Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

For the first time, the doctor could see the padlock at the base of the hood, which secured a large chain around the concealment. In addition, the guns of both soldier and officer were set to safety, which was not usual procedure when escorting prisoners around the camp. This prisoner was treated quite differently to the rest and even though the doctor knew he was not to ask, and damned if they’d tell him if he did, he couldn’t help but be curious.

  “Lieutenant, could you remove the patient’s hood?” Only now did the doctor realize he was, in fact, standing, and could not remember doing so.

  The Lieutenant stamped his boot, the push of air making the hood’s cloth flutter. “We cannot do that, Doctor, The VIP’s identity is classified.”

  The doctor squinted as though he’d misunderstood. “Excuse me, could you repeat that please?”

  “The VIP will remain hooded throughout the course of this examination.”

  The doctor stepped closer to the lieutenant. “I’m sorry but could you please explain to me how I’m supposed to conduct a patient examination when I can’t see his face?”

  No answer, the officer remained stern and completely unmoved.

  Incorrectly taking the silence as an invitation to check the hood, the doctor sidestepped to his right.

  He felt the hand grip his forearm.

  “As I said, sir, the hood stays!”

  The doctor pulled his arm away. “You’ve never carried out a medical examination before have you, Lieutenant.” It was a rhetorical question, the doctor continued. “I need to check his eyes, his tongue, his airways, his ears…you know…a standard medical check up. So why don’t you remove that padlock and that infernal bag?”

  Silence.

  The doctor exhaled. “Perhaps I ought to have the general brought down here?” it was an empty threat, as the response proved.

  “My orders, sir, come from the general.”

  The doctor rubbed his eyes and wished he’d stayed home. He should never have given up his career in big pharma for this shit. What was he thinking? “Very well.” He took his seat at the desk and gestured to the man under the hood. “Bring him forth, assuming he’s a he. I suppose I can take his blood pressure.” He looked to the subordinate. “I assume you are permitted to roll up the patient’s sleeve, or is that asking too much?”

  The private, with the smallest hint of panic in the eyes, looked to the lieutenant for confirmation, which was duly given with a nod. The sleeve was pushed up, revealing a brown and hairy arm, and the hood was guided toward the chair opposite the doctor as the two soldiers shuffled nervously forward with him.

  The doctor applied the cuff to the arm of the prisoner. The two soldiers watched every minute movement of the same whilst the hood himself appeared to be breathing with some difficulty, though whether because of some ailment, or the constriction of the hood, the doctor could not ascertain.

  Indeed, the hood twitched with every squeezing of the pump as the cuff tightened around the arm. The doctor applied the stethoscope to his ears and noted the reading - Within normal ranges, which was saying something considering what the man was likely going through.

  The doctor removed the cuff and coughed. “Sir, whoever you are, I’m afraid you have high blood pressure…one of the highest I’ve experienced in my career, actually…hardly a surprise is it?” He paused and watched for the slightest sign of acknowledgment. “Please nod if you understand me.”

  The two soldiers twitched, but did not intervene. The hood, however, made not the slightest movement, save for his abnormally laboured breathing as the cloth around the mouth sucked in and out with every breath, which had over time created a large circular damp pool around that area.

  “Does he understand me?” The doctor asked of the lieutenant.

  His expression remained neutral. “Sir, we are not at liberty to confirm or deny The VIPs English speaking capabilities.”

  The doctor threw up his hands. “I don’t know why I bother speaking to anyone on this entire base, but from now on I won’t bother.” Ignoring his last words, he now addressed the hood directly. “High blood pressure, sir, or hypertension as we call it. I don’t know how large your cell is, but I suggest exercising if you’re able, lower your sodium intake…are you listening? This is rather an urgent matter with you, sir. Exercise…ah yes…I can’t tell if you’re a muslim, you probably are, but in case you aren’t then lower your alcohol intake. And if you are a muslim then I also suggest lowering your alcohol intake, if we have an understanding.” The Private smirked as the doctor leaned backwards over the desk to reach into a drawer. “And this…” the doctor stepped toward the prisoner and held out his hand, which contained a single white pill.

