Our War

by Craig DiLouie

  “I write obituaries. Is that a lie? I make it all up that you kill people?”

  “How many aborted babies make your obituaries?”

  Was he seriously going to pretend he was pro-life? “Plenty of babies make the obituaries these days.”

  “More lies. Like the libs always bitching about the snipers. The truth is they kill their own and blame it on us. False-flag ops to justify dictatorship. That’s what the real media is saying.”

  Even when they brutalized people, they never stopped playing the victim. Anger flooded her chest, displacing her fear. “You can believe whatever you want, but it isn’t true.”

  The rebel leaned forward, eyes blazing. “You murdered the truth.”

  “Tell her, Sarge!” a fighter called out.

  “You and your schools and Hollywood celebrities and comedy shows all comparing President Marsh to Hitler,” the giant went on. “Stirring up the bums to turn against their country and terrorize law-abiding citizens, until we stepped in. As far as I’m concerned, you and your hot Miss UN are the real enemy.”

  Aubrey clenched her teeth and stared at the fire. Being a journalist meant neutrality. You didn’t act, you observed. You observed and reported.

  But sometimes, she really wanted to pick up a rifle and start shooting.

  “Like I said,” she told him. “You can believe whatever you want.”

  “You might think you’re this tough broad, but that don’t mean shit out here,” the rebel said. “In fact, it’s a liability. Here’s a fact. We could take you into that house over there and do whatever we wanted for as long as we wanted it. If we were so inclined.”

  “Grab her by the titties, Sarge!”

  Aubrey’s body clenched with terror as the rebels laughed. This man didn’t care about the contradictions in everything he said. All the lunacy wrapped in the flag. The truth didn’t matter, only feelings. Feelings of being right. Of winning. Of power and control.

  “After we’re done with you, we’ll shoot you in the head and leave you in a ditch, and nobody will care. It won’t even make your obituaries.”

  She steeled herself for a fight. “Is that what you’re going to do then?”

  The boy looked at Sergeant Shook in alarm. The giant reached out to stoke the embers, making Alex and Aubrey both flinch.

  “Not today,” he said. “The colonel wouldn’t like it.”

  More laughter.

  “Then I’m free to walk away,” she said.

  He swept his arm in a mocking gesture. “It’s a free country.”

  Aubrey stood and crossed her arms. She wanted to say something to show she wasn’t afraid of him. Nice to meet you, Alex. Good luck! She didn’t trust herself to speak, though. Her legs shook so badly that she could barely trust herself to walk.

  She waited by the car counting the seconds until Gabrielle left the nearby house, escorted by Colonel Lewis and two soldiers.

  “I hope you’ll come out and visit us again sometime,” he said.

  “Thank you for your time and hospitality,” Gabrielle said.

  The colonel touched the brim of his hat. “Like I said, young lady. Anytime.”

  The women got in their car and waited while a pair of rebels removed the roadblock.

  “Please get us out of here,” Gabrielle said.

  “I’m on it.”

  Aubrey stepped on the gas. Grinning rebels filled her rearview. She took a final look at the sergeant and the boy. The giant went on drinking his beer without giving her so much as a parting glance. He’d already gotten what he wanted from her, which was her fear. Fear he confused with respect.

  They drove along St. Clair and jumped the green space onto Centennial. After a few blocks, they were back in Blue territory.

  Only then did she notice how badly she was shaking.

  “Did you get it?” Gabrielle said.

  “They’re using child soldiers.”

  “Stop the car.”

  Aubrey tapped the brakes until the car slid to a halt. Gabrielle opened the door and leaned out to vomit. It rushed out of her into the snow. She spat and spat again. She reached under her scarf and gripped a pendant she wore around her neck.

  “You okay?”

  Gabrielle wiped her mouth and closed the door. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Did they do anything to you?”

  “It wasn’t what they did. It was what I thought they were going to do. It was everything they might do. The way they talked and acted. It was like being back with him.”

