The Myrmecoleon - Narrative Sample (1/2 of chapter 1)

[RolandH]

           CHAPTER 1

             It was raining again.

             Shango could smell it in the hot air before he felt the droplets from the holes in the canvas roof. It was the acrid smell worming its way through the slits in the tent that had woken him in the first place, just like it always woke him when the wind changed direction. Despite his youth, he often wondered why it rained the way it did.

            Are the fields burning again? Or did they never stop?

            It had rained on and off for the better part of three months. Nearly as long as his refugee camp had stood. News had reached the camp just before the rains began that the fighting had crossed the Red Sea. Despite the flaunted affluence of the neighboring nations’ rulers, they could not buy a way out. Not for their countries, and not for themselves. 

            Shango twisted under his blanket. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or night, but he didn’t want to get up. It felt like morning to him, but the sky through the plastic sheet window was low and an inky black. The only light came from the fires around the camp and the few defiant butterscotch rays of sunlight refusing to yield to the encroaching darkness.

            Not yet awake, but not truly asleep, Shango pushed himself deeper into his pillow and listened. Beneath the sounds of the rain and distant thunder were other noises. The sounds of other lives, as unique as each drop of falling rain, filled the camp.

            In the distance, a stray dog began to bark. It was faint beneath the sound of the wind and rain, but its voice was determined and strong. It barked angrily at some far-off, great violation of its territory. 

            “How far are you?” Shango drowsily said to himself. “Are you safe?”

            Shango laid still and listened to the rhythm of the dog’s barking. He couldn’t tell if the dog was inside the fence or out. Its throaty roars seemed ethereal to his tired mind. He heard shouting that seemed just as far away before the dog suddenly yelped in pain.

            “I guess he’s inside.”

            He rolled under his blanket and listened to the sounds from the other direction. Other noises hid beneath the pouring rain. The low rumble of vehicle engines hummed from somewhere across the camp. Some drove by, while others idled in the rain. In the distance, a sudden thud broke the monotony of the passing convoy. Shango let out a drowsy, content giggle as he remembered the hole he and his brother dug the day before.

            Closer inside the camp, the sounds of other families began to grow.

            Cloth rustled as adults dressed and prepared themselves for waiting in line for rations. Kindling popped as wet and dry wood gave new life to the dying fires of the previous night. In one tent, a woman sniffled and struggled to stifle her sorrowful tears. Shango couldn’t tell if she was crying because she was hurt or because she was sad. It made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of when his mother cried.

            He pushed his memories aside as he heard the stamping of feet. It wasn’t the heavy, booted steps from patrols or the wellness checks the adults feared. The steps were numerous and light in both weight and worry. He recognized them as the sandaled feet of other children. The children ran by, giggling, before the single irritated peacekeeper giving chase shouted and ran by as well. His heavy, booted steps contrasted with the soft footfalls that fled from him, before both sounds disappeared into the rain.

            Shango laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. He heard sounds from every direction. He smiled as he heard the barking return, just as defiant and strong as before. The dog seemed to bark with a rhythm that matched the rain. A bark, then silence. A bark, then silence. Shango began to feel sleep overtake him again. He didn’t want to fight it. More sleep meant more dreams. 

            He jolted awake as a single gunshot thundered through the camp. At its arrival, everything else was silenced. There were no other noises to hear – no barking of dogs, no sandaled steps, no rain – only the reverberations of the dry, definitive crack. Shango worried he would never hear the dog bark again.

            As soon as the echoes of the gunshot were replaced by the gentle falling of the rain, the familiar barking began once again.

            “It must have been someone else…”

            Shango grumbled as he sat up, careful not to disturb the dirt floor, and groggily rubbed his eyes.

            “I guess I’m up now,” he said before stretching. “Heeeyyyy, moooommmmm?”

            Shango looked around and realized he was alone. He wasn’t sure if he had overslept again. He grabbed his raincoat and walked out of the tent to search for his mother. With each sandaled step, the sound of his walking disappeared under the falling rain.

--- 

            On the far side of the storm and in a distant camp, a man sat alone and struggled to calm himself. He stared out of one olive drab tent and into another. His green eyes mirrored the hue of the beret tucked beneath the camouflaged vest that bore his name.

            Maddox.

            His anger was rising. He tried to silence his mind the only way he could think of. He grabbed a fistful of ammunition and began loading another magazine. His hands moved themselves while his mind reflexively reviewed what he had accomplished. It has been four years, six months, and 25 days. Almost 1,700 days of doing whatever he could to keep himself and those around him alive. And not always in that order. Despite his best efforts, it had all led to this moment. Sitting alone in a dimly lit tent, nearly ankle-deep in water that could hold a flame. 

