The Last Good Man

The Vicissitudes of War

Another night:

Sitting in darkness, Miles feels the concrete wall at his back tremble as fighter jets thunder overhead.

Dano mutters profanities in Portuguese.

Noël starts praying. Maybe his prayers work, because no bombs fall.

Twenty-two days ago they were locked up in an empty office in an abandoned cigarette factory when precision-guided bombs took out two adjacent buildings. But for some unfathomable reason to do with the vicissitudes of war, their location wasn’t on the target list. Following the concussion of the bombs and the avalanche roar of collapsing buildings, there came screams and shouts and wails of grief, rage, and pain that went on and on in a slowly diminishing chorus until evening. Darkness brought silence. Only then did Hussam feel safe enough to move his entourage to a new hiding place.

Tonight maybe, the jets came only as a show of force… as if anyone on the ground still needed convincing of the deadly threat of aerial bombardment.

The retreat of the roaring engines reveals another, more ominous, sound: voices from beyond the door. They are male and oddly gentle, discussing soccer scores. Miles tenses as a key slides into the lock. The deadbolt retracts with a grinding click. The steel door opens, admitting a clean white electric light.

A fellow named Abu Khamani looks in. He’s a skinny guy who has worn the same stained brown cargo cammies and loose muslin shirt every fucking day since Miles was placed under his custody. Abu Khamani smiles his usual friendly smile. “Aloha!” he exclaims. It’s his standard greeting.

“Aloha, asshole,” Miles mutters.

Noël whispers, “Salaam,” and Dano replies with, “Ciao.”

It doesn’t matter what they say; Abu Khamani just insists that every man say something. Ryan sits up, inching backward on his ass to put himself a little farther from the door.

“Fuckin’ lovely evening,” he says, eyeing the whip in Abu Khamani’s right hand.

A second man, a stone-faced guard, stands behind Abu Khamani, holding an automatic rifle. The muzzle is trained on the floor, but it would take him only a heartbeat to raise his weapon and gun down everyone in the cell. Abu Khamani pays no attention to him, gesturing instead to the boy beside him who is carrying an allotment of MREs. The boy—he is maybe eight years old and Miles suspects he’s one of Hussam’s many children—drops the packaged meals on the floor. There are only three.

The four prisoners trade uneasy looks. Abu Khamani laughs. “You! Poulin!” He points at the missionary. “You lucky this night. You get to go home.”

Noël shrinks deeper into his corner.

“Home,” Abu Khamani repeats as if Noël is an idiot. “Your ransom is paid.” He grabs Noël’s arm, hauls him to his feet. Terror is inscribed on Noël’s pale face. Miles understands that fear; he shares it. Once before, Abu Khamani promised a hostage that he could go home, but that man was executed, sent home to God.

Noël weeps as Abu Khamani drags him from the room. The door closes. Darkness returns.

There is a rustling noise as Ryan gropes for the MREs. He tosses one to Dano, one to Miles.

“Don’t eat yet,” he advises them. “You don’t want to risk puking it all up when the screaming starts.”