  Miraculously neither of the soldiers stirred.

  “…And I must see this aspirin administered at once…to thin the blood…since it’s such an urgent case, you understand.” The doctor glanced with expectation at the lieutenant.

  The soldier pulled a small service knife from his belt, stepped in front of the prisoner then slowly began cutting away the cloth around the mouth. He threw to the floor the small piece of gray fabric, several teeth and lots of beard poked through the gap.

  The doctor raised his hand with the pill between thumb and forefinger. “Your tongue, sir, stick it out.”

  No response, either verbal or in the form of the organ protruding from behind the freshly cut hole.

  The doctor glanced anxiously to the lieutenant, who was dipping his eyebrows toward his charge.

  “Lieutenant, now might be the time to confirm or deny whether he speaks English.” The doctor still poised with the pill between his fingers.

  “I’m afraid, I’m not at liberty to divulge classified information with those who don’t hold the authority, sir.”

  The doctor held the soldier’s eyes for a second, then surprised everybody by speaking Arabic.

  A long red and furry tongue reluctantly peeped out from the hole and the doctor placed the pill on top before it retracted.

  “Finally…at last…now the three of you get out!”

  4

  Prisoner Transfer

  Rodriguez and Morris waited in the dark inside the MRAP; Morris behind the wheel, Rodriguez unwrapping some boiled candy in the passenger side.

  “How much fuckin’ longer?” Rodriguez sent the candy mouthwards and commenced with the sucking sounds. It was irritating.

  “The fuck should I know? Any minute now.”

  “You said that a half hour ago.”

  “Yeah? And I thought you’d run outta those things. You not gonna offer one to me?”

  Rodriguez held the bag out and his comrade dipped his hand inside.

  “Green? The fuckin’ worst color.”

  “Luck of the draw my friend.”

  The gravel stirred in the distance and silhouettes were just barely visible, making their way toward the solitary MRAP.

  Both soldiers swallowed their candy, fastened top buttons and placed on their hats.

  Rodriguez squinted out the window. “Fuck, it’s the general.”

  “I told ya…He ain’t called The VIP for nothin’.” Morris pressed the button to release the locks on the rear doors and within seconds they were pulled open from the outside, the khaki colored arms of troops visible from where he sat.

  Morris turned back to face the front and was startled to see the general’s face right by his opened window. “Sir!”

  The general stifled a grimace because Morris had forgotten not to alarm the prisoner with any acknowledgements to the commanding officer of the base being present - This was meant to be a routine transfer - Supposedly. Instead the general nodded and Morris saluted in silence.

  Two soldiers manoeuvred the hooded man into the back seat, pressing down on his head so that it wouldn’t hit the roof. One of the soldiers buckled in the prisoner before pulling away and shutting the door. The other took the seat next to the hood, hand gun pointing toward him.

  The general nodded then backed away and the MRAP
ignited before rumbling its way out the base and into the desert.

  It was thirty minutes before the first person spoke. “Not the talkative type, huh?” Morris asked of the unnamed marine beside the prisoner.

  To his surprise, the escort spoke. “Let’s just have a smooth transfer, boys, and we’ll all get along great.”

  The vehicle hit a bump and the hood thumped the back of his head against the headrest, letting out the smallest of groans as he did.

  “Easy there, boys, let’s not damage the merchandise.”

  The two soldiers in the front laughed, it was Iraq, not Orange County, California, the roads would be as expected.

  They were now fifty miles out from base and Rodriguez tried to remember his line. After a few minutes it came to him and he turned around to face the marine. “Hey, man, you not curious? About the guy under the mask, I mean.”

  “Curious?” Came the reply. “What do you mean, curious?”