  Aubrey nodded and resumed their drive back to the core. Neither of them spoke the rest of the way. It took that long for her trembling to finally stop.

  Outside the hotel, she killed the engine and handed over the keys. They sat for a while in silence.

  “Do you have enough to write a story?” Gabrielle said.

  Aubrey nodded.

  The UNICEF worker sighed. “Then maybe it was worth it.”

  No, Aubrey thought. It wasn’t.

  Her ambition didn’t justify putting this woman at risk. What she’d done today horrified her. The risks she’d imposed on Gabrielle to get a story. The danger she’d put them both in because she’d wanted to use her job to do something real, something meaningful.

  “I can’t be your fixer anymore,” she blurted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to get you killed, for starters.”

  “I wanted to go today.”

  “Because you still don’t know any better.”

  Gabrielle winced. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No,” Aubrey said. “I’m mad at me. You need a better teacher. Take care of yourself, Gabrielle.”

  The woman steeled herself with a visible effort. “Okay. If this is what you want.”

  Aubrey opened the door. “You’ll be all right. You’ll do just fine. You’re way stronger than you think you are.”

  Maybe stronger than me, she thought as she got out.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  Gabrielle leaned across the seat to gaze up at her. “Thank you again for everything. And you take care of yourself too.”

  Aubrey responded with a lopsided smile. Half-happy, half-sad. “I always do.”

  THIRTY

  Colonel Lewis waved the women out of sight while he chuckled at some private thought. “Anytime, ladies. Anytime.”

  Then he and Mitch and Shook went into the house to talk.

  Alex finished cleaning his reassembled AR-15 with drops of lubricant on the mag release and bolt catch buttons. He didn’t understand why they’d had to hustle out of their trenches and set up here like they were camping.

  He asked Grady what was going on.

  “Do what you’re told and shut it,” the soldier said. “That’s what.”

  “We staged a big photo-op,” Tom explained.

  Alex still didn’t get it.

  The man shook his head. “Never mind. Stop asking questions.”

  Alex pointed the rifle at the fire, pulled the bolt to the rear, and released it. He placed the weapon on safe and squeezed the trigger. The hammer didn’t drop. He released the safety and squeezed again. The gun dry fired with an empty click.

  He set the rifle down and reached for a beer.

  “No beer for you until you help Jack mend the socks,” Tom said.

  “Seriously?”

  The veteran stared at him for a few seconds before answering. “Yup.”

  Alex had shot a man. He’d earned his place. And still they didn’t show him any respect. He got up and walked away from the fire.

  “And no beer for you after, either,” Tom said. “You’re drinking too much.”

  He went to another fire, where Jack sat on a lawn chair darning one of a mound of socks. “That was surreal, wasn’t it?”

  A Canadian UN worker and a Black newspaper reporter showing up like something out of one of Liberty Tree’s myths.

  Jack stuck a tennis ball inside a sock to stretch out the hol
e. “This stink is surreal. They could wash these goddamn things before making us fix them.”

  “Did you hear the way Shook talked to that reporter?”

  “The guy’s sick in the head.”

  “I know. But the matter-of-fact way he did it. Like he was ordering something off a menu. No fear.”

  The kid frowned as he worked his needle back and forth over the hole. “That’s what trolls do, bro. You don’t feed them, and you don’t admire them. He gets us our stuff, and we pay him for it. I don’t want to be friends with him.”

  Jack didn’t understand what he was getting at. Alex didn’t admire what Shook had said, which was horrible. He’d never talk to another human being that way.

  What impressed him was Shook said it at all. No self-doubt, no drama. Total self-control. The rules didn’t apply to him. He made his own rules.

  “He does whatever he wants. They made him sergeant for it.”

  “While you darn socks.” Jack reached to the pile and tossed an olive-green wool sock into Alex’s lap. It stank like cheese. “Starting with this one.”

  He regarded the mound bleakly. “All these have to be done?”

  Jack smiled. “War is hell.”

