Dysentery

The outlying areas dimmed as the people and armed militias fled. The fire had shifted into the heart of the central region—the capital, where rival militias had clashed, each trying to occupy locations of no known significance. The capital, with its small towns, wide streets and flags waving on top of high buildings. Yet now the Presidential Palace and National Radio building had collapsed, their walls and towers demolished by mortar. Landing planes rarely used the airport.

Militias won, were defeated and then withdrew. Thus daily life endured amid the debris of fallen buildings and smoke filled clouds. A lethal battle ravaged the eastern suburb, now empty. It destroyed everything in its path, including the palaces of ministries and buildings that once housed foreign embassies and famous families. Daily, the two factions, who never collided face to face, sprayed each other with arterial shooting. By the fifth day, the militia ambushed in the center had withdrawn, leaving the wasted battlefield to the militia waving grey flags.

The triumphant militia swept forward, outflanking the cloud of smoke, dust and pulverized cement. A lookout Jeep screeched to a stop and an officer skinnier than his soldiers jumped out.  He commanded the soldiers to patrol and “shoot even at shadows.” The panicked soldiers embraced their small guns and ran toward the ruins.

The whine of bullets and muffled cries filled the air.

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Angels Watching Over

The 911 operator said, “Stay inside until we get—“

“Hello? HELLO?” Cynthia said. The battery was dead.

Despairing, Cynthia threw down the useless phone. She huddled in the corner as she listened hard through the hollow night.

Nothing. Just the thudding of her heart. She watched her clock, the only light in the dark room.

1:57 a.m. The drapes fluttered open like moth wings.

A breeze played with the spikes in Cynthia’s bright red hair, happy hair in better times. Outside, the porch light splintered the gloom while the moon hid in the familiar mist rising off Puget Sound.

Despite the cool May night, sweat pooled in her armpits and trickled down her sides in beads of ice water. Her bladder swelled to bursting. She heard herself whimper and bit her lip to stop the sound.

1:59 a.m. She tried not to think about the horror she’d found in the attic.

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