Chapter 15
Shlomi and Ziad left McCormack's office and trudged out of the headquarters building. A harried looking Portuguese sergeant awaited them. The sergeant gestured for them to follow him, and they did. He was carrying a rifle and looking angry, after all.
The sergeant led them back to the heavily fortified gate, where the Israeli armored personnel carrier and soldiers awaited them nervously. The Portuguese sergeant left unceremoniously after returning their handguns and rifles, as well as their ammunition.
Shlomi briefly spoke to the Israeli soldiers, and then climbed in the back of the vehicle. Ziad followed, not exactly looking forward to another bumpy, awkward, and generally uncomfortable ride. The vehicle rumbled to life and they traversed back into no-man's land.
Ziad hated being inside the armored vehicle. He couldn't see or hear anything, just feel it. And even that tiny sense was largely made useless by the constant vibrations of the vehicle's treads. So when the vehicle shook violently, he largely passed it off. That is, until the vehicle crashed to a stop and lurched to the side.
The Israeli soldiers were shouting and moving about as the door slid open. The soldiers rushed out. Shlomi glanced at Ziad, loaded his rifle, and stepped out as well.
Ziad said a quick prayer, fumbled a magazine into his own rifle, yanked the charging handle, and stumbled out of the vehicle, blinking in the sudden brightness.
They were in a small village, with a few bombed out two or three-story buildings, and a tangle of tight alleyways, one-story houses and shops, and rubble. Ziad saw a massive black streak across the side of the vehicle, coinciding with a large dent. One of the treads had also been blown off, and the vehicle was tilting slightly.
Ziad heard a repetitive popping sound.
"Ziad!"
Ziad's rifle was held slack by his side.
"Ziad!"
He glanced around. Shlomi was hissing at him; he and the soldiers were crouched behind a chunk of rubble, tensely scanning the rooftops with their eyes and weapons.
Ziad snapped out of his reverie, and rushed down to join them. The Israelis glanced at him with nervous expressions, then gazed back at the rooftops. Shlomi exchanged a few words with them.
Ziad heard an incredibly loud cracking noise followed by a sharp pop noise. The soldiers ducked even further behind the rubble, and he followed suit. One of the soldiers was on his radio, shouting at somebody. More gunfire shrieked overhead.
One of the soldiers glanced up over the rubble, ducked back, tapped his friend's shoulder, and they both began shooting at some enemy beyond the rubble.
Ziad was praying silent, his eyes now closed, his mouth moving wordlessly. A few bullet casings rattled off his helmet. He tried to block out the unending sound of gunfire.
He opened his eyes when he felt a insistent tapping on his shoulder. Shlomi shouted at him, "We need to get back to the vehicle and get the radio! Ours isn't working, and we need air support!"
"You want me to go out in that?" Ziad shouted back incredulously.
"No, I need you to just shoot. I need covering fire!"
"Crap!"
"Copy that!"
Shlomi glanced around the corner of the rubble.
"When I run out, get out there and start shooting. I don't care what you shoot at, just suppress them!"
"What if I get shot?"
"You'll probably die."
"Screw you man!"
Shlomi jumped out and sprinted for the vehicle. Ziad cursed and leaned out of cover, and finally saw where his countrymen were shooting at him from.
There was a hulking three-story bank at the end of the street, about thirty meters away. Flashes of light came from the windows.
Ziad pushed his rifle around the corner, put his eyes to the sights, and began shooting aimlessly at the building. Bang. Bang. Bang. Single shots- he didn't have unlimited ammunition.
Ziad glanced after Shlomi. He had disappeared into the vehicle. Ziad looked back at his target and kept shooting, reloading when his rifle clicked empty.
He glanced back at the vehicle. Shlomi was still hidden inside, hopefully calling in air or artillery support. Ziad saw movement across the street, on the other side of the vehicle.
Ziad swung his rifle around, and the movement disappeared. He began turning back towards the building when a man flashed out of the alleyway where Ziad had seen movement, carrying a rifle and sprinting towards the vehicle.
Ziad stopped the movement of his arms towards the building, and changed the direction back towards the vehicle. The man was ten feet away from Shlomi's hiding place.
Ziad peered down the sights, not sure what to do.
Oh yeah. It's a gun. You pull the trigger.
Ziad did so. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four-... ice?
Either way, the gun pounded back into his shoulder again and again, and red blossoms appeared in the air above the running man, who inexplicably fell to the ground, twitching.
Shlomi stumbled out of the vehicle, looked at the fallen man, then at Ziad. Then back to the fallen man. He sprinted back behind the rubble.
"Did you shoot that guy?" he shouted.
"I think so!"
"Damn!"
"Yeah!"
Shlomi crawled over to where the Israeli soldier with the broken radio sat trying to get it to work. They exchanged words, and the Israeli looked decidedly happier. He shouted at the two shooting soldiers, who grinned and ducked down behind the rubble. The gunfire from the building intensified.
"What's happening?" Ziad shouted at Shlomi.
"Artillery mission, danger close! They got a MLRS battery firing some steel rain!"
"Speak English! Or Arabic! Anything but Military!"
