Right now he's just another young man walking down his street, through his hometown, near the city, and no one is looking at him. No second glances or resentful eyes. With his coins in hand and a bulky back pocket, seemingly another young man walking to the bus stop.
Depositing our clutter a while back, we are left bare but for the rifles in hand, and belts of gunpowder and gauze. I smile to the newbie handing me some lunch, but ignore him nonetheless. I'm sat next to a chain link fence, not too far in front are the severed heads of men. Men with families back home, men who have endured torture and primordial behaviour, men who have been shamed at death; the smell of war emanating. I take a mouthful of pasteurised food and wash it down willingly with water.
He's pacing, pacing and the clicks and clacks of shoes bounce from the tarmac, a far cry from the dust on his so called ‘blister boots’. No one else is there.
Swallowing us hole as the sun goes down, we move to the rooftops of single story houses. Nestled with my back in a corner of the space, almost too perfect to snipe from. With gaps in the red brick walls that seamlessly protrude from the same dusty ground. As if they rose from it. I deal the cards and upturn one. People around me ramble on, I should be listening to their anecdotes of family and fortune, but I'm elsewhere. Perhaps even - across no man's land where the others fight on. I can hear every gunshot and the fallen lives as they fill the air. Sounds that could almost be fireworks, but fireworks echo; bullets don't echo.
4 miles due east, driving straight towards his location is the bus; approximately xyz minutes away. Probably late.
Left of me the wall erupts; flecks of dust conceal the air. Glancing round I see it missed us all by about a meter and a half, unless it was rogue.
That could have been at me. I look Tim in the eye and we laugh it off, a deep throaty giggle. But that could have been aimed at me. I'll just slink back behind a wall for a few minutes, to be safe. And I do, shuffling to the recesses of the rooftop.
He stands to attention as the bus rolls in, but it isn't his. He stands down. Taken back a beat, he resumes his march, back and forth. Pacing, rhythmic. Beats.
Ahead of us is Mosque and a water tower, hot white against the cold blue sky. Encircled by a dusty red village, enticing our human convoy nearer the billowing smog. Diesel fires vaporizing the oxygen, a harrowing assault on my senses. Bitter to taste, thick to breathe. Dense. Hot. I cannot decipher what way is north, all my bearings have slipped into the smoke.
It's dawn as he waits – the bus long overdue – and so his intentions are on walking toe to heel along imaginary parallel lines.
Tied to the tip of Tim’s gun ahead is a threadbare yellow bandana, the edges crusted with sweat from his brow, and blood from his boots.
I'm running now, head down low. My fingertips scrape the prickles of wheat. The thicket of rampage across the land where no men walk reaches a perpetual high. I smile to my group and await it all.
Now awaiting the bus for the 120th consecutive minute, he refuses to settle down and hasn't rested since the false alarm. Perfectly patient, the bus is always on the way. He is basking in the solitude.
I’ve taken to sitting on the ground, despite the tacky mud and swarming rain. The floor has worn away over time, walked into a ditch through the center of the footpath, barely noticeable. On the other side of the road are the new volunteers; clean shaven and unscathed, they wander in loops as they wait.
Myself and the other British men lean on each other, some are reading, some whistling. We play blackjack. I close my eyes, tired of following the skittish men pace. The bus will take us far from here, soon enough. The stagnant life breathes for a moment, an older man I know well speaks;
"When I was dropped off at the pickup point, the first thing I saw was a young man in a cap and joggers" he pauses to pull a string of meat from his tooth.
"And the first thing I said to him was-" I interject forcefully "You see this tattoo – and you pulled your collar down – remember it!"
Tim elbowed me in the ribs and signaled me silent, I carry on: "because if I'm beheaded I want you to find me" Then, almost content, he lifted the corner of his mouth, nodded, winked, and took a drag. And reshuffled the cards in hand.
Author Bio:
Phoebe Rose Fantham Bastock is an unpublished and amateur short fiction writer currently studying in second year English and Creative Writing student at Newman university, aiming develop skills and confidence in getting original creative writing published and working toward professional editing skills.
Photo by Anthony Intraversato on Unsplash