Preface: Roughly 110,000 troops in Pashtunistan have migrated farther away from Pakistan to secure the northern regions of this landlocked country. The Cordyceps outbreak isn't a big deal in these rural settings due to the "unity" of a group calling themselves Students, and the military remnants. Wong is about to turn 21 years old.
"Hey! Hey hey! Look."
Ada Wong was not alright. The subtle nudge of time was gently turning her face towards an awful conscious realization. She wore the traditional (perahun tunban) garb of the country. A long white sleeve and trousers-very similar to comfy pajamas in the U.S. But she kept her combat boots on and her military beret. The beret had an umbrella insignia pinned to it. Captain Mikhail had regailed her before he left three days ago about keeping the bulletproof vest on underneath, but she stubbornly refused to wear it in this weather now.
Ahmad the interpreter was standing tall beside her feet, as she studied the boy. One of her feet was off the hammock, balancing a leather strap on it-which was attached to an assault rifle.
This 14-year-old Pashtun teenager was having a hard time understanding basic concepts about diseases and healthcare. He was standing over her face. He was weaponless-his rifle propped up on the wall next to the front door. His flip phone images were very blurry to her. It really was no wonder he was so bad at taking pictures.
Every time she looked at him it was hard not to grimace, because his face had been chemically burned, and some of his fingers on his hands were cut off (although that just meant he had five fingers on each). He had one dead eye that didn't look straight. The mere sight of him was very upsetting to her even after all this time she had known him. He needed reconstructive surgery, but he would be denied it in all the neighboring countries, simply due to his ethnicity-even if he had the money.
She had, by comparison, grown up as a queen. Not in Queens, but about six miles away from it.
She was in the backyard of an adobe mud home that had 10 rooms, and a very high wall surrounding it; a compound. This was Kunduz Province, up in the northern regions of Afghanistan. There were three big mounds of packed dirt at the back of this backyard she was currently in, as well as their female asmari goat. Ahmad had swapped the clothing lines with the green hammock for her.
Ahmad was a 27-year-old Pakistani-American interpreter. His moustache and beard were each very full and black. He and Wong had rather pale soft skin because they both stayed mostly inside, working within their makeshift genome lab. He was also wearing white pjs, a blue suit top, and a blue prayer cap. His rifle was clenched tightly in his hands.
Wong really did hate to disappoint-anyone in general really. But, she was doomed to do so-because Ahmad refused to interpret some of the things she was saying. She sensed it, because he wore his heart mostly on his sleeve. Ahmad even seemed to be talking up the boys' savior delusion as well, she surmised. It wasn't a good tactic. She wasn't on board with it, but since she was now somehow also both illiterate and, in a way, mute; she smiled at the bearded boy warmly. She didn't even know when she could leave this place.
She wondered when Mikhail would return with more Kandahiri goats for her to bargain with, cuz right now they only had the GEO (genetically enhanced organism) one, Marsha, and they needed her for fresh milk. She really missed him and the rest of the now called BCS group.
The BSA(Biohazard Security Assessment) delta platoon had spent a year creating and establishing small healthcare checkpoints in the northern cities, while Wong had been hiding out in compounds for the most part as a BCS (biohazard countermeasures security) operative. The reason that U.S. military had moved and focused on controlling the northern part of Afghanistan is that it was largely agricultural; rice and wheat were staples.
Of course, Mikhail hadn't left her completely alone with only the interpreter Ahmad. There was Sergeant Waltz, a BSC special forces guy, patrolling casually around right now, as well as the Afghan special forces guy, Mohammed.
She loved Ahmad just as much as Mikhail. Ahmad was so loyal and humble. He was an all-around scholar and gentleman. But he was scared shitless. And no wonder, honestly. He was American at heart, just the same as she was. He had no love for the cruel nature of the leaders in the outskirts, and no patience for their extreme stubbornness. The Students were becoming more raucous by the day. This former Student, however, could've won America's biggest sweetheart competition.
"Suggest to this handsome young man that you cannot jump over a CORDY-13 person to avoid becoming sick. Because you have to land at some point, this method is not so good to avoid sickness. You should wear long sleeved protective clothing and distract them."
Ahmad dutifully spoke Pashtu to the boy.
Wong fanned herself with her military cap on the hammock in the heat. Her hat lacked any name piece, because the Velcro had worn off; it just had the little umbrella flair now. She had prepared herself for this meeting, by contouring her face in order to appear more masculine. She had taped her upper eyelids to create creases. She had also covered her face with camo paint and dirt to try and protect her skin from the strong ultraviolet radiation. Her hair was shaved on the one side and cropped rather short on the other.
