The Hunters (31 page)

With that, Stewart got up and went back to her place on the bare floor. Parson shifted the AK across his knees and thought about Hussein. Did the boy stand any chance of redemption?

Probably not, but you never knew about these things. In Parson's sleep-deprived state, his mind made unlikely connections. Thoughts of Hussein reminded him of a time he'd gone grouse hunting in the hills of West Virginia. Way back in a hollow, he came across an abandoned farmhouse. The porch sagged, and kudzu climbed the clapboard walls.

Parson and his dog, a little English setter named Lucy, had worked hard that day. They'd climbed many a steep, wooded grade, and they'd bagged only one bird. For every mile Parson had walked, Lucy had run three. She stood beside him panting, tongue dripping, tail wagging. Clearly, she needed to drink, but Parson had already given her the last of his water. And in the afternoon of hunting, they had not come across a stream.

However, a few yards from the house, Parson noticed a well. A dented, galvanized bucket hung from a pulley. Kudzu vines encircled the bucket's chain and the stones that surrounded the well shaft. Parson broke open his Browning double-barrel, placed it on the ground, and drew his boot knife. The sharp Damascus blade made quick work of the vines, and soon he disentangled the bucket and chain.

Rust had frozen the pulley, but Parson freed it and began lowering the bucket. As the chain snaked through his hands, his leather and Nomex flight gloves—which doubled as good shooting gloves—became caked with rust. From the darkness far below, he heard a faint splash.

Hand over hand, he pulled the chain back up. Set the water down for Lucy, who had become so thirsty she lapped for five minutes.

Parson wondered if Hussein's mind was like that disused well. If you lowered the bucket far enough, would clean water yet come up?

A
rattle of gunfire pulled Hussein from a deep sleep. At first he could not remember where he was; he looked around in confusion at the inside of the old bunker. The sight of the
gaalos
snapped him back to reality. The report of the rifles brought all of them to their feet. The shots sounded closer than they had last night, though still a good distance away—maybe as far as Hussein could sprint in one go without getting winded. Then he felt the ache of his wound, and he remembered he could not sprint anymore.

Yellow Hair was holding his AK-47 again; she seemed to be the main one on watch. It still irked him to see an infidel—and especially a woman infidel—holding his most prized possession. She might yet pay for that insolence.

Though Hussein did not like waking to captivity, anything was better than his dreams of last night. In his sleep, he had gone back to the day the Sheikh had made him and other boys stone the adulterer. Hussein saw the condemned man buried to his waist, wailing in agony, one of his eyes dangling from its socket as the rocks rained down. Tears and blood streamed across torn cheeks.

However, in the nightmare the man did not simply die—he turned into a vengeful ghoul. This was no jinn, but something worse. The living corpse grew to twice, three times the normal size of a man, and it pulled itself from the ground. Dripping blood and showing his broken teeth, the ghoul came after Hussein. Of all the boys who had stoned the man, why Hussein? Why not one of the other boys? Why not the Sheikh? Perhaps because Hussein had hurled the first stone that hurt him.

Hussein tried to flee, but he could not move fast enough. He had always taken pride in his fleetness of foot. No one could catch him; no other boy could outrun him. Yet he could not get away from this bleeding fiend; Hussein's arms and legs moved as if trying to run through a pit of mud, and his injured foot kept making him fall down.

The ghoul said nothing to him. Through its broken mouth it could not speak. It made only the gurgling sounds of the dying as it placed its broken fingers around Hussein's throat. Somewhere off to the side, Hussein heard another sound: the laughter of the Sheikh and Abdullahi.

Wakefulness came with a flood of relief; the bloody fiend was not real. Still, Hussein feared he would have that same dream again. He had seen things he could never unsee.

The bunker door stood half open, and the first hint of dawn grayed the sky. The infidels were gathering their belongings. Were they going to move again?

What they were not doing was preparing any kind of food. They seemed to have nothing to break their fast, and Hussein found that disappointing. Familiar fingers of hunger pulled at his stomach, and he'd assumed the infidels would feed him again. No matter; he had spent most of his days hungry.

