EQMM, June 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  When Sean climbed out of bed, he felt sore and tired, as if he had relived the experience his dream commemorated. Even so, the excitement the police sergeant's warning had engendered remained, and he felt unaccustomedly cheerful and optimistic. The possibility of a threat to his life had somehow reconnected him to the living world, awakened him as if from a deep, deep slumber. As he poured milk over his cereal and gazed out his kitchen window, he could see children returning from school, chattering like jays and darting this way and that over the sidewalk, the energy of youth rendering them unable to walk the sad straight line of adults, and for the first time in many, many years, he thought of Ibrahim.

  In the days following the bombing, Sean had found himself more and more frequently manning Combat Post 69. This was directly due to the loss of personnel, and had the bombing not happened, he would have complained bitterly at such long pulls of hazardous duty. CP 69 was not sentry duty. CP 69 was where you provided target practice for the Shiite militia in “Hooterville,” a slum otherwise known to its inhabitants as Hay-Es-Salaam. It was rumored that in the early days of the Marines’ peacekeeping mission, when all had been well betwixt the peacekeepers and the Muslims, two lovely Lebanese girls had made a habit of undressing in front of their window, which faced the Americans’ outpost. Hence the name Hooterville. Sean suspected this had been wishful thinking on the part of some lonely marines, as the Muslim girls were known to be notoriously, and disappointingly, strait-laced. Nonetheless, the name stuck.

  But in the months of August and September, relations between the Marines and all the factions involved in the Lebanese Civil War deteriorated rapidly and violently, and CP 69 had become an extremely hot spot. They were routinely shot at and rocketed from every quarter. Infuriatingly, the rules of engagement laid down from on high made it nearly impossible for the beleaguered troops to properly defend themselves. After the bombing, the marines, and Sean, found ways.

  One of the rules that Sean and the other surviving members of his company quickly dispensed with was the prohibition on returning fire at a combatant who could not be clearly seen actively firing at them. As the enemy usually chose to shoot from the upper windows of the bombed-out buildings that looked down on CP 69, and then ducked back inside, this had always been extremely impractical. Now, they always “saw” the militiaman, and after chasing him away from the window with a hail of bullets, they would follow up with a few carefully placed grenades. This had the effect of silencing that particular room, and the marines could rest assured that at least one, if not more, of the militiamen would fail to answer roll call the following morning.

  After several days of this, there was a dramatic lessening of incoming fire. From several thousand rounds of small-arms fire a day, and hundreds of rocket-propelled grenades and frequent mortar barrages, they were faced with what, as seen in comparison, was a desultory few hundred rounds and only the occasional grenade. The Shiite militiamen seemed to be thinking things over.

  It was during this lull that Sean and his newly constituted squad discovered Ibrahim. Sean first saw him at the Lebanese army checkpoint located across the street from CP 69. He appeared to be entertaining the soldiers with some kind of story that involved episodes of break dancing, and the government troops were enjoying the show immensely. These soldiers were ostensibly the Americans’ allies in their failing mission to keep the peace between all the warring factions in their country. However, experience had taught the marines that their commitment to that mission varied wildly, and appeared to be based on the quality of the opposition they faced. When they fought, they fought ferociously, but often they would stay their hand for reasons known only to them, much to the marines’ consternation.

  To Sean's eyes, the boy appeared to be about nine years old, small and spindly, with the large dark eyes and jet-black hair characteristic of so many Lebanese. He was assured, however, by a new member of his squad (a quick, nervous private first class from Indiana named Randy Colquitt) that Ibrahim was at least fourteen years of age. Randy had been temporarily transferred from his company to make up the losses Sean's had suffered in the bombing. It seemed the Corps was robbing Peter to pay Paul, as the unit that was supposed to relieve the marines currently on duty in Beirut had been diverted to a spot of trouble in someplace called Grenada.

  "How d'ya know that?” Sean had inquired absently, while scanning the seemingly empty buildings in Hooterville. He had noticed several women cross an alleyway and enter one of them a few minutes before. They had all been draped in the traditional Muslim clothing. Sean thought they walked funny.

