The
sound was like a scythe cutting through air followed by a thunderous rumble.
People perked up in the ruined streets like prey, eyes stretching wide in
alarm. Women grabbed children, men grabbed women, and they ran. They scurried
into buildings—former homes, shops, schools—and bolted down to the dugouts
within them. Some reached safety in time before the airstrike dropped its bombs.
Others
did not.
Kashif’s
mother threw her boy into the building. Hands pulled him in over the threshold
and slammed the double doors shut.
But
that did nothing.
Light,
bright and wrathful, poured in from around the frame and between the hinges.
The room briefly illuminated with heaven-like rays before the doors blew
inwards. Everyone shrieked, a crescendo of mortality briefly muted by a chorus
of explosions.
Kashif
watched his mother amidst the light. She reached out to him, feet above the ground,
hovering like an angel. Then a great plume of fire blossomed like a lotus,
engulfing her. The flames roared, licking his flesh before sending him
backwards.
The
men beside him were launched off their feet. Together, the trio sailed until
they hit a wall. The man on his left was crushed by one of the metal doors. The
one on his right managed to shield him. He crumpled atop Kashif, who laid there
dazed.
The
boy’s ears rang. His insides hurt. The weight of the man made it impossible to
breathe. Grunting, he shoved with his skinny arms, moving the limp form just
enough to wiggle free. He took a peek at the man, who was still.
He
didn’t look hurt. But sometimes the dead never did. He saw when they were
scavenging once, coming across a bloated ashen girl. She rested like a fallen
stone cherub, milky unfaltering stare captivated by oblivion. Concussive shock,
his mother muttered when he asked. He wanted her to explain what that was and
she shook her head, growing somber, removing the girl’s shoes that were now
his.
Suddenly,
the man coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth, marking Kashif’s pointy face. He
wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and staggered away as the man
gurgled. He locked gazes with him. Panic coupled with resignation. They both
knew the man was going to die.
Kashif
emitted a low whimper before erupting in tears. He limped outside, ignoring the
pain in his chest and the flowing sticky wetness under his nose.
“Mama!”
He cried, entering a void of hot dust.
The haze was thick. Grey
and orange filtered his vision through a white layer of dust from disintegrated
concrete. Wincing, Kashif coughed, expelling the particles that wanted to
settle in his lungs. Ruby droplets coated his tongue. He lifted his t-shirt
over his nose and let his eyes water.
Towers
of smoke danced to the great blue sky, undulating in time with flames. Smoke
and fire intertwined, flirting with one another before parting briefly. They
would always rejoin, embracing playfully. Wispy fingers beckoned the boy to
have fun with them, but he refused.
He
needed to find his mother.
The
crackling fire was punctuated by screams. “Mama?” His head snapped to each
sound, struggling to see who it belonged to. But the harder he squinted, the
more he realized he didn’t want to see.
Figures appeared from the
dusty fog, misshapen monsters. A weeping female figure shambled towards him,
reaching out, but missing a hand. With a small cry, he turned around to see
another form pulling itself along by the arms. There were no legs trailing
behind, only a crimson trail.
Kashif
shrieked, running and crying for his mother. He ran through the street, now
hell’s forge. Hot embers and ash peppered the ground. He was thankful for the
rubber soles protecting his feet. Shadows moved within the fog, becoming
exaggerated silhouettes that looked like bouncing imps. The boy passed a cluster
of little demons, seeing they were in actuality a man digging at a fresh heap
of ruin, shouting names at it.
He ran
up to the man. Kashif tugged on his robe. The man looked at him for a moment,
and then turned back to the quiet rubble. Kashif screamed, tugging harder. The
man backhanded him, sending him to the ground.
“My
daughter!” He yelled, throwing his hands at the collapsed home. “My wife! I
must find them! Help or leave!”
The
boy put a hand to his stinging cheek. Pitch figures slunk from the ruin. The
man was oblivious to them, continuing to dig as their red, glowing eyes found
Kashif’s. With long fingers, they pointed at him before shooting straight up
like dark pillars. He scrambled to his feet and fled, hyperventilating until
the world spun. With a gasping breath, he collapsed.