  “You know…there’s been rumours about this guy for months, but nobody was ever sure he even existed. Now we find he does and here he is. Ain’t you curious to know just who in the fuck he is?”

  The marine sniffed. “Of course. We’d all love to know who he is.”

  “You’re just too chicken shit to actually follow through and fix your curiosity.” Rodriguez mocked the marine. “Do you even have a key…you know…to that padlock around his neck? Or…you know…I guess they never gave you the authority, huh?”

  “I’ve got a key, but you ain’t getting near it.” The marine said with more than a hint of a threat to the tone.

  “Ok,” Rodriguez held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s a shame though, is all I’m saying because once this guy’s been transferred, he’s outta our hands and then we’ll never know.”

  After a pause, the marine spoke again. “Keep talkin’”.

  Rodriguez strained his brain trying to remember - Ah yes. “The way I see it is this. . . The guy can’t speak English, or at least, I assume, so there’s no rattin’ on any of us even if he wanted to, for doing him the good deed of removing his hood so that he could breathe proper. But all you need do is unlock the thing, lift off the hood, nice and gently so that we can all get a look at this raghead…sorry, sorry…this, um, Iraqi. Then when we near the rendezvous, you can put it back…Nobody gets into no trouble.”

  “And we can all go home and tell our friends all about the mysterious VIP.” Morris cut in.

  The marine rubbed his chin. “And you promise to keep quiet about all this?”

  “Of course.” They both yelped together.

  The Marine contemplated whilst staring at the wet patch around the hood’s mouth. “It does look like it’s hard to breathe in there. Ok, boys, you’re on…Why the fuck not?”

  They both whooped and the vehicle slowed as the excitement was all too much for Morris.

  The Marine brought out the key from his belt, twisted it inside the lock, heard the click, removed the pad from the bracket and released the chain. The VIP’s breathing increased but he didn’t make any other sounds or movements.

  “You ready?” The marine held his hands around the base of the hood…

  …Then slowly peeled it upwards to reveal the man beneath.

  Silence.

  Then Rodriguez spoke. “That it? Talk about an anti-climax. Looks just like any other raghead to me…maybe a little more dirty, but even that’s usual for ‘em.”

  The man was indeed an Iraqi, or Syrian, Iranian or some other Arab type, maybe even a Turk. The fact was Rodriguez could hardly tell one from another. And indeed, he even looked like all the rest. With a beard like that, he might’ve been any one of the thirty million plus Iraqis, women included. The VIP carried no scars, not marks, no real distinguishing features even, other than the long hair which was evidence he had indeed been prisoner for as long as the rumours had persisted. In fact, if anything, seeing the bland man beneath the hood only raised more questions than it answered.

  Morris scratched his head as the MRAP temporarily veered off center. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but this…this is just boring.”

  “Yeah, you could at least have had a punched in face or something.” Rodriguez still scowled at the man. “Hey, you listenin’ to me? We’ve given you some air, so why don’t you show your fuckin’ gratitude by telling us who the fuck you are?

  The man bowed his head and stayed silent.

  “Fuck this man!” Rodriguez smashed his fists against the dashboard. “How long till the rendezvous?”

  Morris checked his screen. “About two hours.”

  “Stop the damn vehicle, I need to take a piss.”

  “Yeah, me too.” The marine sounded deflated.

  The vehicle slowed to a stop and pulled into the side as the engine was cut off. The marine and Rodriguez exited, leaving the door open and wandered off into the darkness leaving only the prisoner with Morris.

  “Man, I’m dying for a piss. These long journeys through your fucked up country…” he peered out into the gloom, “…fuck this, I ain’t waitin’. Hey, you promise not to go anywhere if I leave you be for a minute?” He chuckled to himself, unbuckled the belt and slipped outside.

  Morris wandered into the sand, unzipped his zipper and let fly. A minute later, he finished up, tucked himself away and resealed the zipper. “How long d’you think he’ll need?” Morris asked the two silhouettes beside him.

