Melani Schweder - 72 Hours till Doomsday

Altan heard their shouts to one another, loud above the sounds of rumbling tankers, and he recognized the words ‘alive’ and ‘child’, imbuing him with a drop of hope. His legs moved again, running now towards the gaping mouth of rubble, waving his arms to attract a soldier’s attention.

“Please! My children! There! Please save them!”

There were tears making muddy tracks down his face.

“Sir, calm down. Please.” A medic took his arm.

“Fahri! Fatma! Can you hear me?”

“Sir, you are looking for someone?”

“Yes yes! My children! In the rubble. There!”

He pointed to where his wife was unearthed. The medic called out to her teammates, explaining their quarry in rapid-fire Turkish. They moved into place once again and pulled open the gash further.

“Sir, we found a child earlier in the area, but he was not alive. Do you want to see him?”

Every nerve was warning him not to look, not to fill his mind with any more death or sadness, but he knew he must see the boy. He had to know the truth. The medic guided him away, towards the row of bodies, towards a section of small ones at the end. She knelt down beside one of them, peeling back the sheet from the child’s face. It was Fahri. Seeing his dust-painted face and his hands folded peacefully on his chest made Altan feel the bile rise in his throat. He felt dizzy and clamped onto her to keep from falling.

Someone announced themselves behind them, a soft and defeated sounding voice. They’d found another child. The man held a small girl in his arms and before he ever saw the face, Altan knew it was his Fatma. Ten tiny spots of pink nail polish gave it away. It was her favorite color- she’d probably just put in on this morning in anticipation of vacation. It was too much to even comprehend. He stood up quickly, leaned against a half wall, and vomited. It was like he wasn’t even awake. Like another dream. Except without vultures, although he wouldn’t be surprised if they were circling above his head right at this very moment. He took one last look at the bodies of his family and staggered down the street.

He collapsed into the dirt behind a corner store and spotted a pistol lying a few feet away. Then the thoughts flooded into his mind and he knew. Everything suddenly made sense. He crawled towards the hot black metal and felt his shaking fingers curl around the grip. He slumped down onto the ground with his back on the cool brick and studied the gun, turning it over in his hands. His eyes were blurred with tears as he brought the muzzle to rest in his mouth. Allah would forgive him. Then the wall was painted red.

The sins of the father were paid. The stones had bled.

Teresa had woken early that morning and busied herself making fresh huevos rancheros, which her entire family consumed with gusto. She seemed more herself that morning, even humming to herself as she loaded the plates and poured the coffee. Matias kissed her on the cheek and pinched the earlobes of both of his daughters. The stench of smoke had finally begun to clear out and it felt like a new life was beginning. He had gone down the road and bought ten buckets of seeds, spending the last of their cash on a dream and a prayer. He knew there would be strawberries again in that field.

He spent the afternoon walking the rows of dirt, dragging a rake and lifting his thanks to Our Lady. Only three lengths could be seeded today, but that was enough. He’d plant three more tomorrow. And the next day. Until it was finished. This was his field. He was wiping the sweat from his brow when a white man jumped out of a truck and walked towards him. Immediately the hairs stood up on his neck and his protective beast growled inside of him.

“Hola!”

“Hello,” he nodded at the approaching man.

“English?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Do you work here?”

“Yes, until they burned the fields. Everyone left. It’s just me and my family here.”

“Oh really? But you are planting the field?”

“Yes. Of course. Life goes on.”

The man laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkled pleasantly.

“You are quite the man. What is your name?”

“Matias.”

“Well, Matias, I’m Rick.”

They shook hands. Like equals. He felt his body relax as he recognized that he wasn’t in danger.

“I am taking over ownership of this farm. Starting fresh.”

“Oh,” he clenched the handle of his rake.

“And I want you to work for me. As a manager.”

“Manager, huh?”

“Absolutely. You can oversee the planting and manage a team. Do you want to do that?”

He hesitated for a moment and looked over his shoulder to see his wife on the porch, watching them.

“I pay well Matias. You and your family will be taken care of.” He glanced over at Teresa.

“Si. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

“Great! I’ll be back on Monday. We’ll start work then.”

“Thank you.”

They shook hands again and Rick walked back to his truck. Matias looked up into the afternoon sky and smiled. There were no images of riches in his mind, only thoughts of love and gratitude. He waved to his wife and gave her a thumbs up sign, then turned back to the dirt. Kneeling in the freshly turned earth, he felt the blessings warm his skin and Our Lady standing there beside him. He scooped up a handful and brought it to his lips.

His field was a blessed field. This he knew for certain.

Copyright(c) 2014 by Talent Writers

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