Cancer's Curse (The Zodiac Book 4)

by Sating, Paul

  Bilba replied by shoveling in an oversized spoonful, some of it falling back out. He really was gross. Adorably gross.

  Today, we were headed into the Khadra district, a neighborhood we'd patrolled a dozen times already, but never on our own. This was to be our first solo mission, and the entire squad carried virgin journey excitement in their faces. This was, after all, everything we'd trained for. At first I struggled to understand the urgency of these humans to head into something so perilous—I still disagreed with the need to fight at all—but I began to appreciate why they wanted to be part of this. These humans sacrificed so much to be in this moment and honestly, outside the patrols, it wasn't easy to find a purpose in anything we'd done in our time in the Army. But patrols were different. When we were out, we were doing something important, something that mattered. It was the only time in my entire service in Lucifer's Army I felt part of something; heavens, it was the only time in my life that I had—it helped that none of the demons could use their Abilities too. I belonged. So I learned to embrace it, and dare I say, even enjoy it. And now it was all on us, our responsibility. A heavy one, but one most of us excitedly accepted.

  Fed and geared up, the three of us headed to our rally point. Most of the squad had gathered by the time we got there, though we were well ahead of schedule.

  "You girls ready?" Sergeant Rogers asked as we approached the group.

  "Yes, sir!" Bilba said, slamming down his backpack.

  Sergeant Rogers pulled on his gloves, jamming the webbing of his opposite hands together to ensure a tight fit. "Good. We're heading over to the Khadra Bakery this morning."

  "Hungry already, sir?" a demon everyone called Smitty said, slapping his partner on the back, proud of his exquisite joke, I guessed. For what it was worth, the guy standing next to him didn't seem impressed by the joke or the back slap. Smitty's smile slipped.

  Sergeant Rogers didn't notice. "Don't know about that. Just know what I was told in this morning's mission brief. I figure there's got to be something happening in that part of the district. Mother Army, a bitch she may be, still knows what's best, boys."

  Blatant sexism aside, we followed our NCO and finished preparations. The squad loaded into armored Humvees and set out to secure peace—at least that's what they kept telling us we were doing.

  There's always something that happens in your head when you make the transition from peaceful existence to tense survival instinct. One minute, we were sitting on the post making vulgar jokes at each other's expense, and the next we were pulling out into unsecured territory. Each time my body tensed, feeling each muscle fire and flex, the heightened state of alertness that wore me out by lunch. In fairness, I was probably too alert for my own good, bordering on the edge of paranoia. But being sensitive to all stimuli wasn't something I could turn off, and Creed, hidden in a pocket sewn on the inside of my pant leg, wasn't calming me. The magical halberd was increasing my acute awareness if it was doing anything, and I was jittery from adrenaline long before we entered Airport Street.

  The main thoroughfare was open ground, ripe for an attack. Smart anti-terrorism measures meant we would change our route from time to time, and we did, except for Airport Street. It was the only route in or out of the installation we ever used. The air in the humvee was electric, as if everyone felt the tension of the unspoken risk of using the popular route. I know I imagined all sorts of enemies hiding in supposedly vacated buildings across blocks of destroyed neighborhoods, watching and waiting for the right convoy to rip into. My breath came in rapid, short bursts until we were clear through.

  Off the thoroughfare, we took a different exit today, heading past the Lahmacun Al Mosul restaurant, my favorite kebab place—even though our squad only ate there once after the owner insisted we try some of his meats. Like a lot of Overworld food, it was a little spicy, but I gratefully accepted the challenge of acclimating to its culinary intensity—Overworld food is so good. One day, I planned on talking Sergeant Rogers into patrolling that block again.

  We turned off the street, zigzagging through neighborhoods to keep our route unpredictable.

  We crossed Highway 11 to Salah Al-Din Street before entering Khadra, the area of Baghdad where the Americans held fragile control and shit got too real, too often. Nasty insurgency and counter-insurgency moves were played in the midst of real life for thousands of civilians, teaching me that war was grosser than the way Bilba ate.

