Our War

by Craig DiLouie

  It was like something from a World War II concentration camp, though she knew it wasn’t. It was America, and it was now. “Where was this taken?”

  “Dallas. These people were Muslims.”

  Aubrey spotted children among the corpses. “Oh, God.”

  “I remember very clearly when I took this. The Blues had found this mass grave and dug it up. They wanted the world to know. A horrible atrocity.”

  “Horrible,” she agreed.

  He tapped the photo with his finger. “See this body? A man wearing a shirt that is red, white, and blue like your flag. He was trying to show he loved this country up to the very moment they murdered him.”

  Aubrey winced.

  He continued, “I thought at the time, how wonderful, the shirt really adds a nice touch of color to the image.”

  Rafael closed the book. “A child is shot by a sniper. A terrible thing. She is lying bleeding in the street. What do you do?”

  “I would help her, then write a story about it.”

  “And if you were a photojournalist like me, for whom moments count?”

  She didn’t even think about it. “I’d take the photo first.”

  Rafael shrugged. “Then that is who you are. We are the same. Someone has to tell the story. Anything else is just something you must live with.”

  Aubrey said, “Show me more.”

  He gestured to the book and sat back in his chair. Aubrey turned the stiff pages and took her time inspecting each photo. Militiamen flashing victory signs. A terrified woman surrounded by grinning men decked out in hunting gear. A skyscraper burning in black and white. Children scavenging in piles of garbage built up on the sidewalks, playing among bomb craters.

  Each told a story. Who, what, where, when, and how. But never why, which was up to the viewer. Where she strived to tell a big story from a small event or a single person’s experience, he accomplished this using a simple image. What she felt when she listened to her classical music, these photographs pulled to the surface.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful and horrible.”

  Rage, despair, hope, dignity, horror. The human pageant of beauty and savagery. She not only saw their stories in the images, she read the story of humanity. History repeating itself forever despite its brutal lessons.

  She’d been exploring the book back to front, going backward in time as she neared the beginning. Police fighting rebels, prone shooters and blurred runners, a barricade of burning tires in the background. A demonstration, people of all ages and races and creeds filling a square. Rafael Petit had been in America documenting its civil war since the beginning.

  Aubrey remembered the massive demonstrations in Indianapolis in the early days. Gunmen in ski masks had put up barricades around the city. People poured into the streets demanding peace and unity. The country was falling apart, but not Indy. Not us. Not here. Our city would not be divided. The barricades came down. The crowds returned every morning to march for peace until a bomb went off in Mile Square.

  After that came days of police officers exchanging fire with rogue cops and right-wing gunmen in house-to-house fighting. A militia drove into Indy and tried to take city hall. People beat and shot one another to settle old scores. Others organized militias to defend their neighborhoods. And the fighting, once a separate thing and unthinkable here, became everything.

  She said, “Does it ever get to you?”

  “Of course. I am just a man.”

  Aubrey waited for him to say more.

  He added, “I would say, ‘As much as I allow it to,’ but the images I capture affect me whether I let them or not. I will not know how much until I return to Paris and one day they are not just in my book but within me.”

  “It’s not the sadness,” she said. “It’s the deeper wounds.”

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t make us as special as we think, though.”

  “No,” he admitted. “This war affects everyone it touches. Bearing witness to suffering is not the same as suffering. Still, it eventually has its effect, and with that come feelings of responsibility. A desire to do something about it, not just tell its story.”

  Aubrey finished her wine. She was starting to feel human again. The bar’s dim lighting, hushed voices, and piano washed over her and filled her with a sense of peace.

  Rafael raised his hand to get the server’s attention, and she thought, If I have another drink, he might just get me into bed.

  He ordered two more glasses of pinot.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The squad returned to the trenches. Mitch asked them again to take a knee.

  “You all did real good,” he said. “We’re still attacking tomorrow, but now we’ll be taking a different route. The UN was kind enough to show us the way.”

  Alex was barely listening, too amped up from the short patrol.

  Grady asked, “How fast are we going to be able to go in this snow?”

  “We’ll have a top speed of forty to fifty miles an hour.”

  The men looked at one another in disbelief.

  Mitch smiled at the growl of approaching vehicles. “Right on cue.”

  The entire platoon whooped as the steel column zoomed into the alley. A rusting orange rig led the way. Shaped like a dump truck, it was specially designed for heavy snowplowing. Somebody had painted impressive rows of shark’s teeth on its curved blade.

  Mitch said, “Courtesy of the Department of Transportation.”

  The next drew louder whoops. Fluorescent green, it was shaped like a camper but massive, riding on eight giant wheels. A rooftop crane terminated in a thick metal spear. Below the sloped glass windshield, a nozzle protruded.

  Jack laughed. “It’s like something out of a Mad Max movie.”

  “Striker 8x8,” Mitch said. “Big and heavy, but it can reach a speed of fifty miles an hour. It’s used for airport runway firefighting. Five thousand gallons of water and foam.”

  Great for dousing a burning plane, Alex guessed. Just as effective at suppressing enemy fire. He’d hate to be on its receiving end, especially in this weather. If the platoon ran into trouble, the Striker would pound it with a continuous, high-pressure blast of water.

