Though the miles lay long behind you,
you have still got miles to go.
How's love ever gonna find you?
If it ain't here, it's down the road.
July 13 1995 Potocari, Srebrenica Safe Zone
Forest allowed his heartbeat to accelerate. The scope's reticule bobbed like an EKG. Five hundred yards away, the kid kept swinging his oversized head from the Serbs to the empty street behind him. His knees shook; his fingers were splayed.
"Don't run, kid." Diaz's voice was a rough whisper.
"It don't matter, they'll shoot him even if he don't play along."
"I can't watch." Diaz turned the rangefinder to the peacekeepers' compound. His face was green even where there was no facepaint. "This, fucking county…"
Forest sucked air through his teeth as the kid spun and scrambled off.
Both Serbs shouldered their rifles.
He steadied his aim, mouthed two bangs, and then added, "As you bastards sow, so shall you reap." It was his Granddad's favourite curse, but Forest was unsure whether he had directed it to the Serbs, or himself.
The soldiers' gunshots echoed back to their position.
July 13 1998 Raccoon City
Forest jerked awake with the sound of Serb rifles ringing through the night. He caught his breath and turned over before he could wake his bunkmate. Keeping his breathing even he searched the suffocating dark for familiarity, and after a moment found it hanging like a silver dollar on a black velvet screen.
Transfixed by the unnatural silver light, his hands had just the slightest tremor. He recalled how railroad tracks would shake even when a freight train was miles away.
With effort, he willed his hands steady and continued staring at the full moon. Some folks claimed to see a face in the moon. Forest hadn't been one of them until his return from Bosnia, though the face he saw was never that of a live person, but always the blue-white and black-eyed mask of death.
Srebrenica. He still couldn't pronounce the name but had no difficulty recalling the place.
-This is your burden, for you have reaped what you have sown-
The bed was soft and excessively warm, the room too dark for his comfort. With slow care, he peeled at the blankets and allowed his bare skin to cool in the early morning breeze. The bright moonlight gave his body a strange ghostly paleness, the colour of Bosniak corpses.
He shivered.
-Three years to the day, and is it any easier?-
He closed his eyes. Yes, the days were easier, most nights. July the same as ever. The rage, the feelings of impotence and frustration, they stewed with the same intensity he had felt one thousand ninety-one days earlier.
It was that sense of feebleness which drove him from that apartment filled with dusty reminders of unfulfilled expectations and into Officer Lindstrom's farmhand's arms. Her vitality and soft warmth was assurance that he was still a man, injured but strong, powerful.
But now, hours later, she was an uncomfortable source of heat occupying an overly soft bed, and Forest was once again the nonprotector who lay prostrate before the moon's empty face.
The sheets rustled, and the bed shifted. Forest turned and saw twin full moons reflected in Irene's widespaced eyes.
"I wake you?" he asked.
"Not really." Her hair fell in front of one eye.
"Can't sleep?"
She shook her head.
"Poor Reen." Forest brushed the stray hair into place and ran a hand though her thick mane. She murmured an inarticulate appreciation and closed her eyes. Her Scandinavian skin was the colour of winter frost in the moonlight, flawless except for the crease on one cheek.
He traced a finger along the scar.
"Don't." She swatted his hand away.
"Why not?"
She frowned. "It's ugly,"
"No it ain't." His hand settled on the generous swell of her hip. "It's interesting."
"I don't want to be interesting."
"A soldier'd be proud of a mark like that."
"Yeah, and I'm not a soldier." He could feel her tensing. "I hate it."
"Well, I like it." He ran his knuckles along the skin of her thigh. Her muscles relaxed.
He leaned forward. The scar was old, stretched wide and puckered. She must have been young when it happened. "How'd you get it?"
Irene turned to wood. Both eyes popped open and narrowed at him.
"Car accident." The words came out clipped and close together. She sat up and scowled, lips drawn to a thin black line. "Hey, why do you sleep with the lights on? Why don't you drink coffee?"
Her slivered eyes flashed moonlight. "Why'd you leave the Army and move to Raccoon City?"
He didn't answer.
"Well?" She crossed her arms over her chest; it rose and fell with every breath. Her cheeks were reddening, fire under frost. "You feel like talking? 'Cause, boy am I ever curious."