  His friend was right about one thing. Nobody would ask Shook to darn socks. Alex didn’t want to be like Shook, but he wanted that kind of power.

  “I may have to do it again,” Alex said.

  Jack stopped smiling. “Yeah, I know.”

  “You too.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I want to not care. I want to just do it and not feel so crappy about it. Know what I mean? Boom. Like scratching an itch.”

  At night, alone in his crummy sleeping bag, Alex saw the man running at him with his big hunting rifle. He experienced the shooting all over again, elation and despair.

  He wanted the guilt to go away. The rage. He wanted to finally feel like he belonged here. He wanted to be free, like Shook.

  “It’s us or them,” Jack told him. “They’re the enemy. That’s the bottom line.”

  “But why?” Alex demanded. “What’s it all for?”

  “We’re taking the country back.” Jack sighed. “I don’t know. You should ask Tom. He knows about this stuff.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “Well, let’s talk about something else,” Jack said. “How was Tiffany?”

  Alex remembered the tired blonde greeting him at the door in a nightie. She was old enough to be his mother. He didn’t want to do it but didn’t think he had a choice.

  In the end, he didn’t have to do anything. Instead, Tiffany hugged him and stroked his hair for an hour while he cried.

  “She was awesome,” he said, meaning it. She’d been kind to him.

  “You lucky dog.”

  Alex held up his smelly sock. “So lucky.”

  Jack laughed, then turned toward the house as its screened front door banged open. Colonel Lewis and Mitch stepped outside.

  “Report to me when you get back,” the colonel said.

  Mitch sketched a salute. “Will do, sir.”

  The sergeant marched with purpose toward the encampment. Something was up.

  “Back to the trenches, Sergeant?” Jack called to him.

  “Nope,” said Mitch. “Drop what you’re doing and man up.”

  Alex and Jack exchanged a grin. “Yes, Sergeant!”

  The squad got busy getting ready for whatever Mitch wanted them to do. Alex stood and pulled his assault rig over his camouflage jacket. Like his gun, all the gear had been cool at first but was now just another ball and chain.

  Patrol, however. That never got old.

  The rush of combat. There was nothing like it. The tension that broke as a quiet street erupted into pure chaos. That sense of being in his own skin, detached yet aware, fully present.

  He didn’t want to kill people, but oh, man.

  All or nothing. That’s what he wanted to feel until this war was over. That was his new motto.

  “Get over here,” Mitch said to his squad. “Take a knee.”

  The men gathered around.

  “We’re going out on patrol. But we ain’t going to the lib line. We’re gonna follow tire tracks.” The sergeant fixed his stare on Alex. “Kid, you’ll take point.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant.”

  Leading the squad was a big responsibility. The men’s safety would be in his hands. The other guys bitched about taking point, but he thought it was cool. Mitch was showing trust.

  “You fuck this up, I’ll shoot you myself, kid,” Grady said.

  “Shut up, fat man,” Alex said.

  The squad froze. Somebody whistled. Jack grinned. Grady started to bluster, but Alex ignored him, waiting for the order to start moving.

  Mitch eyed Alex. “Lead us out. Everybody, stay sharp.”

  Alex got to his feet and started walking to the road. He couldn’t go head-to-head against the entire squad, but he’d decided he didn’t have to take Grady’s crap anymore. He’d work his way up the totem pole until he could dish it out and only take it from a select few.

  He found the tire tracks and followed them north. The church stood on his left, near the auto repair shop. It was occupied by friendlies. A big industrial building loomed on his right. Telephone poles slanted over the road. He studied every detail before moving on.

  The tracks turned right onto St. Clair, a narrow street flanked by houses and trees. He scanned the houses as he passed them, focusing on windows and doors. He skirted a pile of rubble, which might hide a roadside bomb.

  He itched to shoot something. He wanted more chaos. Violence seemed to be the key to unlocking everything in this new world. Hate, meanwhile, was the key to violence. Tonight, when he lay in the dark and relived the shooting again, he wouldn’t wonder if the Indy 300 fighter was a good man or about who mourned his death. He’d think about all the ways the guy had it coming. He’d make up a story in his head and repeat it until he believed it. Then he’d fight for that. That would become his cause.

