Tintin
The Imperial Graveyard
—
A sudden gust of wind sent a cloud of dust rampaging down the narrow crowded walkpath. Dust, flecks of paper, and a hundred clinking spent brass casings from the most recent battle.
That was… had it been a week ago already, when allied forces had retaken the city? Or was it a month? Did it matter? Battles and wars melded seamlessly into one another these days, as constant and shapeless as the dust itself.
They all knew it. They all knew that theirs was a time of war. That was why every single one of them, every woman in a veiled cloak, every man with oiled hair and a Western suit, every child old enough to walk on his own two feet, was armed. Some carried pistols openly, some wore rifles across their backs, some opted for heavier arms still and some told themselves if a situation became that desperate, they'd save a bullet for themselves. Better to be captured than killed by any one of the factions operating there.
Half of the folk couldn't tell them apart. That one with the tricolor banner, they claimed to favor women's rights but had stoned an adulteress to death the today before, leaving her lover unharmed. That one whose banner was emblazoned with a stylized hammer and sickle, they claimed to be for the common man but were backed by the oil nations to the southeast. And that one with the red and black flag, whose members saluted each other with a straight arm, they didn't care for anyone who wasn't a Sunni Arab.
A fist in the face of history. A fist in the face of their city. Jews had lived there, and Romans, and Mesopotamians, Assyrians, Turkomens, all different people from all different walks of life, since time immemorial. They had come and gone with the passing of the eons, leaving behind culinary, architectural, genetic legacies. One could see it in the faces of the natives. That boy, maybe he had an ancestor from the far East. That little girl had red hair, perhaps she was descended from the Varangians. That little dog was pure snow white… maybe he was a newcomer to the city.
He made his way down the packed corridor, black nose twitch, seeking something out, searching someone out. A big-bellied man bellowed about his shawarma and falafel, the best in the city since "someone" had gunned down his rival; the odor of cooking spiced meat distracted him briefly. He then remembered his mission and turned down an alley seemingly reserved for spice vendors.
This one specialized in cinnamon for coffee. That one had connections with the west and could get you ingredients most had never heard of before. The owner of this one had a toothy grin, a real gold Rolex watch, and a friendly hand for the little white dog. It was just a dog. Not a man in camouflage with an M16 and one of those silly blue helmets they thought kept them safe.
The dog made himself at home at the proprietor's feet. Kept his head up and his ears perked, not like the lazy, weary mutts that were native to the city. Not that there were many of them left. In months past, when bombs fell without pause for weeks on end, there were no pets. Just food.
Perhaps he'd keep this pooch around. Who knew when the bombs might begin to fall again, after all. And he had no delusions that his newfound friends would keep him safe. They weren't friends. Just business partners, if that. He gave them space and cover and didn't ask too many questions and they gave him money and a chance to sample some of their wares before they hit the market. And he kept his day job, selling spices.
"Salaam, my friend." A man entered the shop, a slight man dressed in a baggy tunic and aviator sunglasses. A funny tuft of red hair pooked out from under his kiffiyeh.
"Salaam," the owner replied. "What are you look for today?"
"Nothing in particular," came the response. "Just… cardamom." He paused. "Sesame." Another pause." Carraway."
A knowing smile crept onto the owner's face. He beckoned the man to the back of the shop and knocked on a hollow-sounding section of wall thrice. A moment later he returned to the storefront itself, alone. The little white doggy had gone, too.
—
The dim orange lights washed out any semblance of color in the narrow dark hallway. Most shape, too. He just barely noticed the iconic banana magazine of a Kalashnikov rifle before a man dressed in black stepped out in front of him.
A stylized Shahadah on a white background was emblazoned on his mask, over his forehead. His alliance was clear.
A few barked words in Arabic. Get your head back in the game.
"Salaam, salaam, habibi." Peace, peace, my friend. "I'm a customer," he said, raising his hands to show that he was unarmed. "Cardamom, sesame, carraway."
The man's face twitched horribly under his mask.
My God—he had spoken in English. His mind raced, thought of excuses, but the masked man just grinned. Laughed.
"Another Westerner, way out here. Welcome to the Caliph, brother." After patting him down for weapons, he extended a hand, and, still bewildered, the redhead took it and shook.
"My parents moved to Europe before I was born. It's funny… they went through all that trouble, only for me to leave when I came of age. It's worth it, of course," he said. He began to lead the redhead further down the corridor, toward a dull dim orange light.