Forest blinked, startled. They had gone from sleeping to arguing in less than five minutes. Riled her up plenty. Had their positions been reversed, he would have been riled too.
"Allright, I follow. Ain't none of my business. I'm sorry."
"No, it isn't your fucking business." She scowled at him for a good minute. The full moons in her eyes shimmered like the night surface of a calm lake, but at last her breathing slowed. She sighed and touched the scar, regarded her fingertips as if they might have come back bloody.
"Sorry. It's not something I like to talk about, is all."
"And that's fine." He paused. "I just don't wanna see you…"
"See me what?"
What exactly did he want to say? That he had seen the bottle of Atavan on her washstand? Army shrinks gave shellshocked vets that stuff.
"I just…you've been different lately, been troubled about something. I don't like seeing you acting like…"
"Like?" Her mouth was still pressed into that hard line.
He glanced at his hands. They weren't shaking, but he could feel the slightest vibration under the skin. "Like me."
Irene chucked. "What's wrong with how you act?"
"Shoot, Reen. You know what's wrong with me. I don't sleep worth a damn, can't drink coffee, ain't fond of the dark. That ain't normal. I know it, and it tears me up to think you might be headin' down the same road as me."
-You soft sonavabitch. Crying your guts out like some snot-nosed kid with skinned knees-
He rolled over and stared at the dead moon.
"Aw, don't mind me. I ain't thinking straight right now."
The sheets rustled behind him. Irene's belly pressed against the small of his back: heat, tender skin. She shifted onto one elbow. Her hair pooled under his jaw.
"Is it something you feel like talking about?"
"I don't think talking is gonna change anything that's happened."
Her hair stirred his goosebumps as she nodded.
He closed his eyes, was greeted with the wild terror of that Bosniak kid. Eyes back open, the moon leered at him, dead eyes grouted with mud, white skin.
-Fuck, enough-
A tremor raced through his body; his hands shook.
-You shall reap what you have sown-
He grunted and rolled over. Irene was still staring at him, but those widespaced eyes held neither compassion nor accusation. They had an inquisitive calm and nothing else.
What would he gain by telling her his troubles? She had her own hurt, and any man was expected to carry his own load, no matter the burden.
-But she doesn't want to carry it for you. She just wants to know how heavy it is-
For three years, he kept Srebrenica to himself. The only witness to his complicity in the mass murder died in a training accident just over a year later. He would gain nothing but contempt if he told Officer Lindstrom his story.
Thing was, Officer Lindstrom didn't seem like the contemptuous type.
-Might do good to talk. She's likely seen her share of hardship. She'll understand. You're already a disgrace to the menfolk in your family. What's one more step?-
He closed his eyes. "Allright, fine."
"Hmm?" She craned her neck.
"You asked if I wanted to talk. I'll talk."
"Only if you want to."
"Well, keepin' quiet hadn't done me much good."
"Okay,"
He drummed his fingers on the mattress. It was peculiar that though he had relived the thirteenth of July, nineteen ninety-five time and time again, it was next to impossible to put into words.
"You ever hear of the Srebrenica Massacre?"
Her eyes muddied with confusion for a moment before returning to their sharp interest. "It sounds familiar. Refresh my memory."
"It was during the Yugoslav civil war. Srebrenica was a safe zone in Bosnia set up for refugees. Farmers, kids and widows mostly, all of them hungry and sick. It was guarded by Dutch peacekeepers. The Serbs kept saying that the Bosnian Army was using it as a base to launch raids. They were getting right irritable until NATO took to chasin' them off with fighter bombers. Us Special Forces were the ones guiding the bombs home. Me and another guy were liaisoned to the Dutch peacekeepers."
Irene sat up, crossed her legs and drew the comforter across her chest. She gestured for him to continue.
"Except one day, the VRS…sorry, the Serb Army, comes knocking on the door. They rolled right on in, chased the peacekeepers back into their compound. By nightfall the town was full of Serbs. No UN anywhere."
With a rustling lighter than the wind itself, Sergeant Diaz snuck up to his hide.
"Anything good?" White teeth flashed behind Diaz's improvised ghillie suit. He looked like a bush come alive. Diaz was a bush with teeth; Forest was a bush with a rifle.