  "Used to hang out in our AO. They say his parents were killed by the PLA ... or the Shiites, or somebody."

  Sean threw a look his way, then returned to scanning the blown-out windows across from their sandbagged position. “That right?” he asked laconically. “Why's that?"

  Colquitt turned away and slid down into their hole with his back against the wall. In the midst of firing up a cigarette, he answered in a puzzled way, “Christians, I guess. That's what they say,” he continued, blowing out a lungful of smoke. “I don't know."

  Sean glanced once more at the Lebanese Army position. The kid had finished his dance and was looking in the marines’ direction. He caught Sean looking at him. “Marines kick ass!” he shouted cheerfully in passable English, and waved.

  Involuntarily, Sean waved back. The kid started their way. “Damn,” Sean muttered. “That little bastard's comin’ over here."

  He rose up from his crouch to wave him off and caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He ducked so fast that he crashed into Colquitt and toppled him over onto his side. “What the—” the PFC spluttered.

  Several shots rang out in rapid succession and Sean could hear them pinging off the street and the ricochets whining wildly away. The “women” had walked funny for a reason. He dared a peek over the side of their emplacement, and his mouth fell open.

  The boy was doing his break-dancing routine in the middle of the street. It was generally agreed that the Shiites were terrible marksmen, but Sean knew from experience that what they lacked in accuracy they made up for in volume. Every second the kid delayed brought him closer to that lucky bullet.

  "Lay down some fire on that position,” Sean demanded. Colquitt reluctantly obeyed and began taking shots at the window. The fighters, who had doffed their previous attire, ducked away from the opening. One appeared to be clutching his throat.

  "Good one,” Sean said. “Keep it up!” He risked rising to a crouch and saw that the boy was now on his back spinning like a top, with his legs raised up in the air. “Get your ass in here, kid!” he shouted. The Lebanese soldiers had disappeared.

  The boy leapt suddenly to his feet, even as he spun, and landed facing the militiamen's position, one arm raised defiantly in the air. From his small fist popped a middle finger. “You suck!” he assured the fighters, and then, with a grin at Sean, began a mad dash for the marines’ bunker.

  "Sonofabitch,” Sean muttered unbelievingly. Then they opened up.

  Sean had never seen so many flashes from so many windows in all his time in The Root. The sheer volume was deafening, and the whining of passing rounds was like being in a jar of wasps. The only problem was that they were all aimed at him as he stood slack-jawed watching the kid's race for safety. Colquitt snagged him by the belt and yanked him down into the hole. The firing ceased immediately, and moments later the kid vaulted the sand-bags and landed, laughing and panting, amongst them.

  "I do not believe you!” Sean gasped. “Kid, you've got some big ones."

  "I guess,” Colquitt agreed.

  "What's your name?” he asked the panting youngster as he tossed him his canteen.

  "Ibrahim,” the boy informed him proudly, his black eyes sparking with excitement.

  * * * *

  That evening when Sean arrived at work, Mr. Corrado was there going over register tapes. As he would often appear at unexpected times, Sean though
t little of his appearance. He nodded to Sean as he hung up his jacket in the storeroom in his usual distracted manner, then returned to poring myopically over the tapes through the thick, dirty lenses of his glasses. Sean gently shoved the gym bag he had brought with him beneath a work counter with his foot.

  "How's it goin'?” Sean asked pleasantly as he extracted his time-card from the holder on the wall.

  "Good, Sean, good,” Mr. Corrado mumbled in reply.

  Sean slid his card into the time clock, then returned it to the holder. “That's good,” he said as he headed for the storefront to relieve Megan.

  "Oh, Sean,” Corrado stopped him. “Just a minute ... before you go out front."

  Sean turned to his employer, curious. It was unlike him to engage in any but the most rudimentary conversations. He was not known for his “people skills."

  "Listen, Sean, I'm sure you're aware that there's been a series of holdups in the area,” he ventured.

