Chapter 4

The next two days pass and Christopher finds that he is in the odd position of being bored. He has walked around the market so many times that some of the vendors know him by name; truly there is only so much to see in a village this size and only so many television programs he can watch before it all blends together into useless chaos. It has been months since he has been faced with absolutely nothing to do and he is practically vibrating with unused energy. He tries calling Valentine again but there is still no answer and he does not want to take too much advantage of Sam's politeness. Checking his watch, he sees that he only has another four hours before his ride is supposed to pick him up; he makes a snap decision to walk back. It may not be the smartest idea he has ever had, but he feels like he can protect himself and it is only a little over a two hour walk if he takes it easy to account for the heat; if his ride appears on the road between here and there, then he will hop in and it will be no big deal.

Christopher packs his kit so that the weight inside it is evenly distributed, then hoists the whole thing up and slings it over his back. He returns the keycard to the woman at the desk, today dressed in bright yellow. She offers a shy smile and thanks him softly. Christopher signs the guest book and moves out into the day, stopping to check that his boot laces are tight enough to not need any attention for a while. He walks around the market once more to say goodbye to a few of the vendors; several wave him over and press small sweets or trinkets into his hands, others ignore him in much the same way they have the entire time he has been in town.

The locals are friendly enough, Christopher considers, that it is hard to believe the reason he is even in this place is due to a large band of rebels attempting to overthrow the more-peaceful-now-than-twenty-years-ago government that was spearheaded by the EU, Canada and the Americans. That brings his thoughts back to the odd reasons that the European Union put up about not getting involved in this fight.

However, Christopher does not feel like it is his place to question because it makes him consider where his loyalties really lie. He is for England, without a doubt, through and through, but spending so much time getting to know his comrades from other places shrinks his world considerably.

The road ahead is reasonably flat except for several small dips that appear to be repaired wash-outs. He studies the cracked and patched reddish brown asphalt then kicks it with the toe of his boot. It is sturdy enough and really no matter of his. On either side of the road the desert opens up as far as the eye can see. The landscape is tinted in browns, pinks, and yellows and Christopher finds it beautiful for as deadly as it is. He studies it so that when he gets home he will be able to describe it to Valentine just how he sees it now: a seemingly lifeless expanse of sand and rocks that really fools the eye. At night the desert truly comes alive: many types of burrowing animals that sleep through the day use the cover of darkness to hunt for their food.

People do, too. He realizes, the thought bringing him full circle to where he began. He stops right in the middle of the road and looks back towards the village, remembering what he told himself about the locals being friendly…every night he has been in the village, he spent it holed up in his room at the motel, so he really has no true idea of what the 'night life' is like for the villagers. Christopher feels like he has failed them somehow, which is ridiculous. In some ways, he is doing something for them by just being present; no, everyone in the camp is doing something, it is a group effort to keep them protected; to keep them safe. That is the reason Christopher signed up to fight; he truly believes that through his own actions and the actions of his comrades-at-arms they can make a tiny corner of the world a better place.

Christopher smiles wryly at himself; he's got to remember to tell Valentine about this little epiphany. The day grows longer and hotter and Christopher continues to walk. After a while, his mind is blank and quiet, the constant tumult of his thoughts begin to settle as his body adjusts to the exertion. He pulls a bottle of water from his pack and drinks it slowly just to keep his hands busy.

When he smells smoke he is about a half an hour away from the campsite. At first he thinks that maybe Jason the cook has burned some big thing like a roast or some such; he lengthens his strides and picks up the pace anyway. He is starting to get that itch in the back of his mind that something isn't right. He begins to see the tops of a few of the outermost tents and the smoke is thicker here, black and roiling against the brightness of the azure sky.

Christopher is running before he realizes his own reaction and grabbing for a weapon that he does not have on his person. He throws the half-empty water bottle away and takes a lungful of air then lets it out through his nose as he pours on the speed. His boots slap the sandy ground as he cuts across a sandy rise that is several meters from the camp.

The sight before him pulls him up short. Everything is ablaze. Bright orange flames lick at each tent, ebony smoke is a crude 'x' that marks every single…oh god.

Bodies. Pompeian negatives of people who asphyxiated buried in feet of ash like snow it was so fine like the hand of some god caressing the downy cheeks of its children…

These are the people Christopher has bunked with, broken bread with, protected and in turn, they protected him. He stands there on the rise, heedless of the danger, his mind only on the scene before him. It is daylight. These things are not supposed to happen in the daylight, hell, the light of day is supposed to be safe, dammit!

Without thinking, without stopping to check to see if the perpetrators are still in the vicinity, Christopher races down the sandy bank almost losing his footing once or twice but no matter…he needs to check on Mugsy. Christopher is running now with his head bowed, watching where his feet are going but it all means nothing because he recognizes all of these people and it is overwhelming and Mugsy's tent is just fucking gone and there's a hole, a big, gaping hole right here and. He can't breathe.

…There is pain. Voices babbling in a tongue Christopher has never bothered to learn because he was only going to be here for a year…and he's failed again because the pain in his back stops him in his tracks where he is reaching out to steady himself on what is now no more than a pile of charcoal…bomb. It must have been a bomb.

The earth tilts on its axis when he thinks I have been shot …and it keeps tilting and those voices are all around him now…shouting, someone is angry…why would someone be angry? He is still safe in the motel room in the air conditioning with the telly on some inane program and he is being selfish taking this time when his brothers and his sisters are fighting the good fight and he has let them down…he has let them all down. Where's Mugsy? Mugsy could solve this problem, he solves them all. He is a good man and oh god, what will Valentine say when she hears of this? How can he contrast this to the timeless beauty that he passed through a few short hours before?

"Valentine!" Christopher screams as his hands claw at nothing and then something explodes in his mind or outside he doesn't know because falling face-first onto warm sand is exactly like falling into a soft bed into the arms of a lover.