"I'd give my life for the memory of the Prophet. I'd take a dozen lives to create a nation where, in the future, our people can live in peace. No matter if our ancestors are from Afghanistan, or Syria, Iraq, or…" he glanced at the redhead's hair, at his peculiarly sharp features, "Chechnya?"
"Chechenistan," the redhead corrected. "That's its proper name."
A respectful smile and nod. The masked man then stood aside and bade the redhead to enter a warm room, adorned with fine plush velvet, gold threaded tapestries, and a dozen young, skinny, sniveling chained bodies that cringed whenever he looked toward them.
"The best slaves in the Caliph," the masked man reported proudly. "As you can see, we've only a few of the blond infidels left. But, Inshallah, we'll have some more in stock after the offensive next week."
"So, it's still planned for next week?" the redhead said. He knelt next to the wares and adjusted his kiffeyeh. Reached out to one of them with a hand. The smallest among them, a child no older than five, began to cry.
Another man stepped out of the shadows and silenced her with a kick. Snarled accented Arabic and gestured at his Kalashnikov. Know your place. This is your future master. Treat him well or he'll cut off your hand and eat it for breakfast.
The redhead said nothing and continued to survey the slaves. He circled them once, then twice, slowly, as if trying to memorize everything about them. Everything about the room itself. The several crates piled up on either side of the slaves, the plush curtains and pillows, the metal pulldown door that separated them from the outside world. He held one arm almost straight, as if it was in pain. Was he injured?
The masked man who had escorted him back was about to ask when his partner shouted. Pulled back the redhead's sleeve and exposed a metal and plastic block with a blinking LED. He raised his Kalashnikov—
And shrieked when a ball of white darted from the shadows and clamped its jaws shut on his forearm. Shake it off—kick it—no—drop and curl and try to shove it back. Not working. The dog was determined and trained and clamped on his arm tighter than a vice.
The redhead and the other masked man were on the floor, a flurry of fists and feet. The man in the mask drew a knife and slashed wildly, throwing the redhead off with a shriek of pain.
There he lay on the floor among the screaming slaves. A wounded pup among whimpering dogs. He advanced on him with his blade raised—
When a fine cloth strap fell off his shoulder. His sling. His rifle.
He never heard the gunshots. Never saw them either. Just felt the impacts and the warm wet red in his chest, his hands. He dropped to his knees with a dismal soft sigh and died with his eyes open.
The redhead's hands were tight on his weapon. A yelp—he turned and watched the little white dog go flying across the room. The other masked man stood—saw the Kalashnikov—dived behind a series of crates. Just in time to avoid a volley of gunfire.
The slaves were screaming, wrestling at their shackles. A few hasty words of Arabic—hold still, I'm your friend—and a boy held up the catch that restrained them all. The redhead broke through it with a gunshot.
To the door. To the door. There's a code on the opener. Shoot it and get the slaves to lift it and fire another volley at the man in the back of the shop, shrieking and swearing. Keep him at bay. Keep him afraid.
The door lifted a crack. Slipped and fell, crushing a minuscule finger. They lifted again and the redhead slipped underneath, holding it in place with his own shoulder.
Now get out. All of you, and make sure you bring the little white dog.
The weight of the door crushed him down but he held strong. Gave him time to hold his rifle to his hip and fire a few more suppressing shots at the masked man as the final few slaves raced into the sunlight, into freedom. One of them had the little white dog tucked under an arm. Now it was his time to go.
A masked face appeared in the darkness. He drew a bead on it, finger tight on the trigger—no. The other man had gone down with red holes in his chest because he had advanced with a blade. Now he was blue-lipped on the ground, eyes still open. Couldn't—wouldn't do that again.
"I swear to God," the masked man snarled, "I swear on the name of the Prophet that I will hunt you down. Where you go, I will catch you. If you go up I will pull you down by your feet; if you hide below, I will pull you up by that stupid tuft of hair. Do you understand?!"
Malicious crazy laughter followed. He must have realized that he was exposed, because he vanished back into the shadows. A second later, the redhead fired off a shot that cracked through the air where he had been. He then rolled out of the doorway and into the sandswept streets, rifle still in his arms.
Panting. Hyperventilating. Sweating. The man's laughter still rang in his ears, at least until the little white dog came with a friendly bark to ensure that his master was okay.
"I'm alright. I'm not hurt," the redhead said to the dog. Turned back to the door and noticed that, at some point, his kiffiyeh had fallen away. This exposed waist-length hair and fine chiseled features.
"You'll never catch me," she said. "You don't even know who I am!"
Rifle still in her hand, she and the little white dog and the slaves they'd freed ran together, leaving the masked man to laugh alone in his little dark corner of the world until he went mad.