The boy's name was Mahmoud. His hair grew in patches on the crown of his head. He had a few rifle magazines in his camo vest, and a rope with an empty scabbard around his waist. He blushed brightly and tears leapt down his torn face. Mahmoud had been, since the moment she met him a few months back, a leaky faucet. She wanted to hug him, but she guessed that his first right of passage from the womb was a slick cane. She realized she had again been too direct and that she needed to be more patient with Mahmoud.
She grabbed Mahmoud's hand and the phone, moving it towards her face and away. She tried very hard not to squint, lest her preciously created eyelid creases come undone and reveal her. The picture was still too blurry to have any confidence. She needed confidence to get the manpower necessary to raid the quarry where this supposed hornet's nest was.
She lazily scooched a bit off of the hammock and motioned for Mahmoud to kneel with her. He was lean and about 5'5" in height.
"Ahmad, I'm going to get off the hammock and draw in the dirt now. Make him back up."
Ahmad spoke and made a motion, to which Mahmoud eagerly complied.
Wong's knee came up to her torso, as she grabbed her rifle and used the butt of it on the ground as a cane to balance herself and get off of the hammock.
Wong used her rifle to soften the hard dirt as she kneeled now, on the ground. She traced with her finger into the dirt, to show Mahmoud what she thought the images were showing. Ahmad sat cross-legged between her and Mahmoud.
A stick figure man with extra legs, leaping out of a hornets nest.
She was quite sure that she herself had gone mad at this point from all the explosions she had endured. Ahmad requested to see the images, but Mahmoud shook his head no. Only Wong could, because only Wong had the Power. Mahmoud wasn't here for the money, nor the goats, nor the virgins; no. He wanted to fucking leave and never come back.
Wong couldn't do that, because America no longer existed. This was a fact that Ahmad knew as well.
Ahmad translated Mahmoud's words to her while she watched the boy's face carefully.
"He says that these are not Afghans but outsiders with very strange bodies."
"Mahmoud." She said, "How many of theseā¦strange peopleā¦are there?"
As much as Mahmoud appeared to adore these two outsiders, he was coy now. He wanted to stay and pray with them during the evening. She knew that he never wanted to leave them. She knew that if it was physically possible, he would simply meld his body to Ahmad.
"Mahmouuuuuud!" She laughed merrily. She drew two flowers in the dirt and then pushed the dirt over to his own kneeling body. "We don't have enough prayer mats! You can't pray on top of nothing!"
Mahmoud realized she was right. He would have to go back into this particular rural village and ask for one, since he no longer had any family. He wanted to gain Ahmad and Wong's loyalty, so he put his hand over his heart and told Ahmad something. Ahmad took his pikol hat off, wiping the bald spot on top of his head as he mulled over how to translate. When Mahmoud's hand raised to point at Wong's face, she simply moved the rifle in a subtle blocking gesture that could be mistaken for using it to re-kneel.
"You are a woman to me Bashir, but I will never tell the elders even when they torture me."
Wong kept her face modestly sad. "I am a very unfortunate man, to be born without a beard up on my face, and only on my ass. Ahmad make sure he knows I am a man."
Watching the boy, she already could guess what he was saying, and her mouth twitched. He was dead serious.
"If you could just shave your ass-beard, I could weave it all back into a very nice face-beard. I would do that for you dear friend."
She smiled broadly as if she was deeply touched, holding back a laugh. "Many thanks, Mahmoud, you are soooooo kind and generous. How about we go with you through the village to get that prayer mat, and then you can of course pray with us!"
Mahmoud was overjoyed as a horrified Ahmad translated (although he didn't show it, Wong knew and felt in her body that he wanted to stay inside desperately.) Wong tapped Ahmad's hand and pointed at the tattooed words; 'success is never earned, it is rented. And the rent is due every day.' He rubbed his hand for a moment. Ahmad did not speak Dari, but Mahmoud did. At most, maybe he could make simple conversation. They all got up to leave-Wong herself using her rifle, but Wong took a short detour in the complex.
She grabbed her pikol, utility belt, and a blanket from one of the bedrooms. There were lots of supplies scattered around the all the carpeted rooms; tons of water bottles, MRE's, blankets. This place was empty when they arrived-a place the Afghan police chief had designated to them, since its former residents had been slaughtered quite horribly (a point with that the Kunduz city's policemen really liked to repeat at her in particular).
