The War After Armageddon

The machine guns opened up again. Kosinski didn’t dare raise his head to look. No screams. But heavy-caliber machine guns didn’t leave you much to scream with.

One eternity passed, and another began.

Kosinski readied himself. To follow in the priest’s footsteps. Suddenly emboldened, telling himself, “What the hell, I’m a bachelor. What does it matter?”

He refused to think further, to contemplate anything but the mission.

Go.

Just as he was about to climb from the crater, the heavens roared, and the earth shook, and darkness covered the land.

NAZARETH

Nasr waited far longer than the thirty minutes he’d granted himself before moving out to make his transmission. After reaching the tiny hole he’d rented and mortifying the landlord through whose rooms he had to pass, he’d fallen into unconsciousness. As soon as he lowered his body onto the mattress. When he woke again, after scorching dreams, the light was going, and it took him several minutes to master reality.

As the shock of the beating wore off, the pain worsened. Yet, the pain itself had an opiate quality on another level, lulling him into a trance he had to resist with his remaining strength.

He decided to wait until full dark to leave again and retrieve the burst transmitter. In the meantime, he constructed his message. Reaching for effective words and eco nom ical formulations he could punch in quickly.

The world seemed about as clear as muddy water. And not just because of the enveloping night.

What could he say that would make sense? When things didn’t make sense?

Brevity, he cautioned himself. Short sentences. Keep it simple, stupid. Just the bones.

At last, he thought he had it. He hoped he would remember it all, since he couldn’t write it down:

Minimum 23 busloads internally displaced persons today. Syrian, Lebanese and possibly Iraqi or Gulf Arab. Educated. Many middle-aged. Purpose of transfers unclear. City overcrowded. Local foodstocks low. Heavy police presence, but few troops and no visible defenses within city. Believe have been compromised. Apparent Jihadi wish that I transmit possible last message. Assess Jihadis want us to know about refugees. No explanation.

Count to remember. Twelve sentence fragments. How many clauses? Too hard. Twelve fragments. Okay, repeat. And repeat again.

He wanted to put on clean clothes but found it too difficult to get the bloody rags off his body. He worried that the pain was beating him down, defeating him. Now and then, he coughed up more blood. But what did it matter? If they were going to kill him?

He tried to reason against his conclusion. Maybe they wanted him to continue transmitting? Maybe they really hadn’t pegged him at all?

No. They knew.

Twelve fragments. What’s number four, stud? Many middle-aged.

You’ll never be middle-aged. And you haven’t even been married and divorced once. To qualify for full membership in the Special Forces, you had to have at least two marriages in your past and an estranged wife with papers on you.

None of that was going to happen now. Should’ve married some allotment-hunter from Fayetteville or Columbus. Just to check the block. While waiting for Daddy’s little trust-fund baby. Found wandering the streets of Chapel Hill.

Too late now, tiger. Jody’s got your girl and gone.

The poetry of it all. He snickered at himself and coughed up more blood.

Ain’t no use in lookin’ back, Jody’s got your Cadillac.

He knew that he shouldn’t think about death. You had to focus on the mission. But it was hard.

Nasr dragged himself back through his landlord’s rooms, where no living thing was in evidence. All of them hiding. From him. Nasr figured the old bugger was going to lock the door the minute he made the street.

Dad, I’m sorry. I screwed this up. Keep Mom straight, okay?

“Died doing his duty.” What a joke. They would’ve been just as happy to put his family in one of the Providential Communities. Call them whatever they wanted to, they were camps. Concentration camps. In the United States of America.

Well, it wasn’t the first time. And his family was still safe in Sacramento. Maudlin for an instant, he imagined his father waving a medal in the face of some Jesus-was-really-a-white-American bureaucrat.

Sorry, Dad.