  My heart thumped as the convoy entered narrow neighborhood streets where brown, multi-story homes and businesses hovered, sometimes feeling as if they leaned over the sidewalk below. My claustrophobia was immediate; it always was when we were in these neighborhoods. Iraq's highways were bad enough because we had to be wary of buried roadside bombs and on alert for rocket-launched missiles from afar. The enemy, unseen, was braver out in the open, where they could kill while minimizing civilian casualties. But in the neighborhoods, the dynamic changed.

  Long before we arrived in Baghdad, the Russians had set up camp in northern Khadra up to and across Highway 97, establishing an outpost to cut off the Americans from the northern areas of Baghdad.

  The Baghdadis had little say about the standoff. The larger human nations treated them like implings forced to sit in the sandbox and watch two bullies fight over a toy they stole. I felt for the people of this city, trying to imagine what it would be like for warring contingents of angels to take over the Fifth Circle as if it was theirs. I mean, who do you root for when you don't want either side to win?

  I kept that thought in the front of my mind when we were amongst them on patrol. The Army might try to convince them that what we were doing was to the Iraqi's benefit, but I'm not sure they bought the message.

  We turned left, heading down a road so packed with mortals and vehicles that it was impossible to squeeze the armored vehicles through. A dusty—everything in the city was—Toyota Camry parked with two wheels on the sidewalk, blocked half of one lane, and an old blue van stood, stopped, in the other. We idled until our sergeant got nervous about becoming easy targets.

  "Disembark, boys," Sergeant Rogers' voice barked through the crackle of radio static from the lead vehicle.

  The convoy pulled to the side of the street. When I exited the Humvee—not an easy thing to do, by the way—I double checked my vest, belt, and pockets to make sure I had everything, namely tons of rounds of ammunition. When we were safely on the installation, I'd already run through that mental checklist, but it didn't hurt to do it again, even through the discomfort of sweat trickling down my spine.

  "Here we go," Charlie said through heavy breaths.

  I felt his apprehension. We were on our own for the first time now, completely responsible for what happened. Before our predecessors redeployed home, I always felt vulnerable on patrol. But now I realized just how vulnerable we were, and part of me admitted it would have been nice if we were allowed to use our Abilities. Compared to Bilba and Ralrek, I was still crap at casting, but even half-baked spells were better than relying solely on my rifle, no matter how good of a shot I was. If I survived this year, it would happen only at the grace of Lucifer.

  "You guys ready?" Sergeant Smith said while triple-checking his own equipment.

  Hank Smith was our squad leader, a human, I was sure, since I could not detect any remnant of Abilities on him. He had a distinct twang to every word he said. His skin was whiter than the snow I'd seen in mortal movies. Thin as an Underworld lamppost, he somehow lasted long days on patrol, weighed down with a hundred pounds of equipment, but one thing he'd proven in our scant time in Iraq was that he was tough as overcooked meat.

  "Yes, sir," we said, in automatic unison.

  We were using the Humvee as a shield from any threat from the opposite side of the street, but we were still open to anything coming from either end or the buildings on our side. Sergeant Rogers gave us the mission brief back on post to prevent us from overexposing ourselves when the risk was high, like standing around in a circle on a side
walk in the middle of a neighborhood where a healthy dose of residents saw us as aggressors and where our enemy hid insurgents in vacated homes.

  Smith peered around our clump of four soldiers to check the status of the other squads behind us before nodding to Sergeant Rogers.

  "K," he started, always efficient, "let's do this."

  Bilba and I found each other's eyes. Shared fear was a powerful prohibitory device, I discovered in that moment. He had wanted to volunteer for Lucifer's Army to recover his financial status. He delayed because of me, and that delay caused him to be drafted into the very specialty he wanted to avoid all along. Bilba was now in a potentially life-threatening situation, and it was my fault. In Hell, we had been through a few scary situations together, and even though we came out of those with a lot of bruises and some awful memories, they did not compare to the reality that demons could die in the Overworld. A world without Bilba was not one I wanted to experience, so I would do everything I could to make sure he got home safe and sound.