            Even with no one else around, the tent felt emptier than it appeared. His tired eyes glanced around self-consciously, almost pleadingly, for familiar faces. In the past, there would have been other soldiers and friends. Each man and woman would load their magazines and triple-check their gear with the same military precision that could only be born from repeating the same task hundreds of times in unison. Maddox had once found comfort in the dull monotony, but just like the friendly faces that once sat beside him, it was now gone. 

            He knew when the first reports came that bombs had fallen across the United States that it would be a different kind of war, but he still couldn’t believe it had come to this. Just because a man with stars on his shoulders believed there wasn’t anything to go back to, no one to answer to, didn’t mean they couldn’t work to build something new. At a bare minimum, let them try to settle the score. 

            Everything inside the tent and inside his mind made Maddox angry, but outside was no better. Vehicles and sentries lifelessly shuffled beneath flickering pole lights, just as they always had. Sentries relieved their brothers every four hours, while trucks ferried the wounded and dead through the camp for processing. But now, the numbers were reversed. There were too few sentries and too many trucks. The realization made Maddox audibly growl. He knew how far he could push his temper.

            Might as well go all in.

            He directed his gaze back to the command tent as one truck broke ranks from a passing convoy. Beneath the pouring rain, several visibly dirty soldiers hopped out. Maddox knew without looking at their faces who would be in their ranks. He loathed them. They were men who served a man instead of a nation or ideal. Men in name only. 

            The soldiers opened the back of the truck and greedily retrieved its cargo. They hadn’t acquired supplies or equipment on their journey. The truck was filled with collections of pots, masks, and carved trinkets, seemingly at random. There was no rhyme or reason to what was stored in the back of the truck, or why the soldiers should have taken them in the first place. The relics held little monetary value, especially in a war, but they remained priceless relics to their creators and descendants. 

            The soldiers grabbed as much of the looted culture as they could carry and entered the command tent. A lieutenant general greeted them personally. He accepted the treasures with covetous eyes. The sight was more than Maddox could take. He slammed his hand into a nearby radio. He needed a distraction, anything to fill his mind.

            The radio meekly coughed to life and acquired a weak signal. Maddox didn’t know if it was due to the storm or lack of satellites, but he didn’t care. Even white noise was welcome. 

            “Zzztt —ave pushed through into Africa by way of the Gulf of Aden and in— zzztt —bouti City. The oily rains affecting the area are believed to be caused by the detonations over Sau— zzztt —bia.”

            “Hmph,” Maddox grunted to himself. He could have told them that.

            “There’s actual— zzztt —ome holiday cheer for our listeners in eastern Africa. Current projections show that debris from the I.S.S. will mix with an income— zzztt —eor shower. So, hope for a break in the weather and look zzztt stars tonight for a show. This is zzztt reporting for zzztt —orld news, wishing you a Merry Christmas and happy holidays. And now jazz!”

             Maddox kept his back bent and body tense as he loaded magazines without looking and listened to music without hearing. His eyes would have burned a hole through the command tent if he’d had the ability to do so. It took a conscious effort, but he forced himself to stay ignorant of the moment and tune out everything but the music. He didn’t find peace, but it was close enough for him. He was oblivious to the world around him.

            “If I didn’t know any better,” a voice said from behind. “I’d say you didn’t like that man.”

            Maddox hadn’t seen or heard anyone enter the tent, but he knew the sarcastic voice from the dark behind him. He continued to rhythmically load his magazines while he stared into the far tent.

            “You do realize you finished loading your magazines almost 80 rounds ago, right?”

            Maddox paused and checked the baseplate of the magazine in his hands. Unlike the magazines in his vest, it didn’t have any stripes of scarlet paint on it. He lackadaisically tossed it and the two other magazines beside him across the tent. He didn’t know whose magazines they were, and he didn’t care. The odds of the owner still being around were slim. Maddox stood and turned to address the man behind him. He had his distraction now.

            “What brings you out from hiding?”

            Maddox stood at his full height as he addressed the man. Maddox was large and muscular. Few people were comfortable around him without knowing how he might behave. One of the best ways for Maddox to clear his mind was to exercise, but it had other benefits beyond numbing his thoughts. If he couldn’t outshoot or outmarch something, he could usually beat it into submission. 

            “I need you to co-sign on my car loan,” the man said with a veiled smile. 

            Maddox laughed long and deeply. The quip entertained him far more than it had any right to. With each hearty laugh, he softened. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that kind of irreverent humor. It had few sources, and the only reliable one was the man standing beside him.

            The man leaned against a post supporting the roof of the tent and pulled back the hood of his rain poncho to reveal his smiling face. While Maddox appeared tired, unshaven, muscular, and militaristic, his counterpart was the opposite. He was clean-shaven, thin, and his eyes were forever receptive to what was around him. He wore glasses, and his hair was combed into a businesslike style. He refused to adopt a military appearance and surrender his individuality. 