When Hussein sat up, the one called Geedi came over to him. Geedi brought a half-filled water bottle.

“Good morning,” Geedi said in a soft voice. “Do you want a drink of water?”

Hussein held out his hand and took the bottle. He tipped the opening to his lips and took a drink. The water had that same awful taste that supposedly kept you from getting sick. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

“Are we going somewhere?” Hussein asked.

“That is exactly what I want to talk to you about,” Geedi said. “We are going to try to fix our airplane and get out of here. That woman over there,” Geedi added, pointing, “is a famous person in our country. She wants to help you.”

Hussein's mouth dropped open. He looked at the infidel woman with her hair the color of a rusting shipwreck. This was the famous person the Sheikh had wanted? This red-haired mouse who sat in the corner and said nothing?

“To help me what?” Hussein asked.

“To help give you a new life. A life without all this killing and dying.”

“Why would she do this?”

“She is sorry that you were hurt looking for her. But it is more than that. She tries to help people in poor countries.”

Hussein stared at Geedi and blinked. He might have expected all manner of vile deeds from these
gaalos
. If they had torn up a Quran in front of him, that would not have surprised him. If they had tortured him to death, that would not have surprised him. If they had tried to make him renounce his faith, that would not have surprised him.

But
this
? He had believed he remained always one step ahead of them, in thought if not in deed. He had anticipated every possibility, and he was still waiting for them to make a mistake and give him his chance to kill them—except Geedi, perhaps. But he had not for one moment anticipated that they would make an offer like this.

“To give me a new life where?”

“We do not know,” Geedi said. “Not necessarily in America, but possibly. Maybe Europe. Maybe somewhere else in Africa. Anyplace other than Somalia.”

“How can she do this?”

“She is on the board of directors for a refugee organization.”

“A board? What is a board of directors? What is a ref— What is this word?”

“Refugee.”

“What is that?”

“It is you, perhaps.”

“It is an insult word?”

“No, Hussein. It is someone who needs a new life. I would say you qualify.”

Hussein opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself. He might not possess the gift of reading, but he was no fool. He knew when to stop talking. His first impulse was to tell them all to go to
Shaytan
, to go to the devil. But this thing—this miracle from Allah—presented opportunities. He could tell them yes and they might trust him, let their guard down. Perhaps give him a chance to get a weapon and let them all meet
Shaytan
face-to-face. Except for Geedi.

Or, maybe . . . No, this was too much to consider all at once. Hussein could hardly get his mind around the possibilities. Surely this was a time to keep one's thoughts to oneself.

“Let me think about it,” Hussein said.

“You may not have long to think.”

“Why? Are you leaving today?”

“Perhaps. We do not know.”

“Wait—you cannot. I destroyed your airplane. I kept you from taking to the sky. You can go nowhere. Because of
me
.” Hussein slapped his chest with his right hand.

“You did a pretty good job, Hussein. I will admit that. You damage airplanes, and I fix them. Perhaps we will see who is better, huh?” Geedi gave Hussein a playful slap on the arm.

Hussein smiled, and he almost laughed. Then he forced the smile from his face. He must not get too friendly with these
gaalos
. Not even Geedi. He intended to spare Geedi because Geedi treated him with respect. But when the time came, the situation might force him to kill this flying mechanic along with the others.

“I will think about it.”

“Very well. Think quickly, little brother.”

Brother? Had Geedi really said that? This was all very confusing.

Hussein tried to let his thoughts settle down—much the way a flock of pigeons might settle down after a cat has run through them and forced them into the air. Just keep quiet and think, Hussein told himself. Talk about simpler things.

“Do you have any food?” Hussein asked.

“We ate everything Nadif gave us last night. I can see if anyone has a little something left, but I doubt it.”

Geedi turned and began talking to the infidels again. While they spoke, more gunfire clattered from afar, and it set off more talking among the infidels. The one called Parson pointed in the direction of the firefight, and he and Geedi and Shartee spoke for long moments in that sharp-edged language of theirs.