"They're shooting really big rockets to go boom on the bad guys!"
"Oh, good!"
Ziad glanced guiltily over to where the man he shot was lying in a pool of blood.
Then he was made a bit happier by the super manly and massive explosions that occurred at that moment.
Shlomi grinned smugly and covered his ears and ducked his head down between his knees as dust and sound washed over him. When it cleared, he lifted his head and said, "And that's why we call them Menatetz. Smashers."
Ziad stood and looked at the building.
"Where'd the building go?"
"I don't know, but I hope there's enough falafel there," sneered Shlomi.
"Hey man, that's just racist."
"Sorry. I keep forgetting you're Lebanese."
"We're in Lebanon, Shlomi. These are my fellow citizens. I shot one. A little sensitivity is perhaps a good thing, in this situation."
Shlomi backed away, hands held up in front of him. "Whoa, just making a joke."
Ziad chuckled, "I know. I don't really care because that explosion was freaking awesome!"
The Israeli soldiers were staring at them.
A heavily armed Israeli tank battalion eventually came and rescued them. The commander of the new Israeli soldiers said he was going to recommend Lt. Tomer Zitlaui for a medal.
Shlomi just smiled.
They finally made it back to Shlomi's car, which was thankfully unharmed.
Shlomi even managed to get free gas off the now-friendly Israeli soldiers they had shared a ride and a firefight with.
When Shlomi eased the car back into Israel and onto a highway teaming with vehicles that weren't olive-green or bristling with weapons, Ziad breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he choked.
"Holy shit, I just killed another person."
Shlomi glanced at him, "Uh, not to burst your badass-bubble but I talked to one of the combat medics and he said your man was only permanently disabled. Apparently you severed his spinal cord and blew off his hand, but he's still alive."
Ziad stared at Shlomi, his mouth hanging open in horror.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No."
"Good. Because now I feel like absolute shit. Thanks."
Ziad stayed silent for the rest of the ten hour drive back to Shlomi's house, where he stomped into the shower and stayed there for an hour before going to bed, where he fell into a troubled sleep the second his still-damp head touched the pillow.
Shlomi just sighed and made himself a pot of coffee.
Ziad spent the next week not talking to anyone.
He woke up, ate, read, ate, read, ate, read, and fell asleep.
A week after the firefight, he came downstairs.
"Good morning," mumbled Shlomi into his mug of coffee.
"Morning..."
"Hey, are you speaking again?" Shlomi said, setting down his coffee.
Ziad poured his own mug of coffee and slumped into a chair. He took a sip and winced, "This coffee is terrible."
"It's instant coffee. I got it for free at the store because nobody else was buying it."
Ziad gingerly pushed it away.
"And yes, I am speaking," he said. "I decided that although I may have completely ruined that guy's life, he was trying to kill you, and probably wouldn't have hesitated to kill me. And therefore I was perfectly justified in doing what I did."
Shlomi nodded, suddenly serious. "Good."
Ziad sighed, "Doesn't mean I have to enjoy it, though."
Shlomi chuckled mirthlessly, "If you enjoyed it, you'd be no better than your father."
"Yeah."
Ziad reached out and picked up the coffee and sipped it again.
"Is it really this bad?"
"Yup."
They sipped simultaneously.
"Damn."
Ziad took another sip, a longer one.
"They must be masochists."
"Yeah," said Shlomi, as he took a sip.
"I mean," sip, "this is really bad." Sip.
"I hear ya'," sip.
Sip. Sip. Gulpgulp.
That afternoon, Ziad decided to change things up a bit and read in the garden.
Unfortunately for his still-troubled mind, he had forgotten that Aya Koren took care of Shlomi's garden, and, because this is how things work in stories, happened to be gardening when Ziad went outside.
Ziad attempted to sneak back inside, but was, of course, noticed.
"Hey Ziad!"
Ziad sighed, "Hullo."
Aya stood up and walked over to him. "I have not seen you in over a week!"
"I've been dealing with some issues."
"Don't go all emo on me, asshole."
Ziad stared, "Have you been watching American TV?"
"Yeah."
"Please stop."
They stood there awkwardly.
Ziad hefted his book, "Well, um... I was going to read out here, if you don't mind."
"Oh... Yeah, sure. Um... Don't mind me, I'll just be, you know, working."
Ziad sat down and read.
Aya worked.
Eventually, July became August, and even August began to look old and crumble. Ziad felt the tugs of destiny pulling him back towards Scotland and a return to the madhouse of Hogwarts.
"Hey Shlomi," Ziad said one morning a week before school started, "I have to go back to Britain soon. Like this afternoon, or tomorrow."
Shlomi put down the newspaper he was reading.
"Yeah, I know. Do you want me to come with you?"
"You can do that?"
Shlomi smiled, "You really don't understand how awesome my job is, do you?"
"Apparently not."
And so that afternoon, Shlomi made one phone call to "work," packed a bag, left a note at Aya's house, and stood in front of Ziad.
"What's next?"
Ziad pulled out his wand, "Well, now I make a portkey."
"Cool."