            Instead of a rifle, a camera wrapped in a plastic bag was slung around his neck. His left hand eternally cradled the lens. Most of his body was hidden under the rain poncho, but signs of battle were still evident to attentive eyes. 

            Small scars cut across the left side of his face and above his eye, memories of shrapnel partially blocked by an object held to his face. Unlike everyone else in the camp, he did not wear a visible uniform or any means of clear identification. He believed if someone’s allegiance was too visible, they’d inevitably become a target faster. Maddox rarely ever referred to the man by his name in order to protect the lives and allegiances of both. 

            His clothes were a patchwork of scavenged and stolen articles of clothing. Each piece had been meticulously appraised and appropriated from unsuspecting and undeserving parties. On his right leg, barely visible beneath the folds of his rain poncho, a freshly acquired pistol was holstered to his thigh. His right hand hovered nearby, even inside the military camp. Maddox had yet to hear the story behind it, but he knew it likely involved a now dead officer. He often wondered, “Can someone with a kill count still call themselves a photographer?”

            When Maddox’s laughter finally subsided, each man greeted the other with a melancholy smile. Without his guard up, Maddox’s weariness began to show through. He looked smaller. 

            “Any news?” Maddox said.

            The photographer’s face hardened. He retrieved a crumpled, partially wet envelope from his pocket, never changing his grip on the camera, and presented it to Maddox. 

            “I got one. It’s dated three months ago, and you wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get it. Rutgey’s got damn near the whole camp operating on his system.”

            Maddox growled and the corner of his mouth twitched into a scowl at the mention of the name. It didn’t matter how busy he was devouring the contents of the letter, he would make time to vent his feelings for that name.

            “I, um… I hope you don’t mind. I went ahead and wrote in what’s probably beneath the black ink. It was already opened.”

            Despite their friendship, the photographer worried how Maddox might respond. The contents were meant only for him.

            “No,” Maddox said wholeheartedly. “No, it’s nice to be able to read these.”

            Maddox finished reading the letter and closed his eyes. He paused to drink in the words and moments it contained, safely committing them to memory, before giving the photographer his full attention. 

            “Are things really this bad?”

            “From what I can weasel out, yeah. Honestly, it sounds like both sides are running out of things to lose. You keep yourself above ground, you just might make E6 by the end of the year.”

            It was gallows humor. Both men knew it wouldn’t happen. It wasn’t just that the rank held no point. Only one man made decisions inside their camp. 

            Maddox carefully folded the letter and placed it under his vest.

            “Keep it close, keep it safe,” the photographer said. “But would it be safer hidden away?”

            “I’ll take care of it. But, thank you.”

            “Bah. Don’t mention it. It keeps me sharp.”

            “Still, I appreciate it.”

            A mischievous smirk crept up one side of the photographer’s face. Maddox noticed.

            Ah crap.

            “Well, then you can show your appreciation by not throwing a fit after this next sentence. I just did the rounds, and it sounds like Rutgey’s about to request the pleasure of your company.”

            Maddox voiced his displeasure with a low growl. His posture subconsciously reverted back to combative. 

            “What happened to Captain Darcey?”

            The photographer’s smirk transformed into a sadistic, satisfied smile.

            “Ah, yes,” the photographer said fondly. There was a coldness behind his eyes. He retrieved a small, elongated metal object from his sleeve, like a magician revealing his card, and held it up to catch the light. “It seems the good captain didn’t inspect his rifle adequately. He wasn’t able to defend himself from the locals he so enjoyed the company of.”

            He tucked the firing pin back into his sleeve for later. Spare parts were always needed. Especially for someone like him.

            “I’ll tell you, it’s impressive what these women can do with a brick.”

            “You know you can’t save them all,” Maddox said. “They’re going to catch wind someday.”

            The photographer’s smile vanished in an instant. Friend or not, Maddox knew better than to challenge him on the subject.

            “No, I don’t. And no, they won’t. A reputation will only precede you if you leave survivors.”

            “You know that’s not what I mean. If you—”

            Both men turned their attention to the entrance as a truck blared its horn. An officer from the command tent was approaching. He struggled to walk through the thick mud, failing miserably to keep himself dry under his umbrella. 

            As the officer entered, he lowered his umbrella and shook off the clinging rain. The motion obscured his vision into the tent. 

            “Sergeant Maddox," the officer said. "General Rutgey wants to speak with you in the command tent at once for an upcoming assignment.”

            Maddox glanced to his side and flashed his own smirk. His friend was already gone. Maybe he had left the tent, maybe he was still inside somewhere and watching. Maddox never really knew at first. 

