had been known as Camp Beckwith, a camp and conference center of the Episcopal Diocese of the Central Gulf Coast, located on Weeks Bay in South Baldwin County, Alabama. It set on eighty-two acres of tall pines and landscaped open spaces and served guests of all denominations, races, and national origins. But Camp Beckwith was no more. In its place today was something called the YCEC 251. That stood for Youth Confinement and Enlightenment Center Number 251.
The eighty-two acres was surrounded by ten-foot-high chain-link fences, topped by razor wire. Concertina wire also formed a barrier before even reaching the fence. Every 250 yards around the compound, there was a manned guard tower with inward-facing machine guns. In addition, floodlights were placed at intervals along the fence, their brilliant beams illuminating the grounds at night, as bright as midday.
Eddie Manning was seated at his desk in the classroom. On the wall in front of the classroom was the stylized, blue, red, and beige portrait of Ohmshidi over the words “Obey Ohmshidi.”
Eddie looked through the widow as the girls were marched to their own classes. None of the girls were being taught to read, or do math. Their education was limited to household chores: laundry, dishes, scrubbing floors, and other such tasks.
Eddie had not seen Jane since they were brought to YCEC 251, or, just “the 251” as the boys were now calling the camp. Of course, he didn’t really know whether he had seen her or not. Every girl, regardless of age, had been put in a full-body burqa so that nothing could be seen of them from head to toe. Since they all looked like walking pup tents, it was impossible for him to know which one was his sister. At no time since coming into the camp had he seen the face of any of the girl inmates.
“Students! They are students!” Imam Hudhafa corrected him, when he heard Eddie use the word inmates. “You are all students for the preservation of Moqaddas Sirata, and the glorification of our Great Leader, President Mehdi Ohmshidi.”
Eddie had just come into the morning class with the others, coming from morning prayer.
“And now, let us say together, the pledge of allegiance to the Great Leader,” Imam Hudhafa said.
Eddie stood with the others, and they recited together:
“Obey Ohmshidi
I pledge allegiance to Mehdi Ohmshidi,
Our Great Leader
Islam is our faith
Moqaddas Sirata is our law
Jihad is our way
Dying as a martyr
Is our highest hope.”
Eddie mouthed the words along with everyone else in the class, but in his mind, he always replaced “dying as a martyr” with “getting out of here,” as his highest hope.
With the pledge stated, the class was told to sit, so their lessons could begin.
Imam Hudhafa was a Saudi who had come to the United States twenty years ago. When he learned of the three nuclear bombs that had been detonated by martyrs in Norfolk, Virginia, Baltimore, Maryland, and Boston, Massachusetts, he dropped to his knees, faced Mecca, and gave thanks and praise to Allah, that America was being subjugated by Islam.
Afterward, proudly wearing the dishdasha, he applied and was accepted as a teacher in the Youth Enlightenment Centers. It was his belief that with the youth lay a future in which all the world would be subjected to Islam. And not just the Christians, Jews, and Hindus, but misguided Muslims as well, for there were many Muslims who did not follow the precepts of Moqaddas Sirata, the Holy Path. Hudhafa considered it a sacred honor to be among those who had been chosen for this holy task.
“Remember,” Imam Hudhafa said, “as a martyr, you will be alive in Heaven. Martyred jihad fighters are the most honored people, after the Prophet, and, as suicide bombers, you will ascend to a paradise of luxury staffed by seventy-two virgins waiting to gratify the martyrs as you arrive.
“Ha, what do I want virgins for?” one seventeen-year-old joked right after they first arrived at the camp. “I don’t want no virgins. Hell, I want someone who knows what it’s all about. I’m still young, I need to learn from an experienced woman.”
The seventeen-year-old boy, whose name was Jarvis Morris, was deemed an apostate, then taken out to the middle of the camp and laid on the ground. Chains were attached to his arms and legs, then connected to four tractors. At a signal from the camp commandant, the four tractors started in opposite directions from each other, literally pulling him apart into four large pieces so that he was drawn and quartered, leaving a cross of blood and entrails. Every “student” of the camp, including the girls, was made to watch.
It was an object lesson that Eddie had taken to heart, so now, no matter how much he might despise the “re-education,” he was always very careful to check any remarks, or outward display of disapproval.
He sat in the classroom, keeping his face as impassive as possible, while the instructor continued with the day’s lessons.
“And now, repeat after me, our sworn objective. Moqaddas Sirata is the ultimate goal for the entire world. We have to fight all the enemies of our religion so that one day, the whole world will be united and enlightened. Allah promises us heaven if we fight and even embrace death in this holy task.”
Eddie, and the other boys in his classroom, repeated the sworn objective.
Eddie had never been particularly religious, but had become so since coming to YCEC 251. He prayed every day, bowing and scraping, and facing Mecca as he was instructed. But regardless of what it looked like on the outside, on the inside his prayers were all Christian prayers.
Alexandria
From the Moqaddas Sirata News Journal:
Two Janissary
Officers Decorated for Meritorious Service
Husni Mawsil and Shurayh Amaar of the Arlington SPS Brigade were recently awarded the Crescent for Bravery Third Class. The two men, said by their commanders and peers to be outstanding officers of the Janissary, were the ones whose thorough police work was responsible for bringing the whore, Margaret Malcolm, to justice.
Observant readers may recognize the woman’s name, for after a trial and conviction, she paid for her sin by being stoned until death. This is in accordance with Islamic law (Sharia), which requires that adulterers be put to death, since it was the example set by Muhammad. In practice, it is the women who are executed far more often, since they are presumed to bear the burden of sexual responsibility. Rape victims are also guilty of adultery under Sharia law if four male witnesses cannot be found to confirm the victim’s claim.
The newspaper report told Chris who the two men were, and it didn’t take long after that to discover where they lived. Mawsil’s apartment was just two blocks from the apartment building where Chris lived, and Amaar was only two miles away. It figured they were fairly close, because they were the ones who happened onto the scene, right after Margaret had committed the “crime of adultery.”
It was three o’clock in the morning when Husni Mawsil was awakened by a pin prick in his arm. When his eyes opened, he saw a man sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Mawsil asked.
“I picked the lock.”
Mawsil put his hand on the sore spot on his arm.
“In case you are wondering about that pin prick you felt, I just gave you an injection of Batrachotoxin. You’ll be dead in less than a minute.”
Firebase Freedom Page 10