  "We're good, bud," I said, trying to sound confident. My dear friend pinched his lips and nodded.

  We started up the tight street, one soldier behind the other, close enough to respond to and assist one another, but spaced out enough that we had room to maneuver and couldn't be taken out by a single attack.

  The Iraqis did what they always did when we were in their neighborhood—they gave us wide birth. I didn't blame them. Families were not free to take a stroll and parents always ushered children inside at the sight of our Humvee convoy filled with soldiers armed to get through a long day of fighting. Weapons of destruction. Understanding the local's skepticism was easy.

  The only Iraqis who remained out on the street went about their normal routines as best as they could with us around. Vendors littered the sidewalks. Some spread their wares along broad tables that crowded the sidewalks and curbs of the road. Others laid out goods and products on the ground, only a blanket separating their work from the unrelenting dust of desert living.

  Many of them didn't bother with us when we passed; they knew we weren't buying. That didn't stop Sergeant Rogers from conversing through our squad's translator. It was always interesting when he did these informational interviews. It was our role to protect him while he engaged, but we also needed to ensure that we didn't crowd out the vendor's business or appear to intimidate anyone. The mortals, it seemed, had a balance to maintain as well.

  After he got what he needed, we reconvened in a covered area where we weren't so susceptible to attack from above.

  "From the sounds of it, we had some company in this neighborhood last night," Sergeant Rogers said, taking a long swig from his canteen before continuing. "Keep your eyes open for any insurgents."

  "No Russians?" Sergeant Smith asked.

  Rogers shook his head. "Came in and left without making much of a fuss. But they had to be up to something."

  "Dumping arms probably," Private First Class Jenkins observed.

  Rogers nodded. "A possibility. Boys, situational awareness. Eyes wide open. We have no idea what we could walk into. And we're in charge now. It's up to us to keep these people safe, and we can't do that if we're dead."

  Say what you will about him, he knew how to motivate simple soldiers. At least, he knew how to motivate me. Dead was not a destination I wanted to visit.

  We took turns stepping out of the covered area and back onto the street. A few Iraqis had trickled outside again until they saw us and retreated, trying to appear as if they hadn't been caught checking to see if the pesky American Army had left. I didn't mind. It was sort of funny. Playfulness wouldn't hurt international relations.

  Ahead, the street opened at an intersection, broad enough for cross traffic but still suffocatingly narrow for my tastes. A group of boys and girls passed a soccer ball around, laughing as they competed. Life, normal.

  "Look alive," Smith said, waving his hand above his head in a circular motion, his signal that we couldn't let our observation skills slip even the slightest.

  No worries there. I never felt safe around the open spaces of intersections. Baghdad was very different from the two other Overworld cities I'd been to. This was the first where humans wanted to kill me.

  Buildings were dangerous because insurgents could hide in them and attack from above, giving them clear advantages. But the structures also had difficult angles and narrow windows of opportunity to attack. There was no such challenge when it came to broad, open intersections.

  A pharmacy occupied one corner. Its dirty windows plastered with advertisements for sweets, treats, and meats. Much more than the typical pharmacy in Hell. The signs did little to hide the dusty film coating the glass. I loved the Arabic script, much more fluid than what the mortals in America and Germany used. Hell didn't have diversity on this level.

  On the opposite corner was a single story building with a line of cars parked in front and around the side. Most of those had seen better days.

  On the other two corners each housed a multi-story building. Residences, I guessed, by the laundry draped over balcony railings. The building on the diagonal corner drew my attention because of the number of women standing around the open doorway.

  "Should we check that out, Sergeant?" I asked Smith, pointing at the building.

  His squint showed he shared my slight concern. "Yeah, let's pop in for a visit and see what's going on."

  The squads split up, each crossing a different street of the intersection to approach from varied angles. Three pairs of eyes of Iraqi women wearing niqabs turned first toward our squad, then the other, noting us. Six women wearing open-faced hijabs did the same, but frowned or scowled openly. The girls playing around them kicked up dust, free from headgear or the oppressive full-length black outfits of the adult women.