  The rest of the trucks were basic Chevy and Ford pickups outfitted with small angular snowplows graffitied with obscene messages for the libs. The first and last of them had an M240 machine gun mounted on a swivel welded to the bed.

  Tom chuckled. “Like the technicals the skinnies had in Somalia.”

  A bulldozer rumbled along next, which would be used to move rubble and wrecks. And finally a cherry-red fire truck, whose ladder would help the militia assault tall buildings and rooftops. A modern-day siege engine.

  Sergeant Shook sprang from the trenches with his fists raised in the air. He ran toward the approaching steel column. “Get some! Get some!”

  Alpha squad laughed at him. Thudding over potholes, the big vehicles slowed to park in the alley. One by one, their engines cut out. The drivers got out and lit cigarettes.

  “The colonel spared no expense,” Mitch said. “Go on and take a look.”

  Alex joined the other fighters gathering around the machines. They admired the retrofits and speculated on the enormous amount of lib ass they’d kick once they unleashed these monsters.

  Jack nudged him. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “No doubt.”

  “I can’t believe you stuck it to Grady like that. I was laughing my head off.”

  “Do you think he’ll do anything about it?”

  “Probably not. Guy talks way tougher than he is.”

  “Too bad,” Alex said. “I want to fight.”

  “Just wait until tomorrow. You’ll see plenty of it.”

  He had nothing against Jack. He liked Jack. Jack was one of the few in the militia who was kind to him.

  Alex punched him in the eye.

  The kid reared in surprise. “What the hell, bro?”

  He swung again, but Jack f
linched away from it.

  Then the kid laid into him.

  Alex didn’t feel the first punch. The world spun. The second smashed into his nose and shot a bolt of pain up through his brain.

  A hand pressed against his chest and shoved. The stars cleared. His squad mates were dragging Jack away from him.

  The kid shrugged them off. “All right! I’m done!”

  Mitch said, “You don’t pull that shit before combat.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Jack protested. “He just started hitting me like a wild animal.”

  Alex spat in the snow. It was red. Blood was pouring into his mouth. He held up his arm to press the sleeve against his swelling nose.

  “Hold still.” The sergeant inspected his face. “He messed you up good, kid. Maybe you should sit out the attack. We’ll do okay without you.”

  Alex spat again. “No way, Sergeant. I’m good to go.”

  “Damn right, you’re good to go.” Another test, this time to see if he was shirking. “Now shake hands before I pound both your asses.”

  Jack held out his hand. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  Alex shook it. “No reason.”

  The kid laughed. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He rubbed his jaw. “You landed a pretty good one on me.”

  “Next time you boys want to fight, I’ll give you one you won’t forget,” Mitch growled. “Now go get your supper before I knock your lights out.”

  Alex walked back to camp with his arm draped over his friend’s shoulder. “I really needed that.” Punching. Getting punched. Both.

  “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.”

  The sock darning awaited them after chow. Jack had a better idea. They returned to the horse trailer and sat on the floor to get blazed.

  Jack produced a joint and lit it with his Zippo. “How’s the nose?”

  Alex probed it with his fingers and grimaced. “Hurts.”

  “Your voice sounds funny.” Jack handed over the joint.

  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Getting punched.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  Alex drew a lungful of smoke. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not mad at me, though.”

  “No, you were there, that’s all. I don’t know why I did it. I just needed to do it. I’m sorry, man. My eyes just went red.”

  “You don’t have to say sorry to me. You got the worst of it.”

  “You’re good at fighting.”

  “Am I?” The kid’s face morphed into a pleased half smile. “It was my first.”

  “Mine too.”

  The boy laughed. “I had no idea what I was doing. I just reacted. I wasn’t raised like that.”

  “Where are your parents?” Alex immediately wanted to take back the question but couldn’t.

  Jack’s eyes glazed at some memory. “Work camp in Fort Wayne. The militia sent me down here with some other kids to help with the siege.”

  A man laughed outside the trailer. “Christ, you’re breaking my heart out here.” The door creaked open to reveal Sergeant Shook, who dropped a baggie of pot on Jack’s lap. Then he laughed again, this time at the sight of blood on Alex’s face. “That’s a good look on you, Mary.”

  Alex’s buzz soured. Everybody seemed to know about their private place.

  The sergeant said, “Combat Jack told me you want to work with him. That’s fine. I’m looking for jewelry, good watches. Don’t bring me anything else unless it’s gold or something I can trade for gold. Yeah?”

  “Got it,” said Alex.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll be in new territory to salvage. Keep your eyes peeled. I got something special for you two for the occasion. You’re going to love it.”

  He extended his fist and opened it to reveal a vial of dull white powder.

  Jack squinted at it. “What’s that?”

  “Psycho fuel.” Cocaine.

  Alex said, “What’s it like in combat?”

  “Turns you into Superman. You don’t feel a thing.”

  “It’s really addictive, though,” Jack said.

  “Only if you let it. I can take it or leave it. But I always snort before a fight.”

  Perfect. Alex reached for it, but Shook’s hand clenched into a fist again.

