A man shot to his feet. He reached for a weapon that leaned against the wall at his side.
My finger tapped the trigger twice.
His hand released the rifle. His body remained erect, refusing to comply with the mind’s recognition that his heart had stopped beating. His eyes the only part of him that seemed to recognize the truth of what had happened. Open and confused, they stared back at me.
A second man swung the barrel of a Kalashnikov in my direction.
My finger tapped the trigger twice.
He stumbled.
I tapped the trigger once again.
He slumped into the corner of the room. The weapon clanked against the floor, bounced, and came to rest at his side.
A woman screamed. She rushed to the fallen man’s side. Her hands were obstructed by her hijab, the traditional Muslim dress.
“Raweenee edeek!” I shouted. “Show me your fucking hands! Raweenee edeek!”
Her empty hands emerged from beneath her dress. Relief washed over me. Then, she reached for the weapon.
“Asqat alsilah!” I shouted, standing no more than fifteen feet from her. “Drop the fucking weapon!”
She chose not to heed my command.
Two successive rounds from the M4 flattened the fabric of the hijab to her chest. Her body tumbled, landing mere inches from the man whose death she hoped to avenge. Face up, she remained motionless.
The dusty gray fabric draped her body from her shoulders to her toes. Frozen in place for what seemed like a lifetime, I watched as a river of blood darkened the hijab from her swollen breasts to the pronounced bump of what could only be that of a pregnant woman.
I shook my head from side to side, hoping to clear it of the memories I’d spent years trying to forget. Portrayed in lucid dreams, the events of my time in combat were returning, one after the other.
Jolted from my sleep, I stared at the ceiling for some time. Confused as to where I was and what was going on, I tried to clear my head. After a moment, everything came to me. I was inflicted with a contagious disease and was quarantined to my bedroom.
I glanced around the room. Bottles of Gatorade were placed neatly on my nightstand. I rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for one of them. I struggled with the lid for some time. Upon twisting it free, I realized how debilitating the disease could be.
Unable to sit up and too weak to raise my head, I poured the sweet red liquid all over my face just to get a drink.
I was living wedged between two hells. One of my own making, and one created by a disease that had no cure.
Uncertain of which was worse, I closed my eyes and prayed for it to end.
I then wondered in what manner my prayers may be answered.
Anna
Day eight
“Where’s the fucking Corpsman?” Braxton shouted. “He’s going to bleed out. I need a Corpsman and a fucking medevac.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. His voice was much different than normal. Deeper. More authoritative.
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the screaming began again. “God damn it, Wilson!” he bellowed. “I need that fucking Corpsman! I’ve got three wounded! Two critical!”
A few seconds of silence followed. I drew a deep breath, hoping that his nightmare would end.
“Wentz!” he barked. “Grab that M40 and get on that fucking sniper.”
“Hold on, Pratt,” he said in a much calmer voice. “That bird’s on the way. Hear it? It’s coming, Brother. Just hold on.”
“Where’s that fucking Medic!” he wailed, sounding as if he were in tears. “I need that medic, goddamn it!”
He’d been screaming on and off for eight hours. Some of it made sense. A good part of it was in lingo I couldn’t decipher. I paced the floor and prayed that he’d fall back into a deep sleep. I felt miserable that there was nothing I could do.
After a few moments, he began moaning. I had no idea if he was in terrible pain, or if the moans were nothing more than his reaction to less vivid dreams. It continued for an hour.
The room fell silent.
His rhythmic breathing followed, leading me to believe that he’d finally fallen into a sound sleep.
Exhausted, I took a seat at the end of the couch.
I had no idea why our lives had collided, but I was grateful that they had. Despite the disease, his condition, or how he’d treated me before we made peace with one another, I enjoyed Braxton’s company.
His charisma lured the unsuspecting toward him. From my interpretations of his dreams, he must have been a figure of authority in the Marines. I imagined the men who were following him into battle did so without hesitation, question, or remorse.
There was no doubt in my mind that men died in his command. I told myself that had anyone else been in charge, the loss of life would have been much worse.
No matter where we ended up when everything was over, I’d cherish the time I spent with him. Furthermore, I’d never forget listening to him day in and day out while he was sick.
I nestled into the corner of the couch and peeked through the window. Much to my surprise, it was dark outside.
The last I knew, it was 5:00 pm.
I told myself to get up and eat. I needed a little rest first. A small one. Just to close my eyes for a few minutes. I was asleep the instant my eyelids fell closed.
I was awakened by Braxton’s moaning.
I sat up in my seat. The sun was rising over the top of the home across the street. I glanced around the room, uncertain of how much time had passed. I realized it had been hours since I’d heard anything from Braxton. I thanked God that he, too, had a few hours of sound sleep.
“I need a drink,” he moaned. “Pratt, give me…your water…buffalo. Mine’s empty.”
He made smacking noises with his lips, moaned a little more, and then went silent.
It dawned on me that he might not have anything to drink. I assumed he did, but it was highly likely he didn’t.
The only way for me to know would be to go inside his home.
If I did, I’d expose myself to the virus. I could possibly become infected, fall ill, and die. As ridiculous as it seemed to admit, I didn’t care. Doctors and nurses came in contact with infected patients all day, every day. They’d been doing it for months.
If they could do it, I could do it.
All I needed was the courage. I prayed for God to provide me with an answer. A nudge. Anything.
“Pratt. That water…I’m dying, Brother.”
Just like that, my prayers were answered.
Anna
Day nine
Seeming annoyed, the pharmacist sauntered to the counter. He rubbed his bald head as if annoyed. The day was only beginning. He had no reason to have an attitude. At least not yet.
I grinned. “Hi.”
He put his hands on his hips and looked me up and down. “Are you the consult?”
He was 40-ish, tall, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He was also outwardly angry that I had taken a moment of his precious time.
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “How can I help you?”
“Well—”
He glanced at his watch.
I cocked my hip. “First, you could start by losing the attitude. Your time is not more precious than mine. Not one bit. This thing that’s going on isn’t easy for any of us, believe me. If I didn’t have a problem that needed to be solved, I wouldn’t have asked for you.”