All the Young Warriors

TWENTY-NINE

Twenty minutes, maybe. Without a watch, it felt like longer, even if it felt like no time at all. Bleeker at the center of the tent, like a sweat lodge. One of the guards had said something Bleeker thought meant "I've got to take a shit." So only three guards, bored. Talking to each other as if he wasn't there. The heat, Jesus, the heat. Sweat stinking of whatever spices had been in the food. Gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Chills. Was he getting sick?

Rocking back and forth. Arms tight around his knees. He could take three guards, right? He had to distract one. Had to get them closer. He'd been trained to stay patient in situations like this, look for opportunity, take it when it presented itself. Not yet. Not yet. And Jibriil hadn't shown up yet. Not yet. Not yet.

The guard who took the bathroom break came back. Well, maybe it was him. He'd had his face covered by the checkered scarf, wearing vague camouflage fatigues, so it could've been anyone. He had another guard with him, bigger and taller, carrying a bag. The first one said something to two of the others. Again, Bleeker only got a little of it. Something like, "You leave. We're here." And then Jibriil's name popped up. Another couple of words Bleeker knew were names.

The guards on duty talked it over-"You want to go?" "I'm fine here." "I could use a nap." "Sure, I can go." Two of them lowered their rifles, left the tent. The big new guard opened the bag, pulled out a slab of flatbread. He threw it at Bleeker. Growled something like "Ass" or "Dirt Ass", fuck, Bleeker wasn't even listening anymore. Making up his own translations now. Could've called him "Sir" for all he knew.

He picked up the bread, ate some of the damp, cardboard-like stuff without thinking. Had already swallowed half before it occurred to him: poison? Or maybe they had pissed all over it and left it out in the sun. Probably not, because the big guy handed another slab to his buddy, who then tore it in two, offered some to the third guard. He stepped over, reached out for it.

The big guard grabbed his arm, wound it up, while the smaller guard clamped down a palm on the man's mouth, sliced his throat. Arterial blood shot far then pulsed then calmed down. A curtain of it across the guard's chest, down his legs. The other guard held on waiting, waiting, not yet, not yet, until the guard went slack. Dumped him onto the ground.

The taller guard pushed the scarf off his head, let it hang loose around his neck. Mustafa, breathing hard.

"Holy shit." Bleeker couldn't help but laugh.

Mustafa, lips curled, knelt by Bleeker and slapped him across the face. Damned hard. He pointed towards the flap. "You let them do that to Warfaa! Why isn't it you out there? What did you say?"

"I tried. I tried to get him a doctor. They shot him, and we walked. Walked a long way, and then I wanted a doctor, and they said no and dragged him out. What did they do? What?"

"We followed the blood. But…" Mustafa stopped, took in a long breath through his nose. "It's not fair. He gave up everything to help us, not even his fight."

"What did they do?"

Dawit pulled his scarf off. "They cut him like a pig."

Mustafa wrapped his hand around Bleeker's arm, pulled him to his feet and drug him to the tent flap. Pushed on through-sudden sun. Bleeker squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes! Look at him! Look!"

"I can't see."

"Then open your eyes!" He felt Mustafa's fingers gripping his chin, pointing his face. "Look!"

Bleeker squinted, saw shadows. Clearer, clearer, then, the shadows maybe thirty yards away. A tree, a naked black man strung up by his feet, arms touching the ground. His sternum had been opened, guts falling earthward, obscuring his face. Dark blood beneath him already soaking into the ground.

"Oh god."

"See it?"

"Oh god, I see, I see." He squeezed his eyes shut again. Fingers off his chin, a push back through the flap, stumbling onto his side, the wind oofing out of him.

Mustafa, still raging. "Why isn't it you out there? What did they say? What did you tell them?"

"Please, he doesn't know," Dawit said.

"Of course he knows."

"I told them to get a doctor. I tried, goddamn it, I fucking tried ."

Mustafa shook his head, paced the tent. "What have I done? Shit, shit, shit."

Bleeker rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Full of water. He smeared it away, blinked until he could see again. "Think about it. He was gone. There wasn't anything they could do. It was an easy choice. Me, a white man? An American? Can you even imagine what they've got planned for me?"

Dawit stepped over, helped Bleeker to his feet again. "Don't worry about it. We're here."

"Did you find the girl?"

"We found you first. We saw them taking you both. We followed."

"So…" He reached down, took the rifle off the dead guard, shook the blood off. Still plenty all over. Bleeker thought of Malaria, AIDS, Ebola, other nasty African bugs. Fuck it. He made sure the gun was cocked and ready. "You go find her. I'll hunt down Jibriil."

Mustafa shook his head. "We're not splitting up again."

"Well, then let's go kill him together and go get the girl and get out of here."

"It's not a video game."

"I know that! Fuck, you think…I know, alright?" Bleeker stared at the dead guard. Eyes bulging, mouth open. Then he took Warfaa's scarf off, started wrapping it around his head so that only his eyes were exposed. He looked at his hands. "Should've brought gloves. Why didn't we think of gloves?"

He grinned. Held up his hands. "Stupid, huh?"

They couldn't help but laugh, lightly, trying to hide it. Dawit held up his hands, too. A little louder. "Stupid white man!"

Bleeker let it roll. Full on smiling. "Funny as shit. And this dead guy, the thing with the bread, that was pretty badass."

Mustafa shrugged. "Told you I was a gangsta."

They got quiet.

Mustafa said, "I don't know what to do next. I'm sorry."

"I don't either."

They stood around the dead guard, already gathering flies. The smell-the shit in the guard's pants, the hot blood, the spicy sweat-made them cough.

Mustafa cleared his throat. "Let's go out there and figure it out."

He turned and walked out of the tent. Bleeker and Dawit followed, just in time to hear a huge cheer go up from soldiers all over the place.