"Negative," Forest mouthed a 'bang' as his target rounded a corner. "They're mindin' their business."
"Yeah, murder," Diaz picked up their GVS-5 rangefinder and began scanning the ruined town.
Forest grunted an agreement, and then found a target at three hundred yards: a paramilitary with dayglo-pink sunglasses and a Yugoslav AK slung over his shoulder. "What's word from the big eye?" He asked.
"NATO's grounded all air support out of Aviano. Serbs said they'd grease those flyboy hostages if we brought anymore fire." Diaz switched the rangefinder to the Dutch HQ. "These poor cocksuckers are on their own."
"We were ordered to stand down. Just watched on as the people we were supposed to defend were sorted out, women on one side, men on another, and shipped off."
He took a breath.
"Most of the women were sent north. All the males…boys, cripples, didn't matter, they were all trucked into Serbia and killed. Big graves, hundreds of bodies…"
He stared at his hands, could see veins and tendons standing out like rows of corn.
"Some they killed on the spot."
The kid was all eyes. His big head kept pivoting from the soldiers to the street. The Serbs elbowed each other and chuckled like pair of locker-room idiots. They gestured at the kid with their guns.
"They want him to run." Diaz said. "No doubt they'll call him an enemy combatant. This is so fucked."
The reticule stopped its hopscotch and settled between the taller VRS' shoulder blades. Forest spat a brown stream of tobacco and curled his finger around the trigger.
"Two stationary targets, five yards apart, moderate range, windspeed negligible, fish in a barrel. I'm making a shot. Stand by."
Diaz didn't respond, but Forest could hear him shake his head. The ferns tucked into Diaz's helmet whispered his inevitable reply. And in that moment he hated First Sergeant Diaz with a fierceness he had never felt before.
"Negative. You know we're bound by the UNPROFOR rules of engagement. We can't do shit unless-"
"Motherfuck, I know." Forest held the gun too tightly; the crosshairs bobbed. "What goddamn good are we doin' here if we allow this shit to happen?"
"No choice."
"And we just stood there and watched. Eight thousand people dead, and I didn't fire a single round."
He recalled a conversation with his Granddad about the war, about how Granddad's unit passed through a liberated Nazi concentration camp.
"Not a single one of them Krauts tried to put a stop to it. And I'll tell you this, Will. Any man who could turn a blind eye to such wickedness is just as guilty as the bastard who did the killing."
"Now I understand evil just like anyone else: the kind of bad that'll make a fella steal, the kind like Clive Havel had in him. This was different. This was regular folk actin' evil all as one, settin' their good aside and behavin' like a pack of dogs. I seen a soldier with a cross round his neck bayonet a pregnant girl. I seen..." He shook his head. "After seeing that sort of evil, it changes a man's look on the world."
A full minute of silence passed before Irene dipped her head into a slow nod.
"So no more Army after that?" No indictment in the voice, understanding.
"Naw, didn't care much for the uniform since."
"Looking back, would you have done anything different?"
"T'ain't a day goes by that I don't ask myself that."
She straightened her hair. "Well, I can think of one good thing that came from it."
He arched his eyebrows. "Yeah, what's that?"
"It brought you here." She smiled. Her fingers whisked along the stubble on his cheek.
Forest returned her smile. "Shucks,"
"I'm serious. And besides, you're protecting people now. You tracked down that Havel guy. There's a good chance you'll be given the Arklay deaths file."
He glanced at her. "It's already our case."
Irene's eyes went wide. She leaned forward. "Huh?"
"You didn't hear yet?"
"No, what happened?"
"Irons is holding a press conference tomorrow letting everyone know that STARS are on the case. I guess all that pressure finally cracked him."
"Wow, that's great!" Her smile dropped. "Is Irons pissed?"
Forest chuckled. "Hoo! You ought to see him. Red face, walkin' all stiff like someone just fired a combat boot up his crapper." He cast a keen eye as he delivered the next sentence. "Whoever leaked that info to the press best say a few prayers, cause if Irons finds out who it was, they're gonna be in a world of trouble."
Forest felt his insides tug at her reaction. Irene's panicked dismay was so plainly written that there was no doubting her guilt.
The rumours were true. Officer Lindstrom was the leak.