  As he neared the end of St. Clair, Mitch whistled. Alex went prone and waited as the squad scurried into the nearest cover.

  Boots crunched snow behind him. The sergeant crouched next to him and studied the scenery with his rifle’s close combat optic.

  Alex strained to see what the sergeant did. He checked out the dark windows again but saw no threats, no movement at all. He’d screwed up somehow. What had he missed?

  Mitch’s gaze settled on the tire tracks that ran up and over the curb, across an empty patch of white, and continued on Centennial beyond.

  “What do you see, Sergeant?” Alex said.

  Mitch grinned. “I see a door, kid. And they left it wide open.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Aubrey went to the bellhop desk to retrieve her bike and decided instead to go inside for a drink. The usual security protocols confronted her at the door, more degrading than boarding an international flight. She had a terrible feeling that no matter who won the war, this was America’s future. A paranoid police state.

  At the end of this, they still might not allow her inside. She had no reason to be here. She thought about waiting for Gabrielle to help her get in but decided against it. Aubrey had knowingly led the UNICEF worker into the lion’s den so she could get a story. She never wanted to see the woman again.

  And to make her shame even worse, Gabrielle had thanked her and told her to take care of herself. Aubrey had felt something again, a stirring in her heart. The idea that meaning could be found in trauma, that they’d done something good today.

  The bellhop inspected her press badge. “Which guest are you visiting?”

  “Terry Allen or Rafael Petit.”

  “They’re expecting you?”

  “The last time I was here, they gave me an open invitation to visit.”

  The bellhop thumbed the names into his tablet and waited for a response. He was a thug but a professional one. He didn’t care if she g
ot in or not.

  He said, “Mr. Petit will meet you, Ms. Fox. Welcome to the Castle.”

  “Thank you,” Aubrey said, exhausted.

  She trudged inside and went to the lavatory, where she repeated her ritual of washing up and stealing every roll of toilet paper in sight. She’d brought water bottles this time, which she filled at the sink. When she emerged, Rafael Petit was nowhere to be seen in the opulent lobby.

  Aubrey found him in the bar, sitting with glasses of red wine set on the table in front of him. She smiled and sat.

  “Hello, Aubrey,” he said. He was better looking than she remembered.

  She pointed at the two glasses of wine. “Is that for me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She scooped one and swirled its contents. “But what are you going to drink?”

  He smiled. “What brings you back to our oasis? More UN work?”

  Aubrey took a hefty sip and sighed, more out of relief than satisfaction. “Honestly? I needed a friend.” He raised his eyebrows, so she added, “Sometimes you need to talk to somebody who, you know…”

  “Understands?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Another reporter. No, a war correspondent.”

  She set her glass down. “Bingo.”

  “Terry will be jealous of our meeting. He thinks you have access to good stories. The other day, I saw him reading one of your articles.”

  “He was?” She took another sip to hide her smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m sitting on a huge one.”

  “Are you interested in sharing it?”

  “Not yet. Once I get it written up for the Chronicle, I’ll let you in.”

  “So what did you want to talk about?”

  After we’re done with you, we’ll shoot you in the head, the rebel sergeant said.

  She knew the man wasn’t thinking about her right now, but he’d be living in her brain for quite some time.

  She said, “Do you ever find yourself having to choose between doing your job and living with yourself?”

  Rafael reached down and pulled a leather satchel onto his lap. He removed a photo album and leafed through it. Then he placed the open book on the white tablecloth between them, revealing a large color photograph.

  Bodies in a mass grave. So many tangled together they appeared snarled into a single entity. Yellow bulldozer next to the pit. Men and women in shabby uniforms and surgical masks exhumed the corpses. Impossible to read their faces, though their eyes broadcast pain. More bodies were laid out in a neat row in the mud.