  The marine blew out a plume of smoke. “About as long as it takes to loot our water and Subway sandwiches.”

  They stood back for several minutes, watching the vehicle as its long beamed lights pointed out into the dark.

  “You ever thought what you’re gonna do when you leave the army?” Morris asked nobody in particular. “Was thinkin’ about goin’ into teachin’. What do you think?”

  Rodriguez was about to respond when the blurry image of The VIP materialized from the vehicle before running in the opposite direction and disappearing in the haze.

  “There he goes.” Morris confirmed. “Not as quickly as I thought but the mission couldn’t have gone any smoo…” Morris span round as Rodriguez dropped to the floor. “What the fuck?”

  A second after, Morris’ head was thrown back with a bullet through the forehead.

  ***

  First light emerged a little after six.

  The bodies were already buried when the patrol ground by and four marines exited to inspect the scene.

  The marine saluted the captain. “Mission carried out, sir.”

  “Good. And there’s literally nobody else who knows about this?” The captain asked sternly.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Good. Nice work, Jones.” The captain nodded to his men, turned and headed for the vehicle.

  The three remaining marines pointed their rifles at Jones, who jumped back in shock.

  “No! No!”

  Then the bullets ripped through him.

  5

  Al-Raqqah

  Ibrahim, otherwise known as Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, Emir of the Faithful and leader of the Islamic State, ISIS, ISIL, IS or simply Daesh, leaned forwards as he leered at the three girls squatting against the wall. “Hmm.” He ran a hand through his beard while attempting to survey their figures through the burkas. “Hmm.”

  One of these lucky girls would soon become his fourth wife, after he finished choosing, a task that was not so easy when one could not see their faces.

  The first time, several years before, he’d got lucky when the girl turned out to possess a reasonable attractiveness, however, after delivering seven children, Alia was now as fat and disgusting as some of those American women he’d seen online congregating around educational institutions.

  He studied the three girls intently and sighed. One never could quite tell what lay beneath the headdress, which is why he could hardly be blamed for his second and third wives, who both turned out to possess faces like the back end of a pig and goat respectively. He hoped the fourth wo
uld be better.

  Unfortunately, the eyes alone never gave much away, peeking out with fear like they did from beneath their black concealments, as he’d learned twice before. It was always better to go with the figure. That way, even if she did turn out to have a face like the ass of a camel, she could still bare his children with the simple accompaniment of a brown paper bag, which, unfortunately, were becoming increasingly difficult to obtain in Al-Raqqah these days.

  Ibrahim stepped toward the girl in the centre, whose posture was slightly more upright than the others and decided he’d take her. Sure, it wasn’t much to go on, but there’d be other wives sure to follow.

  “Stand.” Ibrahim commanded.

  The girl squeaked and hesitated and was kicked by one of Ibrahim’s followers. She rose to her feet and Ibrahim closed the gap between them.

  “What is your name?”

  She made a strange sighing sound but finally managed to stutter an answer. “Batool.”

  “A Shia, huh?” He shook his head. “You will convert before the ceremony.” He glanced at the other two girls who sat shaking, covering their heads with their arms. “As for them…they’ll make fine wives for one of our warriors.” He nodded to a henchmen and he took the three girls away.

  It was another one of Ibrahim’s makeshift parlours, the twelve preceding it, having been blown up by the kaffir Americans. However, if it was Allah’s will…

  An explosion from somewhere far away rattled the tin pots on the shelves then a second and a third explosion made the infernal things persist. It wasn’t so much the bombs that bothered him, rather the rattling and the vibrations that drove him insane.

  He left his parlour and entered the control room from where his followers communicated with their forces on the ground. On seeing Ibrahim they bowed their heads, he dismissed it, and they continued.

  “Emir?” One bearded foreigner said, his voice full of alarm and urgency.

  “Speak.”

  “It’s Ramadi, Emir…”