-Aw, Hell, Reen. Why?-
Forest ran a hand through his hair and broke contact with her frightened eyes. He kept his heartbeat steady, controlled his breathing, an old sniper trick, and inched away from her. Some part of him wanted away, as if any minute an angry and vengeful God Of Police might strike her down. He wondered if she knew just how much trouble she had gotten herself into.
Why? The question still ate at him.
-She's been acting queer all month. Since those deaths started. Likely she feels responsible, sort of how you feel responsible for that Bosnian kid. Looking back you'd have pulled the trigger, Diaz be damned. Seems like Reen had the courage you didn't-
He would keep his mouth shut. If she knew that Internal Affairs was already gunning for her, it would only spook her into acting stranger. Besides, it sounded as if Irons was about to be rode out on a rail. If Irene laid low long enough, the heat may pass her over in favour of the bigger fish: Irons, the murders and the cover-up.
-Murders-
A big part of him still couldn't believe it was happening, had been happening for nearly a month. Sullivan had been right, cannibals in the Arklay Forest.
-She leaked that info to give STARS the case. Solve it fast. Get Irons' attention on the murders, and his job. She'll be fine-
"Forest?"
Eyes back on her. "Yeah?"
"When do you guys start on the case?"
"Most of us are out tomorrow morning looking for that missing old guy." He glanced at Irene's alarm clock. No doubt Marini was already at the station going over Silverman's notes. "We've already got most files. Coroner's office is gonna give us their autopsy reports and evidence tomorrow morning. Marini's been chompin' at the bit pretty hard. He knew one of the victims, the Connor father."
She straightened her hair. "Is he glad?"
"Who?"
"Marini,"
"That man ain't never been happy a day in his life, but he's pleased to have the job, finally."
She smiled, tired but damn pretty in the white light.
His Army career turned sour, the title of defender corrupted by the hesitation and indecision of weaker men. Irene had given him a chance to pick up, to defend, to avenge.
He reached over, ran a hand along her shoulder. She had another scar just above the collarbone.
"Thanks, Reen."
Her eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"
-Don't play coy. You know very well what for-
"Nothing, just thanks."
"Okay,"
For a time, they lay together, quiet and naked under the full moon's dead eyes. Each with their sins, each with their struggles. Each fearful but resolute: survivors.
-Together-
"Hey, Reen?"
"Yeah?"
"You gonna go back to sleep?"
"No, probably not."
"Wanna grab some chow?"
After a pause. "You buying?"
Front page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998
Raccoon City resident killed in single vehicle accident.
George Shultz
Late yesterday evening, authorities responded to a single vehicle accident near the Raccoon City Police Department Central Precinct.
The driver, Elaine Hutchens, 38, was pronounced dead at the scene. Witnesses claim that Hutchens' vehicle, an RPD coroner's van, was speeding and out of control before striking a fuel pump and bursting into flames.
An investigation will take place in order to
Front page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998
Cannibal Killings evidence destroyed
Alyssa Ashcroft
The sensational 'Cannibal Killings' case suffered a serious setback yesterday when a van transporting physical evidence, as well as the master copies of Head Coroner Edwin Thomas' notes, were destroyed in a vehicle accident which claimed the life of a Coroner's Office employee.
Editorial Page, Raccoon Herald, July 14 1998
RPD subpoena of Ashcroft a flagrant violation of the First Amendment.
Allison Greaves
In a move of inexplicable arrogance and disregard for Freedom of the Press. The Raccoon Police Department's Internal Affairs Office has decided to continue with its legal pressuring of Raccoon Herald staff reporter Alyssa Ashcroft to provide the RPD with the identity of the "Cannibal Killings' informer.
It is this paper's position as a source of impartial truth to decry any criminalisation of the release of information. The RPD's legal action against Ashcroft sets a dangerous precedent
AN. Thanks to Maiafay for guiding me in the right direction with this chapter. It was a serious pain to write. And sorry for the long delay between updates. You can expect one chapter a month until this if finished.
And just a quick historical note. The Srebrenica Massacre actually happened, and most information in this chapter is accurate. Although it was actually SAS and not Green Berets aiming the NATO bombs home. Artistic licence FTW!
Stay tuned!
-C