  Sean nodded. “Heard somethin', yeah."

  "Well,” Corrado glanced nervously towards the front counter and Megan. “I'm a little concerned, you see."

  Sean felt his face growing hard. “Yeah,” he offered unhelpfully.

  Corrado ran a hand over the slick strands that failed to cover his gleaming pate, and Sean wondered, not for the first time, if there was some link between responsibility and baldness. It was something he had largely avoided since leaving the Corps twenty years before. “It seems they hit stores like ours,” the nervous manager continued. “After midnight ... your shift, that is.” He glanced up at Sean as if for encouragement.

  "And...?” Sean inquired flatly.

  "The thing is—” Corrado returned his gaze to the register tapes—"I'm thinking it might be wise to close at midnight ... for a while ... till they're caught."

  "Closing all the stores, then?” Sean asked.

  Corrado glanced back up, a stricken look on his face. “This one's a little different, Sean ... you're so far out here, on the edge of town. It's exactly the kind of place they seem to hit. The others are closer in ... a little less vulnerable,” he added defensively.

  "And I'm gonna pay the rent how?” Sean asked.

  Corrado began to gather the tapes, as if to leave, but found that Sean was standing over him. “Sean, this would be for your own safety. Did you know a clerk at the Putnam chain was murdered just last night? That's less than five miles from here.” He had never seen Sean like this.

  Sean took a step back, sensing he was going too far. “Mr. Corrado, I cannot afford not to work, that's one thing. The other thing is that I don't like gettin’ chased off my hill by a pack of maybes ... maybe they'll hit us, maybe they won't. I stand to lose wages, and you stand to lose a lot of money in the bargain. If I'm willin’ to take the chance, you oughta be, too.” He took a breath and glanced out toward the front counter where Megan was staring at him impatiently and tapping her watch. “Mr. Corrado, you may not know this, but I was a marine once. I know how to take care of myself."

  Corrado had not known that, and he studied Sean keenly for a moment before dropping his eyes. “I see,” he said, slowly rising. “If that's how you feel, then. You make a good point."

  Sean could see the relief flooding the other man's face. The responsibility was no longer his. “Thanks,” Sean said, turning to relieve his coworker.

  "But those lights out front, Sean,” Corrado spoke with authority. “You've got to take care of those. Understood?"

  "Understood,” Sean agreed with a smile, and snapped a smart salute.

  Corrado flinched, then hurried from the store as the witching hour struck.

  * * * *

  From midnight until two A.M. customers came in the usual spates of hurried, exhausted-looking individuals in need of last-minute cigarettes, milk, coffee, chips, and beer. When at last Sean judged that he would have the store to himself, probably until the six A.M. coffee rush began, he hauled out the ladder from the storeroom and set to work on the lights. Maneuvering it carefully from one narrow aisle to the next, he loosened one fluorescent tube in each fixture, until the store was powered down to a drowsy twilight. After replacing the lights outside above the entry, he went out into the parking lot to judge the effect from the street, and was satisfied with the results. The store still gave the impression that it was open for business, but had acquired a tired, careless appearance. Just as importantly, it would not be as easy for a passerby, or the police, to see what was going on within—certain to be attractive to anyone who might be casing the place, he thought.

  After loosening all of the light tubes in the fixture above the service counter and plunging his work area into a gloomy murk, he returned the ladder to the storeroom, only to return with a work lamp that he clamped onto a smokeless-tobacco display next to where he sat. He now had only to reach out and switch off the lamp to return his work area to near darkness. Without rising from his stool, he bent beneath the counter and retrieved the gym bag that he had brought out from the back room after Megan's and Mr. Corrado's departures.

  There were two items within, the first being a very large and powerful hand-held spotlight of the type used by emergency personnel. He placed this, with a thump, upon the countertop and off to the side of his work space, but pointed directly at the entrance to the store. With a quick glance to ensure no customers were in the lot outside, he switched it on. The brilliant flash that reflected off the glass doors made him turn away with a curse, and he hastily switched it back off again. Anyone standing in front of him, he thought, would be similarly blinded.