Hussein did not know what to make of what Geedi had said about a new life. A part of him resented having to make such a big decision with so little time to think. If he had not gotten wounded, if this temporary weakness had not placed him at the mercy of these
gaalos
, he would never have faced such a choice. But fate had put him in a position where he could strike a mighty blow for Allah—or he could travel in directions unforeseen. Even though he was only fourteen, Hussein knew moments like this came rarely. The doors of fate could snap open and shut very quickly.

The conversation among the infidels ended, and Geedi began searching through his backpack. He pawed through the main compartment and did not find what he was looking for. He unzipped little pockets on the outside and looked into them as well. Finally, he pulled something out of one of the pockets and brought it to Hussein. Something small, in a paper wrapper with writing all over it.

“I found some food after all,” Geedi said.

Hussein tore open the wrapper. Praise be to Allah, it was a chocolate bar. He bit off a third of it and began to chew. Saliva flooded his mouth at the first taste of this food of angels.

He had eaten chocolate only two or three times in his life, and this tasted a little different. Maybe not quite as sweet, though certainly very good. But very thick. Hard to chew. A gooey substance stuck to Hussein's molars, though that was a good thing. It kept him from wolfing the bar, made the treat last longer. Hussein swallowed that first bite, wiped his mouth, and paused before taking another.

“This is different,” Hussein said. “My teeth do not grind it so easily.”

Geedi laughed. “It is a protein bar, Hussein. Maybe you had a Hershey bar before, but yes, this is different.”

“What is this ‘protein bar'?”

“Ah,” Geedi said. He looked up at the ceiling as if trying to find words. “It has more food value than a normal chocolate bar. It is not just candy. I keep them with me when I work, for energy.”

Hussein took another bite, again attacking the thick substance with his back teeth.

“This helps you work harder?” Hussein asked, his mouth still full.

“Perhaps. Sometimes I eat them after I work out.”

“What do you mean, ‘work out'?”

“I lift weights, do push-ups, run.”

“Why do you do this?”

“To make myself stronger, little brother. My imam says a healthy body is a gift from Allah. One must take care of it.”

“Your imam tells you this?” Hussein asked.

“Yes, he does.”

“Where is your imam?”

“In a city called Minneapolis.”

“You live in that city?”

“I do, when I am not flying,” Geedi answered. “I have since I was little.”

Hussein stopped chewing and regarded Geedi.

“What is this place like?”

“It is very cold, Hussein. Cold like you have never known. But most people have more than enough to eat. Most people do not worry about getting shot.”

Hussein tried to picture a cold city. He had seen magazine photos of white people in heavy coats, sometimes with white, frozen rain on the ground. He tried to picture a market with so much food. How did they keep people from stampeding to take the food before it ran out? Perhaps because it never ran out? Hussein had so many questions he hardly knew where to begin. But with the searing images of last night's dream still in his head, he found a starting point.

“Your imam,” Hussein said. “What else does he tell you?”

Geedi pressed his lips together in thought. “Well,” he said, “he tells us to avoid the temptations of alcohol and drugs. He tells us not to miss prayers. And, Hussein, he tells to avoid false teachings by those who use the faith for their own purposes.”

“Has he ever made you do something you did not want to do?”

From the darkened expression on Geedi's face, Hussein could see that the flying mechanic did not understand the question.

“Like what, Hussein?”

“Like . . .” Hussein paused. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”

Hussein turned his eyes downward. He looked at his bandaged foot. The foot hurt with a strange kind of pain, almost as if the missing toes were still there. If Hussein had not known better, he would have thought he still had his big toe and that he had just stubbed it hard on a rock.

“We will change those bandages again before you have to move,” Geedi said.

Hussein looked up. “How do you know I will go with you at all?” he asked.

“I suppose I do not,” Geedi said. “But you do not have long to decide. Perhaps you will know what to do when the time comes. I hope you choose well, Hussein. You will never get a chance like this again.”

No, I will not, Hussein thought. For that reason, he wanted to keep all his options open for as long as possible.

“Take me with you,” Hussein said.