            “Tell the lieutenant general I’ll be there in a moment.”

            “General Rutgey says at once, Sergeant.”

            Maddox followed the aide without a word. For a lonesome tent, a meager cloth structure meant to house the brains of a combative force, their destination reeked of menace. It was not because of its construction, it was nothing more than a hastily assembled hexagon in the center of auxiliary tents. The entire construction looked like a lopsided X from the air. The menace radiated from what someone saw and felt as they approached. 

            As Maddox obediently followed the officer, walking when he walked and stopping when he stopped, he took in what he could from his surroundings. Just because he was inside the barbed wire fences didn’t mean he was safe.

            Despite it being early morning, the paths through camp were illuminated solely by flickering lights. Generators belched hot, visible exhaust as cooling rain fell across them. Fuel was in short supply, but they used what was needed to keep the generators running.

            The two men stopped at an intersection as another convoy crossed the camp. Trucks struggled to maintain traction in the thick mud. Maddox heard crying to his right and glanced to the side. He knew what he would see, but still stared. Members of the local populace were detained and caged for some unforgivable, unknown transgression.

            What was your crime? Did you conspire with the enemy? Did you steal food? Or did you just catch the eye of someone who wanted to earn another stripe on their shoulder?

            The only comfort for the prisoners was that they were caged alongside their peers. Each group was separated by gender and approximate age. Each cage was open to the elements to allow for quick viewing and access. Those inside huddled together for whatever protection and comfort they could find. Some pushed their backs and arms against the chain link walls to be as close as possible to their friends and family. The only commonality between them was their faces, their eyes. From the oldest man to the youngest child, no one looked up. They were all resigned to their new lives.

            “Took them long enough,” the officer said as the convoy finished passing.

            Maddox turned his attention to the officer. He looked feeble and sickly. He struggled to hide under his umbrella. They were doing everything they could to avoid getting their uniform wet and sully their carefully cultivated persona. Maddox stood there, oblivious to the rain and perceived damage to his replaceable uniform, and watched. The officer constantly checked his footing as he crossed the mud laden intersection in a vain attempt to keep his boots clean. Maddox felt pity for the man. The path he chose guaranteed he would dirty himself, no matter what he did. 

            “General Rutgey is waiting, Sergeant.”

            The officer’s tone snapped Maddox back. He did not deserve pity. Not for his appearance or his choice. He knew all about the cages. He knew what was coming as well. 

            Three things greeted anyone who approached the entrance to the command tent. Each time he passed by, even Maddox had no choice but to notice.

            The first was how different the command tent felt. The entire structure felt as though it didn’t belong. It loomed in the center of the camp and emanated a sense of terrible otherness. It felt extraneous. It wasn’t until the photographer used the word to describe the tent and explained its meaning that Maddox could put the word to what he felt.

            The second thing that stood out was the protection around the tent. Two armed sentries stood guard at the main entrance and another six circled the structure on dedicated patrols. By order of the lieutenant general, it was the only structure inside the camp that needed constant protection. Unlike the barracks, triage tent, and armory, what was contained inside was deemed of utmost value. There were guards outside the camp and there were guards outside the command tent. Maddox and several of the other men couldn’t agree on what that said about them or the officer in charge. 

            The two approached the entrance to the command tent. While the officer showed his identification and answered the sentry’s questions, Maddox had time to examine the third defining feature of the structure. It repulsed him, but he wanted to know. He closed his eyes and briefly listened before turning to look. He could hear the sound of thin metal dancing beneath the rhythm of the falling rain.

            Just outside the command tent, hidden but visible for all to see, were the stocks. The makeshift restraints were little more than a line of posts and chains, but performed their role just as efficiently. And just as always, they were not empty.

            There was only one person, but it was still one too many for Maddox. A fellow soldier was tied to a post with his hands behind his back. His shirt had been ripped away to allow free access to the flesh beneath. No name, insignia, or tattoos were visible. Maddox didn’t recognize the beaten man in the dark corner. For a split-second, he silently panicked, believing it might be his friend finally cornered and made an example of. He killed the emotion with a single thought.

            No. He’d burn everything to the ground before allowing himself to be caught.

            Whoever the man was, he didn’t move. He did not even appear to breathe. The man slouched forward and his head hung limply. If not for the fact his arms were tied to the post, he would have collapsed onto the ground long ago. Even with the rain washing his beaten body, his wounds visibly bled. Maddox took it as a good sign. If life leaked out, then some remained inside. 

            The only sound from the makeshift gallows, the only sign that anything existed from that dark corner of the camp, was the faint “tink… tink… tink” of the man’s dog tags dangling from his throat. The tags spun and danced with each hit of oily, brackish rain.

            “General Rutgey will see you now, Sergeant.”

            “Can’t wait.”