An excerpt
By Abdullah Yousef
The field outstretched before him looked familiar, reminiscent of past battles in cities and villages that also had their living reduced to a hovel. As soon as Omar stepped foot within firing range, he was met with a volley of it from all but where he came from. He’d had but a second when encountering this many enemies to reach just one of them, and still must shrug off several that hit his body. He heard Walter’s voice in the back of his head, a sarcastic “Wonderful” usually succeeded by horrific retaliation by the enemy. The closest group of three was a few hundred yards away, so he pounced forth for them. He jabbed his sword into one, impaling the man through the middle of his chest. Omar felt that if he shifted this new sword too much he’d tear him in half, steadying his grip as he used the gun in his other hand to shoot the next closest to him. Intestines flew into the air as he stepped forward and hit the third in less than a second with the back of the gun, firing at him once he fell. The blood of the impaled soldier stained him. His last breath reeked onto Omar’s face; blood poured from his lips down to his killers’ chest. Omar was twisting him to block incoming fire. He took his sword out the way it came and shoved his left arm into the open wound holding the corpse up from his innards, there was a solid grip in his ribcage.
Omar still had to endure four…no, eight bullets that pierced him, some broke into shards and scathed him but others were placed in his back and shoulder debilitating his movement. Yet he endured, biting into the dead Russian’s shirt collar. He felt the blow of each shot despite the adrenaline, running with his meat shield. He threw his sword as far as he could in the direction of the enemy like a spear, and targeted each group over the corpse’s shoulder firing across the square. Each shot caused an explosion decimating several on various levels. Omar saw that when the explosive bullets from his old pistol landed in open space, the results were much more devastating than he remembered. The shield he held up withered, hundreds of bullets turned a fresh corpse into a ragged scarecrow of a corpse, flopping about with enough holes Omar could see through it.
He abandoned the fellow by throwing him at a set of soldiers still reloading, since his weight had decreased dramatically. He grabbed his sword from the floor, charging again. Omar hadn’t healed, but he had nowhere to take cover. One swing of his sword in the shape of a crescent sawed into the middle of the rifle closest to him, causing it to blow up in the enemy’s face. Omar tackled and held him up running in the direction of where he heard more gunfire until he hit another soldier causing both to tip over and fall. He could get two in one if he slashed them both, crawling on the ground helpless, one with a burned face groaning in pain.
He raised his sword, his hands eventually giving in and unable to push through the agony. The metal struck the ground, it was about as loud as Omar’s cursing realizing he missed one of the soldiers, now shooting at him with a fearful scream. His whole upper body was repeatedly punctured, one bullet burst through the side of his neck. His veins almost burst, each glowing with a beaming light that flowed in cycles. The glowing reached his neck and scattered like tree roots across his face, merging with his eyes. The soldier’s magazine was empty. The Russian clicked his trigger wide eyed, too mortified to grasp why the Arab didn’t die. The Russian saw the massive body rise, the bullets falling from his wounds like drops of water. The enemy tried to reload but had nothing left. His sweat drenched the rifle in his hands, his jaw shivering. This can’t be a mortal man; he must have thought. That had to be enough to kill him, yet here he was marching forth, bloodlust plenty in his crystal eyes. His wounds now closed faster than before, letting out a repressed howl from the burning sensation. Power of that kind didn’t come without a painful cost.
The Russian brandished a knife in a last fit of courage, dropping his rifle to the floor. He stood there, grasping it with both hands charging at the demon a few feet away. All the Captain had to do was grab his left arm, snapping it like a stick that was the plaything of a child. The knife dropped from the Russian’s hand and landed in Omar’s, who impaled it in the soldier’s abdomen.
They both fell to the ground. Omar looked up with a still-injured neck to see more weapons, laying on the ground where he was yet to kill anyone. He scoffed as he stood back up.
Once back up the blood was dry, his vest shredded. He walked over to pick up his sword, then his gun towards the middle of the square. In the catharsis of surviving yet again he observed his beloved tools of destruction, his pistol and sword he’d named Sköll and Hati. After years of sitting in a locked chest he’d entrusted to a friend, the smoothness with which they operated told that they were cleaned and oiled regularly.
that they were cleaned and oiled regularly.
He looked at the sky, then behind him where he could spot the top of the minaret. It was exactly midday. He walked forward and his breathing got heavier, letting out just a bit more hope that someone would be brave enough for what needed to be done.