He
landed face-down on soiled earth. He heaved, coughing. This time the pain in
his chest was electric. His tiny body jolted. After a moment, he realized with
shame that he had wet himself. He
coughed again. A gout of blood pushed up from his throat. Whimpering, he sat
up, forcing himself to his knees. He took a shaky breath, noticing the hot
acrid smoke suddenly smelling of incense.
“Kashif …”
The boy started and
looked up when he heard his mother’s voice. “Muh-mah—” In the heat of the
desert on fire, he froze.
His mother was astride a
horse.
It was a massive horse,
unlike any of the ones he had seen before. This was not the sleek horses of the
sands. No, the beast was large and muscular like it could move mountains. That,
and it was a sickly colour. Green and grey, like rotting meat. Like all the
bodies that had been dragged from ruins after they started to stink. It chomped
on its bit revealing a bloated, bruised tongue.
His mother stared down at
him, her eyes as milky and faraway as the dead girl’s had been. With horror, he
noticed the burns. Her flesh melted and split, disfiguring her once
blemish-less skin. Her arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Her right leg was
missing at the knee.
“Stand, my son,” she said, her lips moving unnaturally.
Kashif rose, putting his
hands in front of the wet stain, embarrassed and frightened. Whatever this
animated flesh was, it was not his mother. There was no kindness, no love, but
a vast emptiness.
She held out her good
arm, bending down. “Come with me.”
He shook his head, taking
a step back, seeing that the horse had a mass of shadows circling at its iron shoes.
“No.” He said meekly.
The rider’s hand remained
outstretched. “Come, Kashif. I have found
you. Let me take you away from here.”
A wild neighing from
behind caused him to jump. He looked over his shoulder. There reared another
horse on its back legs, kicking its front hooves boastfully. It too was unlike
any he had seen before. Its coat was redder than flame and wetter than blood. It
donned armour, like a warhorse. The only thing that was familiar about it was
its slender Arabian build. This was a desert horse.
He saw men on the street
behind the red horse as if they were a moving backdrop. The men were armed. The
muzzles of their guns flashed and more people screamed. Survivors were gunned
down. Kashif felt the corners of his lips twitch into a grin when the man who
hit him crumpled to the ground, at last reuniting with his daughter and wife.
“Hurry!”
The
rider on the first horse urged.
That was another thing
Kashif noticed—the crimson horse had no rider.
The red steed dropped to
all fours and the ground trembled. It let out heavy breaths, nostrils flaring. Gun
smoke trailed from its nose and mouth. With a soft whicker, the horse bowed its
head and bent its front legs forward.
The invitation to climb
on its back was clear.
Be
my rider, Kashif, he could hear it say. Live another day.
“Only to die another,” the
first rider interrupted his thoughts. He turned back to it, seeing no longer
his mother, but a great hooded figure. He tried to look for a discernable
feature, but couldn’t. It was like staring into an abyss. Kashif backed further
away from the first horse and its rider, finally spinning around to bolt to the
crimson steed.
The scent of oil and
copper assaulted his olfactory system. He pulled himself into the saddle,
gripping the reins. He had never been on a horse before, but the creature knew
what to do. It faced the men with guns and confidently trotted towards them.
Kashif pressed against the beast, scared, but they cheered at red horse’s
approach. The boy let out a sigh of relief as the men welcomed him, too. He
looked over his shoulder.
The rider, his horse, and
merciful offer were gone.
Still, he stared after
them.
And until his last
breath, always would.
I was invited to
write this story for an unrealism anthology that will be published later this
year. Since I have permission to post this on my blog, I'm sharing this now.
Once I have details regarding the e-book I will post them.
This story was inspired by the travesty in Aleppo. Many times civilians are
forced to make a decision between death and joining radicals to live another
day. Hopefully I have given the subject matter justice, because that's nothing
I can do for the people there.
The image isn't mine
and I don't know who it belongs to. Let me know and I can add credit. Thanks!