She went outside with her rifle over her back and her radio attached to a utility belt around her waist. Waltz, a big 6'4" man with a sunburnt ruddy baby face, was patrolling a bit of a ways out, so she hollered at him.
"I'mma just head out with the Afghan to get him a prayer mat."
"Alright, sending air support" Waltz let out a loud rip of flatulence at her. He also stroked the small pitiful few blonde hairs on his chin, taunting her. She pretended to be pushed violently forward by his wind, barely catching herself to stand.
"Thanks!" Waltz was on the radio already as she continued walking away.
This rural setting didn't have any roads, and the big adobe structures were spread very far apart. Mahmoud was chatting with Ahmad as they strolled. In total, within this village, were five farmlands. It was a beautiful rolling landscape. As she walked, Wong fanned her face with her military cap. There wasn't too much going on in the heat. The crowds of sheep were laying down under the few trees dotting the setting.
The group had difficulty figuring out where the wooden gates of these homes were, because these walls were so high and meandering. They walked about 20 minutes , hollering out "Salaam Americans" as they passed each abode. Finally, a tubby middle-aged Afghan appeared behind them and called back out. "Salaam alaykum!" His right hand was stuck over his heart as he ushered them around the side of his walled house to a big topaz colored gate and opened it. His long beard was dyed red, and he wore heavy eyeliner.
There were pigeons and chickens meandering about the yard. The home itself didn't have a door, just an opening with a colorfully patterned yellow sheet. Three women in blue chadors were peering through it at them. They disappeared quickly.
The group took off their shoes outside the doorway, then placed their weapons just inside the threshold. The main entrance room was completely covered in a lovely red and gold carpet with tons of puffy pillows decorating every corner. There were also long cushions to lay on. There was no furniture at all, the room was just a carpeted floor. Wong made sure to hold the blanket gift in front of her, plainly visible. It was cooler inside.
Mahmoud, Ahmad and Wong sat. Wong knelt, but Mahmoud crossed his legs, as did Ahmad. Wong took off her pikol, itched her scalp, and put on her military cap. The Afghan sat and rolled a black vinyl mat onto the floor.
She put her hand over her heart, bowing her head slightly and said, "Bashir. American." She hadn't sipped any water recently, so her voice was raspy.
The Afghan put a hand over his chest and said, "Najibullah Farrukh." Najibullah had a very gracious and pleasant demeanor. His name meant fortunate and distinguished servant of god. He spoke loudly, and one of the blue chadori covered women came into the room, bowing beside him. Her head then pressed hard against the floor, as she remained motionless.
Wong instructed Ahmad casually. Ahmad told Mahmoud exactly what he was supposed to say; that they were here for an extra prayer mat-because the Students had ransacked Mahmoud's home and left him without one. It wasn't the full truth, but it was enough. Mahmoud then spoke up. Najibullah's face went red with rage.
He ranted for a good bit, before realizing no one in the whole group could understand a single word.
"Dari?"
Mahmoud shook his head no, and then so did Wong and Ahmad.
"What a beautiful persian rug!" Wong slowly admired the room and Najibullah's small smile returned when Mahmoud finally translated.
Najibullah said something to the woman on the floor, and she finally stirred. She got up, bowing as she silently walked backwards to another room. She bumped the wall a bit on her way out.
"I am an American doctor soldier searching for strange creatures." Wong said-and realized she had once again gotten to the point way too soon.
Najibullah nodded at Mahmoud, a small smile plastered to his face.
She pointed to Mahmoud and said, "Afghan Pashtun,"
Wong reiterated-pointing to herself "American, Bashir, high commander and doctor."
Then she pointed to Ahmad and said, "American Pashtun."
Najibullah clapped his hands in mirth. "Neh, Mujahideen." Najibullah sighed in relief. Mahmoud was still quite young regardless of his injuries, and Najibullah seemed quite happy not to be engaging with older more militant soldiers.
Ahmad pointed at himself and said, "Sunni Muslim, Bashir; Sufi." Wong inwardly rolled her eyes as he had once again, decided without her discretion to say that lie.
Najibullah nodded happily, placing his hand on his heart briefly.
The cloaked woman entered the room with a metal tray and four empty tea cups. There was a pitcher with steam coming out. She daintily served them each a cup, and then bowed on the ground beside Najibullah again, face like a root, stuck to the floor.
Wong took a big sip of the refreshment and coughed, because it was so strongly flavored with pepper. Najibullah quickly took the metal tray and slapped the back of the woman's head, pouring the steaming pitcher over her scalp.