"I don't suppose you have some piece of junk you don't really need?"
Shlomi rummaged through the house for a bit before finding a busted old plate.
"Will this do?"
"Perfect."
Ziad raised his wand, poked the plate, and said, "Portus!"
There was a tiny flash of light, and then nothing.
Shlomi glanced at him, "Is that it?"
"Yup."
"Magic is really useful."
"No kidding."
At apartment 814, an owl sailed through the still-shattered window, and landed at the kitchen table.
It hooted a few times and hopped around a bit.
The owl flew towards the open door, which had a large FOR SALE sign taped haphazardly across it.
The owl relieved itself on the door before dropping the letter and leaving through the kitchen window.
Ziad touched the plate and beckoned Shlomi to do the same. Shlomi gingerly grazed the plate with his finger, and they were yanked into the nether-
-and deposited in an dirty alley in London.
Shlomi brushed himself off.
"Where the hell are we?"
"Near Diagon Alley."
"And that is...?"
"If I remember correctly, it's where Wizards hide all their good stuff. I was only there for about ten minutes before they whisked me off to Hogwarts, so my memory is a little vague."
"Wonderful."
"Don't judge man, you volunteered for this."
"I did, didn't I?"
"Yup."
Ziad led them into a dingy old pub, with an old wooden sign swinging over the door.
"Leaky Cauldron, eh? That's a crap name for a pub," scoffed Shlomi.
"Yeah, well, don't say that too loudly because everyone in here is magical."
"Leak Cauldron, eh? Beautiful name for a pub. Couldn't have thought of a better one."
They reached a brick wall.
"It's a wall," said Shlomi.
"Yeah, but it's magical."
"Never had anything against a good wall."
"Mhm."
Ziad tapped the wall a couple of times with his wand. It slid open, revealing the bustling wizarding shopping center beyond.
"They're dressed funny."
"Magical."
"Never been a big fan of modern fashions, you know?"
Ziad walked into the first shop he remembered, a book shop.
"Books? Really?" grumbled Shlomi.
"Do I even have to tell yo-"
"Never had anything against books."
Ziad sighed and approached the counter, where a tired witch stood.
"Excuse me, but do you know the books a second year at Hogwarts would need? I... uh... We never got an owl."
"Oh, of course!" responded the witch, before rambling on about something boring and trying to sell them completely unrelated books.
Unfortunately, they didn't have any money.
"I thought that would be a problem," mumbled Ziad.
"So... What do we do now?"
"You have any money?"
"Yeah..."
"We could probably exchange that for wizard cash at the bank."
"What, the big imposing building down the street?"
"Of course."
"Wonderful."
They pushed their way through the crowded street. They got a few odd looks, as neither wore robes, Shlomi looked extremely uncomfortable, and both were wearing clothes that would have been comfortable in Israel, but were extremely ill-suited to the British state-of-being. Rain, that is.
When they reached Gringotts, Shlomi muttered something about the Goblins but kept commendably quiet otherwise, especially when he had to turn over some of his hard-earned money to the Goblin tellers.
The goblin stared at the money.
He called over some more goblins, before turning back to Shlomi.
"Excuse me, sir, but what kind of currency is this?"
Shlomi glanced at Ziad before looking back at the goblin.
"Um... It's a Shekel."
"A what?"
"A Shekel. You know... The currency of Israel."
The goblin turned to his companions and spoke in their language for at least a minute.
"I apologize, sir, but I don't believe this currency is valid. The land often called Israel is but a mere colony of the muggle British government."
Shlomi looked affronted, "It's been independent since 1948!"
The goblin sighed, "That would explain it."
"What would?"
"You muggles and your politics and war. Do you expect us to keep up?"
"Yes."
"Hmmph."
Shlomi paused, then spoke, "Well... Can you exchange it, then?"
"No."
"Why the hell not? It's money!"
"The problem, sir, is that we do not know how much this shekel is worth."
Shlomi was getting angry.
"I don't know... I think somewhere between five and ten of them is worth about a pound?"
"So, you expect the finest banking institution in the world to take your word, a muggle, at face value... Regarding economic issues, I might add?"
"Yes."
"And why is this?"
"Because I actually use this damn money every day of my life and know for a hard fact it's worth something. See these clothes? They're damn fashionable in Israel, and I remember handing over the cash! It hurt deeply, so it has worth!"
The goblin sighed.
"Sir, as much as it pains me to forgo charging a massive interest rate on any exchange with muggle money, I'm going to have to say no. I will, however, send a message to a contact in the muggle banking world who can perhaps help with this conundrum. Please come back tomorrow."
"Shit!"
"Please calm down."
Ziad guided Shlomi out of the bank, trying to console him.
"Look, we can just go to a bank out in London and exchange it, right?"
"Yeah, but it's a pain in the ass!"
"Better than starving on the street because you don't want to exchange money."
"True."
And so they ignominiously left the wizarding world behind them.
Ziad sighed sadly as the brick wall closed. He turned away, and re-entered the muggle world.
Author's Note:
Sorry for not posting for so long. I've been even busier than usual.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter, and the story as a whole.