Then, the resounding call to prayer came. Omar smiled and looked down, imagining the face attached to the brave voice that dared to give the call to prayer at such a time. The fountain still had water in it, but it was fetid. Unsuitable for ablution. Luckily, his faith allowed for the use of dry dirt or sand in its place. He performed the ritual cleansing, scrubbing with patches of sand the blood that still stained his arms and chest. He knew where north was, so he turned accordingly and commenced the prayer.
Omar’s ears were still blown out, but now that proved to his benefit. He could pray in peace and remember all those he loved that he prayed for each time he prostrated before God. While his head touched the ground he prayed for his beloved wife, for her comfort and relief after what they’d just been through. He prayed for Walter and Arno, for Cyrus, and all his brothers he’d lost. Above all, he whispered pleading that he will get to see his daughter in paradise.
As he stood up for the final fourth of his prayer, a blade blew through his stomach. The blood began to gush, a second passed before he threw his elbow back into the face of the perpetrator. It was one of the men who ran. He tore out the bayonet and jumped the stunned Russian, stabbing him repeatedly in his neck as he turned red with rage. When the life exited this one, Omar looked around to see he was alone.
He stood back up, turned to where he was just before he was stabbed, and restarted his prayer over again, as the steam rose from his guts that sowed itself back together.
This time, he finished without interruption. When his hearing returned, Omar realized that the sounds of explosions and gunfire were much less frequent than when he first arrived. Another sound was coming closer, he recognized it. He set Hati deep in the dirt and sat in the middle of the square with Sköll in hand to heal further. A few minutes passed, the ground shook with stones bouncing with some landing in Omar’s lap. There was a large stone wall where Omar gutted the last Russian. He heard running, something akin to a stampede.
He continued looking at it until it fell, exploding from one end. The perpetrator was kneeling, regaining his footing after bursting through it. His blonde hair was now grey with ash, his white shirt soaked in blood and intestines like he bathed in it. Bruford walked barehanded to Omar once he saw him. The German’s eyes were branching with the same-colored veins as him.
“How many?” Bruford said with a hoarse tone.
“I don’t count.”
“Haha! What happened to the Wulver I once knew? I see eight just here.”
“There were more, but they ran in your direction. You took care of them?”
“Maybe. Some had no weapons, so catching them was a hassle. Where’s your Nubian friend?”
Omar looked up to the mountains to where Cyrus’ first flare shot had come from, then east until he met a twinkle from his scope.
“He’s looking at us now. Could have helped when I was trying to pray in peace just now,” he said ever so coldly in his tone knowing Cyrus could hear him, with Bruford squinting where he’d pointed for him and made a child-like wave with his giant palm. A bullet was shot by their feet, which they took as an answer equivalent to “I was busy.”
Omar stood back up, mostly recovered. He tore off the ruined army vest, taking from it what was left. Twelve more rounds for Sköll, his cigar box, and the last flare gun still intact. The metal cigarette box was broken at the hinge. He tilted it and saw everything inside gone.
“Shit.”
“What a shame.”
“Let’s keep moving, we still have the other side of the river to get to.”
They turned to where they hadn’t crossed yet and ran. They heard another flare shot and watched the sky looking for the color. Yellow smoke. That means half of them are gone, either killed by Omar and Bruford within the village or shot from afar by Cyrus’ rifle whilst fleeing.
“About a hundred and fifty left, give or take. I don’t see anymore,” Omar said in a low voice, talking to himself.
As they ran west to cross the bridge, they began seeing civilians exiting their homes. None were young men. Women, children, and elders began to come out thinking the battle was over, when Omar knew the rest of the Russian soldiery collected at the west end hiding, not risking open battle anymore. He looked around trying to conjure whatever words of Turkish he learned in passing. He had nothing but gibberish, so he resorted to Arabic.
“STAY IN YOUR HOMES, IT ISN’T OVER! STAY IN HIDING IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!” he yelled, as loud as he could to make sure as many as possible heard. His voice was a lively roar in a place where even the air itself flowed like it was near the end of its term. He couldn’t stick around to check if they listened or understood what he was saying, for they could only interpret what they saw: him, the infamous Levantine running shirtless with a sword and pistol in hand, and a European giant drenched in blood tailing him.
Bruford laughed as they ran. “It’s great to have you back, Herr Braun!”