Anthony Smith - All the Young Warriors

He picked up the bread, ate some of the damp, cardboard-like stuff without thinking. Had already swallowed half before it occurred to him: poison? Or maybe they had pissed all over it and left it out in the sun. Probably not, because the big guy handed another slab to his buddy, who then tore it in two, offered some to the third guard. He stepped over, reached out for it.

The big guard grabbed his arm, wound it up, while the smaller guard clamped down a palm on the man's mouth, sliced his throat. Arterial blood shot far then pulsed then calmed down. A curtain of it across the guard's chest, down his legs. The other guard held on waiting, waiting, not yet, not yet, until the guard went slack. Dumped him onto the ground.

The taller guard pushed the scarf off his head, let it hang loose around his neck. Mustafa, breathing hard.

"Holy shit." Bleeker couldn't help but laugh.

Mustafa, lips curled, knelt by Bleeker and slapped him across the face. Damned hard. He pointed towards the flap. "You let them do that to Warfaa! Why isn't it you out there? What did you say?"

"I tried. I tried to get him a doctor. They shot him, and we walked. Walked a long way, and then I wanted a doctor, and they said no and dragged him out. What did they do? What?"

"We followed the blood. But…" Mustafa stopped, took in a long breath through his nose. "It's not fair. He gave up everything to help us, not even his fight."

"What did they do?"

Dawit pulled his scarf off. "They cut him like a pig."

Mustafa wrapped his hand around Bleeker's arm, pulled him to his feet and drug him to the tent flap. Pushed on through-sudden sun. Bleeker squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes! Look at him! Look!"

"I can't see."

"Then open your eyes!" He felt Mustafa's fingers gripping his chin, pointing his face. "Look!"

Bleeker squinted, saw shadows. Clearer, clearer, then, the shadows maybe thirty yards away. A tree, a naked black man strung up by his feet, arms touching the ground. His sternum had been opened, guts falling earthward, obscuring his face. Dark blood beneath him already soaking into the ground.

"Oh god."

"See it?"

"Oh god, I see, I see." He squeezed his eyes shut again. Fingers off his chin, a push back through the flap, stumbling onto his side, the wind oofing out of him.

Mustafa, still raging. "Why isn't it you out there? What did they say? What did you tell them?"

"Please, he doesn't know," Dawit said.

"Of course he knows."

"I told them to get a doctor. I tried, goddamn it, I fucking tried ."

Mustafa shook his head, paced the tent. "What have I done? Shit, shit, shit."

Bleeker rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Full of water. He smeared it away, blinked until he could see again. "Think about it. He was gone. There wasn't anything they could do. It was an easy choice. Me, a white man? An American? Can you even imagine what they've got planned for me?"

Dawit stepped over, helped Bleeker to his feet again. "Don't worry about it. We're here."

"Did you find the girl?"

"We found you first. We saw them taking you both. We followed."

"So…" He reached down, took the rifle off the dead guard, shook the blood off. Still plenty all over. Bleeker thought of Malaria, AIDS, Ebola, other nasty African bugs. Fuck it. He made sure the gun was cocked and ready. "You go find her. I'll hunt down Jibriil."

Mustafa shook his head. "We're not splitting up again."

"Well, then let's go kill him together and go get the girl and get out of here."

"It's not a video game."

"I know that! Fuck, you think…I know, alright?" Bleeker stared at the dead guard. Eyes bulging, mouth open. Then he took Warfaa's scarf off, started wrapping it around his head so that only his eyes were exposed. He looked at his hands. "Should've brought gloves. Why didn't we think of gloves?"

He grinned. Held up his hands. "Stupid, huh?"

They couldn't help but laugh, lightly, trying to hide it. Dawit held up his hands, too. A little louder. "Stupid white man!"

Bleeker let it roll. Full on smiling. "Funny as shit. And this dead guy, the thing with the bread, that was pretty badass."

Mustafa shrugged. "Told you I was a gangsta."

They got quiet.

Mustafa said, "I don't know what to do next. I'm sorry."

"I don't either."

They stood around the dead guard, already gathering flies. The smell-the shit in the guard's pants, the hot blood, the spicy sweat-made them cough.

Mustafa cleared his throat. "Let's go out there and figure it out."

He turned and walked out of the tent. Bleeker and Dawit followed, just in time to hear a huge cheer go up from soldiers all over the place.

Jibriil, laughing, stepped forward and embraced Adem. A giant, back-pounding hug. A truly-happy-to-see-you hug. Adem's arms were paralyzed at his sides. Didn't faze Jibriil at all. He looked rougher, beard a little longer, a stronger odor than when they were last in close quarters. Surrounded by all these men who turned their guns to the ground as soon as Jibriil took Adem into his grasp. Jibriil stepped back, grabbed his friend by the shoulders, big smile.

"Look at you! Excellent! Glad you're back. Now I can forgive you. We can start over again. I'm sorry I was angry last time we spoke. Really."

Adem realized he couldn't hear Sufia anymore. He wanted to go back inside, see if she was okay, but what would that help? Maybe in the days to come, once she calmed down. There he went, thinking about a future here. Even after seeing her like that, he had forgotten the escape clause, his dad and the cop who wanted to kill Jibriil. Almost as if that had been a dream. He woke up when he saw Sufia's face.

"Sufia," he said. "Did you…why?"

Jibriil shook his head sadly. "She was going to sell you out. She had no plans of going away with you. I don't care how loyal she was to our cause. She wanted to do you harm, and that, son, I couldn't let happen. I didn't realize…I should've kept you close to me all along."

"Who did it? Who sat there and poured acid on her like that?"

Jibriil averted his eyes. Looked at the men behind him, the building behind Adem. The sky. "Someone had to. Someone who would take it seriously."

"What are you saying?"

Jibriil wrapped an arm around Adem's shoulders, guided him towards the line of men with guns. "You'll never guess where these guys are from. You know, once they promoted me, I put my own crew together. All these soldiers, they're from the Cities."

The soldiers nodded or lifted their guns one-armed into the sky, shot off rounds. Smiled.

Jibriil: "I put out the call. They told me some are dead, some already on their way home, some lost out there, no idea where they went. The rest, my own private squad. How's that? Tell your dad about that, me with my own gang."

He couldn't know, could he? Yes, all those checkpoints, all those soldiers calling ahead, but he couldn't have figured it out, right? It was too crazy.

"Yeah, I know," Jibriil said. "Garaad told me about what happened. Right before he died. He was hit, several times, when they were taking you away. He made it through the night, that was it. Blood in his lungs."

He let go of Adem, put his hands behind his back like some Kung-fu master, all the movies they'd watch on DVD as kids. He walked in front of his line of soldiers. "It wasn't hard to put it together. I used to look up to Mustafa, you know. He was always dissing me, but I always came back. I kept trying to impress him. Then he went and showed what a pussy he really was, like, telling the Killahs to keep away from me, and working that shit job. Like he was better than all that because he was earning a paycheck all the sudden. Like he got a discount at Target, yeah. All because of you."