  “Jewelry and watches. Gold most of all. And porn, if you find any. Yeah?”

  “Roger, Sarge.”

  The sergeant swung his arm toward Jack and opened his hand. The kid caught the vial out of the air.

  “Say one word to Mitch about our arrangement, and your face will look a whole lot worse, Bloody Mary. Happy trails.”

  The door banged shut. Alex reached for it again. “Come on, let’s try it.”

  All or nothing. The drug promised both.

  “Tomorrow,” Jack said. “We’ve got to use it sparingly. Shook isn’t selling it cheap. He wants payment.”

  “Then let’s go eat. I’ve got the munchies already.”

  Back in the camp, they ate an early supper of franks and beans cooked in bacon grease. The fire’s heat blasted Alex’s face. The air smelled like smoke. A militiaman wearing a floppy bush hat played guitar. After the meal, the men policed their plates and opened cans of beer.

  Tom handed one to Alex. “Put it on your nose first before it turns into a balloon.”

  Alex grinned. “Thanks.”

  The veteran shook his head and muttered, “Dumb kid.”

  The men quieted as the light waned and the long day wound toward sunset. This was normally a time for them to tell stories about home or share their theories and complaints about tyranny and cultural Marxism. Today, however, they stayed quiet as they considered the coming battle, the only sound the crackle of the firepit.

  Tomorrow morning, they wouldn’t be playing soldier anymore. This wasn’t a routine patrol, in which they’d throw a couple of hundred rounds downrange and jog home giving one another high fives. This was a major assault against an entrenched enemy that knew the ground. The militia would suffer casualties.

  Alex shared their fears about combat. Nonetheless, he longed for it.

  Mitch stood and said, “Tomorrow is the big one. The fight that could end the war. Blitzkrieg.”

  Around the fire, the men cracked wolfish grins.

  “We know we’re better than the libs,” Mitch went on. “We’ve got superior training, firepower, equipment, and right on our side. And if our intel is correct, resistance should be light. Still, we know they can fight. Tomorrow, I want you to stay frosty, give your all, and hold nothing back. God willing, your victory will restore the republic in this proud corner of the dying United States.”

  The men belted out a cheer and raised their beer cans in salute.

  “I’m proud of you boys,” he finished. “Make sure you get a good sleep tonight.”

  Alex left the fire and crawled into his tent to be alone, his imagination buzzing about the upcoming battle. It didn’t last long. Lying on his sleeping bag, he again saw the Indy 300 fighter wheel and try to run, only to topple spinning in a bloody mist.

  He still didn’t hate the man, but he would keep trying.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Aubrey opened her eyes and laughed. “God, I needed that.”

  “Now Terry will be very jealous, I think,” Rafael said.

  He lay panting next to her on his hotel bed. His pale body was slick with sweat. Tousled hair fell over his forehead. He had quite a bit of black hair on his arms and legs. He was a little paunchy, the result of middle age and a travel diet.

  She snorted. “Everything’s a competition with you guys.”

  He studied her face. “I was going to say it is because you are amazing.”

  Aubrey looked down at her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Living on subsistence rations had done wonders for trimming her excess fat. But she smelled bad. A musky funk. And she’d stopped shaving her armpits long ago, razors being scarce.

  “Oh, please,” she said. “You can
stop selling. You already closed the deal.”

  “Not only this.” He traced a lazy line from her throat to her navel with his finger. “I am talking about who you are.”

  “If you’re going to touch me like that, I’d like to wash up first. I stink.”

  “You can take a shower, but please keep it under five minutes,” he said. “Water is expensive.”

  “Seriously? God, this place is amazing. Now my friends will be jealous.”

  Rafael watched her get out of bed. She smiled at the attention and pictured burrowing back into the sheets with him. She hadn’t known how much she’d missed a man’s touch. And she found his extra pounds sexy. In a city filled with starving people, it was even more exotic than his accent.

  He gazed at her with longing. She suspected Rafael was lonely just as she was. He’d been in America too long.

  “Hey,” she said. “Don’t fall in love with me, okay? Rule number one.”

  “Even if I do, it is war.”

  “It’s war,” she agreed. “Right now is all that matters.”

  “Give me something of yours to read while you shower.”

  Aubrey knew what to give him. She crouched in front of her backpack and pulled out the story she’d written about Zoey Tapper’s murder.

  The first page had a light, bloody thumbprint on it.

  “Read it and weep,” she said. “It’s unpublished. The Chronicle won’t run it.”

  In the bathroom, she turned on the shower and stepped under the water. It was freezing, but she was used to that. Then it grew steadily warmer until it was piping hot.

  “Oh my God.”

  Pure bliss. The last real bath she’d enjoyed had been back in September. It had been cold whore’s baths ever since, wiping herself down with a damp sponge.

  It made her laugh. All that soul searching, while life boiled down to such simple pleasures. A couple of glasses of wine, good sex, and a hot shower.

  She soaped up and rinsed. Brown water pooled at her feet and went down the drain. She washed her hair next. After that, she shaved her armpits with Rafael’s razor. This was turning into one hell of a date.