  The second item he removed from the bag he carefully placed on the shelf beneath the countertop, its cropped double barrels pointing directly forward. The stock of the gun had been cut down as well, and the pistol-like grip that remained was within easy reach of his hand.

  The customer was just entering the store as Sean's eyes came up to the level of the countertop. He was a tall, emaciated-looking man in his middle thirties, Sean guessed, with a dirty baseball cap pulled low over his long, greasy locks. His face sprouted a drooping moustache and several days’ growth of beard, and he started visibly when Sean popped up from behind the counter. “Wasn't sure anyone was home,” he stuttered before changing direction and heading into the aisles. Sean noted that he kept one hand in the pocket of his frayed, oversized jacket.

  "Nope, we're here,” Sean replied. “That is, I'm here."

  The man peered furtively over a display stand of factory-produced pastries as if to verify this information. Sean's hand rested lightly on the gun beneath the counter.

  The customer returned to his study of packaged cakes and donuts.

  "Need help with somethin'?” Sean offered pleasantly while scanning the parking lot for the man's car. He spotted it just at the edge of the lot, almost out of sight of the store's windows. The lights were off, but Sean thought he could make out two heads within, silhouetted by a distant street lamp. Was one of the occupants jumping up and down in his seat?

  The man began to move and Sean's attention shifted away from the car and back to him. He had made a selection and was carrying the box in both hands. Sean relaxed somewhat and brought both his hands to the counter in order to scan the tasty sponge cakes packed with a creamy artificial filler. The man seemed unable to look at Sean, and his prominent Adam's apple bobbed alarmingly. He reeked of body odor, tobacco smoke, and a strange chemical smell.

  "That it?” Sean asked as the fellow dug through his wallet.

  "Yep,” he answered, glancing back toward the door. “Open all night?"

  "Yep,” Sean answered back. “Just me."

  "Uh-huh,” the customer replied absently. He turned to leave, and had actually taken a few steps before remembering his purchase. “Damn,” he said under his breath, turning to snatch the box from the counter and hurrying out into the parking lot.

  Sean watched the man lope into the deeper darkness, and his hand returned once more to the gun. After a few moments, there was the faint sound of
a car starting and Sean saw headlights blaze into life. The driver took the farther exit, so Sean was unable to see the other occupants of the car, but he did see the telltale white gleam of the broken tail lens.

  * * * *

  Though the company commander had put the word out that fraternization with unvetted civilians was prohibited, this was generally more observed in the breach as it applied to Ibrahim. The boy had long been a mascot at the fringes of the marines’ sprawling encampment within the airport, and as word spread of his display of bravura at CP 69, demand was high amongst the lower ranks for his company.

  Demonstrating an appreciation of military politics far beyond his years, Ibrahim avoided the battalion and company command posts and officers in general, sticking to areas generally populated by the enlisted men. He could be counted upon to show up wherever the “grunts” were breaking open their “Meals Ready to Eat,” or MREs as they were commonly called, to make a repast of the marines’ donations. His high spirits, reputation for fearlessness, and vehement hatred of the shared enemy made him a welcome guest wherever he went.

  Sean tried to discourage the boy from joining the marines at their combat posts, but he would have none of it. It seemed his bloodlust was equal to, or greater than, that of the Americans. When Sean asked him about this, he replied, “Pigs,” and pointed over the berm into Hooterville.

  Colquitt chimed in with his own observation. “Bet you'd like to have one of these, wouldn't ya?” He shook his M-16 at the boy, and Ibrahim made a lunge for it. Colquitt snatched it out of his grasp. “I guess,” he observed quietly.

  "You're Christian?” Sean asked the disappointed kid.

  Ibrahim turned a hot gaze on the marine, then dug into his pocket. He thrust his fist out to Sean, then opened it to reveal an ornate silver cross on a chain cradled in his soiled palm.