The Survivor

CHAPTER 44

It was good to be out of the city.

The air blowing through the missing door was still hot despite the sunset fifteen minutes before. Dust rising from the road swirled inside the cab, attacking Fahran Hotaki’s eyes and working its way into his mouth, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, he found it strangely nostalgic. A reminder of his life before the war. Of days spent tending livestock and raising children.

He had no photos of his village or his family. Cameras, as well as phones and computers, had been of little use to him then. They’d become part of his life only after he’d joined the fighting.

Living a life cut off from the outside world was appealing in so many ways. The unchanging rhythm of it, the intimate familiarity with everything that made up his universe. He’d known nothing of economic swings, the Internet, or nuclear weapons. Nothing of tensions between nations, pandemics, or environmental disasters. There had been only him, his people, and the vast, empty land around them.

It was a level of simplicity that should have been easy to preserve — one that would make his country of little interest to outside forces. For some reason, though, Afghanistan could never just retreat into its primitive, insular culture.

Would-be conquerors had come in seemingly endless waves since the dawn of history. In his lifetime, Afghanistan had endured the Russians, the Taliban, countless foreign terrorist groups, and now the Americans.

Why would Allah not let this rocky corner of the planet exist in peace? Why must there be constant tests of His people’s faith? How many horrors would God force them to suffer before He was convinced of their devotion?

“Allahu akbar,” Hotaki said over the whistle of the wind. His growing habit of questioning the god he would be meeting later that night was the height of arrogance. Still, he hoped there would be some kind of explanation. He wanted so badly to understand.

The stars were beginning to ignite and he glanced down at the truck’s gas gauge while there was still sufficient light. Less than a quarter of a tank. He could extend the pickup’s range by emptying the bodies from the bed, but it was unnecessary. There would be no return trip.

Hotaki came over a small rise and saw the encampment he was looking for. There were a few modern lights but most of the illumination was emanating from a bonfire in the central square. Behind were the mountains, black silhouettes that seemed to swallow the universe he’d only recently learned about.

Hotaki rolled to a stop and examined the scene below. The village was simple — a rough circle crisscrossed with dirt roads and low stone houses. It was inhabited by a particularly brutal group of Taliban looking to reassert control. In his mind, it made them worse than the others. Outsiders owed Afghanistan nothing. If they had the power to conquer it, they had the right. These men, though, were murderers. Killers of their own people.

He pressed the accelerator and started down the back of the rise, suddenly free of the deep sadness that had plagued him since the death of his family. By the time he reached the curving wall surrounding the village, all that was left in him was hate.

“Stop!”

A man with an AK-47 appeared from the shadows and approached the truck. Hotaki had the headlights off in order to obscure the corpses he was hauling, but it was unlikely that the precaution was necessary. The guard wouldn’t acknowledge even the possibility of danger. Like the men Hotaki had already killed that day, this one was confident in his righteousness and invincibility.

The young man didn’t even have his finger on the trigger of the weapon when he leaned toward the open window. “Who are you?”

Hotaki answered by shoving a broken bottle he’d found on the floorboard into the man’s neck. Surprise more than fear or pain froze him long enough for Hotaki to pull him partially through the window and hold his head as he bled. The dying man began to struggle, but he couldn’t free the gun pinned between his chest and the door. Instead, he swung his fists uselessly, slamming them repeatedly into the cab’s rusting metal as the life drained from him.

When he finally went still, Hotaki released his body and pushed the truck’s accelerator to the floor. The back wheels struggled for traction before catching and propelling him through the narrow opening in the wall.

The village’s men were right where he expected them to be, huddled around the central fire. They turned when they heard the approaching vehicle, but their eyes were adjusted to the glow of the flames and couldn’t penetrate the darkness beyond. None realized what was happening until it was too late. He plowed into them, pulling some beneath his wheels and knocking others into the fire. The ones who managed to avoid being hit scattered.

Smoke filled the cab as the oil-soaked chassis ignited. Hotaki leapt out, using an American-built AAC Honey Badger to spray the men trying to scurry away. It took only a moment for the pickup to be engulfed and his advantage was lessened by the blinding glare.

A round hit his flak jacket from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. He spun, holding the trigger of his weapon down and sweeping from left to right. The scent of charred human flesh filled his nostrils as he charged forward, dodging the burning logs his arrival had strewn about. More rounds struck his vest, their force trying to drive him back. His thigh was hit but the bullet missed the bone, weakening but not destabilizing his leg. A sudden burning in his neck and the subsequent taste of blood in his mouth heralded the death blow he’d known was coming, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Not yet.

He suddenly found himself amid the men. The flash from their gun barrels and the roar of automatic fire were all around him. He realized that his weapon was empty and dropped it, pulling the .44 Magnum from his waistband. He knew he was being repeatedly hit but could no longer feel anything.

Hotaki was vaguely aware that he had dropped to his knees and that his gun was again empty, but still he didn’t stop. His finger continued to pull the trigger, tracking on the shifting shadows created by the firelight. Finally, the darkness descended.

God is great.