She remained still and silent.
"This tea is very good! I am surprised by how flavorful this tea is." Wong said staring peacefully at Najibullah, and waited patiently for Mahmoud to speak. There were fireworks going off in her head, and the amount of self-control she needed to maintain that fascade was draining all of her energy in the blink of an eye.
Najibulllah said (and this was translated by Mahmoud), "You know I have to do these things, otherwise the Students will take me to Shergaton prison. Then I could not provide. When would I ever be released?"
She was no linguist but just by listening to the quick steadfast cadence of Mahmoud's voice, the words came somewhat quickly to him. He could probably speak quite well conversationally in Dari.
It was evident that Mahmoud's face was a warning to Najibullah, even though they had said Mahmoud was not a Student. Wong spoke each sentence carefully, and waited for it to be translated before saying another.
"We understand. We have a peace treaty with the Afghan Students-and he is not one of them anymore." Mahmoud finally translated it. Wong caught Najibullah's eyebrow raise ever so slightly.
"If Mahmoud were to hurt you, we would take his gun away and give him a mop instead forever, so he could learn how to clean the wounds."
Mahmoud's eye shifted between her and Ahmad. She pretended to sweep. He translated from Ahmad's Pashtu.
"We are medical scientists, searching for strange creatures;" she let this be translated twice.
"Maybe you've seen strange or very sick looking people?" Again, this sentence was translated twice.
"We are willing to give you an ashmari dairy goat for any true information."
Najibullah now was very nervous. He gulped, and then bravely said something haltingly to Mahmoud, glancing sideways at him and then down at the tea, with his hand going over his heart. Mahmoud remained gracious in his demeanor, nodding to Najibullah profusely as he translated to Ahmad. It looked like they were two partners trying to peacefully break up. Was she watching a soap opera or was this real life?
"He wants the blanket."
She smiled, took the blanket from beside her and handed it over to Najibullah. He waited a long intentional moment as he looked at her and then said, "Tashakur."
Wong said, "We believe Afghans are being kidnapped, and used as medical experiments by a group out here, called the Lightbringers. Have you heard anything?" She took another long sip. When Ahmad said this to Mahmoud, Mahmoud shook his head no at her; but she widened her eyes to demand he continue to say it anyways. He finally nodded at her in acceptance. She was a bit frustrated by this obvious display of disagreement between them, and hoping that Najibullah wasn't second guessing their intentions.
She watched Mahmoud as he silently figured out how to say the words.
Whatever Mahmoud wasn't translating from Najibullah, at least she could trust that her own words were being translated honestly to the best of the teenager's abilities.
It was like a lightswitch went on inside Najibullah, and he again started to talk fast. After a few minutes, he stopped and looked at Mahmoud expectantly. Mahmoud said a few words to Ahmad when Najibullah finished.
Ahmad frowned slightly as he said, "Najibullah says many kinds of thanks."
Ahmad knew, once again, how she felt all the time. Her eyes glinted a bit in celebration as she allowed herself a long soft glance at Ahmad in front of them all. This guy knew.
Najibullah called again, and two little boys around 4 and 5 came in from the yard with a prayer mat. Ahmad turned around to see them. They smiled shyly and curiously at Mahmoud's face, and then at Ahmad. But when they got to Bashir's war face they were impressed and somewhat confused as they peered closer through her warpaint. "Mujahideen?"
She put her hand over her heart and bowed slightly at them, "American." Then got up to leave.
The kids followed the group out into the yard as they walked. Wong turned back to see a blue-eyed girl in a purple green perahun and a green scarf just outside the house wall, leaning against it. Najibullah slapped her face and kicked her to the ground, where she lay immobile.
"She didn't deserve that."
The voice made her blink furiously, and she saw a disjointed young face peering at her.
Wong turned back around and walked with her group and the two young boys.
Mahmoud's borrowed prayer mat was quite beautiful. It had been smacked so that the dirt no longer clung to most of it. The tassels were gold along with the symmetrical lacing that decorated it. Ahmad was carrying on a lively conversation with the young kids, so Wong just contented herself to hum.
Ahmad worked so hard to translate during that conversation, and she knew that with Mahmoud's insistence to stay, he would again be caught trying to explain things.
The wounds of all these people ran so deep, from the terror of being exchanged from one warlord's whims to the next.
That man was much too scared, and it made her think that the Students were not keeping their promise to stay outside of homes. Maybe even this Mujahideen was very close. They needed a Dari translator.