  "Tell them it's just a regular security patrol," Sergeant Smith told the interpreter, Muhammad, who did as ordered.

  The women backed to the wall as we approached, not caring or not believing the explanation. I could not tell from the blank expressions I could see, but the fiery eyes, even from the niqab-wearing women, gave enough clues to their opinion of our presence.

  We took our defensive positions, three soldiers to the sides of the door, backs-to-wall, rifles ready. The cluster of women shuffled away, upset by our actions.

  Civilians were around, but this could also be a trap. We had been briefed on the rising number of 'civilian shield' attacks by insurgents over the past two weeks, and even though we had never experienced anything of the sort, we were not about to lower our guard simply because there were non-combatants just a few feet away.

  "You two." Sergeant Smith used a horizontal v-shape with his pointer and middle finger, aiming it at me and Bilba. "Head inside.

  I looked across the open doorway to Bilba, who had taken up the first position against the frame. We nodded together.

  "I would advise against that, Sergeant," Muhammad said, shaking his head in fast, restricted jerks. "You will upset the women, and this is simply a medical practice. Nothing more."

  He was correct, at least if you could believe the cracked metal sign tacked to the building's clay wall.

  "I don't care," Smith replied. "Rather have upset ladies than dead solders. Wouldn't be the first cell of insurgents to hide behind a clinic."

  "Those ladies have husbands," Muhammad said, his eyes rounding as he looked at me and Bilba. "If you are too aggressive, the husbands may feel you threatened them. That may lead them to seeking help from the insurgents or the Russians. Exercise caution."

  "Enough," Smith snapped. "You two, get your assess in there and give me the clear signal."

  "Yes sir," I said, and swallowed, my throat scratchy and rough.

  The Iraqi women spoke unkind, even harsh words in quick Arabic—demons, as immortals, can understand all human languages—about our squad, and some of their comments were not very kind. Muhammad did not translate, and I had to stifle a smile when a short woman said Sergeant Smith was so thin
he would break in a stiff desert breeze.

  From across the doorway, Bilba stepped past Sergeant Smith.

  We'd been best friends for thousands of years and knew each other's tendencies without speaking a word. That wasn't different now that we were in the human army. I've always been faster, stronger, and more agile than Bilba, but those assets had ballooned ever since Aries gifted Creed to me. Ancient magical halberd aside, I was still superior to Bilba in every important physical way—he was taller and weighed more, and those were the only attributes where he had me, so the lead would be mine.

  I drew a deep breath and swiveled around the door frame and into the room, my gun lowered, just in case. The floor was a kaleidoscope of yellow and purple swirls embedded in tiles. The design could have tried to replicate a sun burst or it could have come from an artist on an amphetamine high. It was a small room, no more than three hundred square feet, but it was wide enough to hold hospital beds. Before the war, it might have been a foyer or someone's sitting room, but with the mortal international struggle, whatever life this place previously held was erased so it could serve as a place of care.

  The women in the room were likely not the owners of the converted home, but that did not mean our sudden appearance did not startle and upset them.

  Not if the screams that greeted me were any indication.

  I jerked my gun back up and slung it around my shoulder, offering my empty hands in apology. Nearly a dozen children crowded around the four beds that filled the tiny room. The women rushed to cover their hair, their palpable panic causing the three youngest children to cry.

  "Sorry. Sorry," I said in Arabic, low enough that my squad outside couldn't hear, and held my hands up further, as if that would convince them I really meant no harm.

  Smith and Muhammad ran in, and a scowling woman stormed in from the back room.

  Her hair was a mass of black curls, loose and frayed. Her youthful face betrayed stress, deep lines running underneath her eyes. Her brown skin was light enough to make it difficult to tell which part of the Overworld she was from. The blue smock and pants she wore were loose enough to convince me this was a standard issue uniform, not one she'd picked for herself.