These are two scenes taken from different parts of the upcoming chapter, due out at the end of this month for my patreon subscribers. If you like what you see, you can always go and subscribe at
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Characters, places, and events are works of fiction and not
at all indicative or representative of any real life person places or things. A
lot of inspiration was taken from Vice, a subsidiary of HBO. Much respect is
held for the journalism that goes on at Vice, and I suggest everyone check them
out. I do not represent them, nor do I think my book is a factual retelling of
anything relating to real life. For the true story on everything, check out
Vice.com or tune in daily to Vice News airing on HBO. I personally never
miss an episode.
She could swear she recognized the song. The quiet
instrumentals of the elevator warbled through a small speaker above her,
playing some strange EDM version of an old pop song. Isabol was sure she’d
heard the tune before, but she wasn’t exactly a music expert.
Vindicated! That was it, she thought as it got to the chorus.
By Dashboard Confessional. She hadn’t heard that song in years and years.
The elevator was a rickety broken-ass junk box that was
constantly getting stuck. Their office,
downtown Hamilton, had been renovated
twice as they’d grown and grown over the eight months she’d been working there,
but the elevator was still the same death trap that had been here when Shane
bought the building.
It jolted with a loud clack, and the dull metal doors opened
to the third floor. The blonde haired blue eyed Elly Reeves stepped on to the
elevator with her, the doors closing behind her as the lift lumbered loudly to
a start again.
“Hi,” Isabol said politely.
Elly smiled at her from behind her massive glasses, taking a
while before responding “Hey?” as if she was trying to decide which greeting to
go with.
Isabol looked away from Elly, at her own blurry reflection
in the dull unpolished metal doors. She could only just make out her shoulder
length black hair, brown eyes, and tanned Asian features. In the door she
didn’t look any more Asian than Elly. More tanned though, Elly was about as
pale as someone could get. They were both wearing jeans, though Isabol’s were
darker. Elly also wore a bright button up blouse, while Isabol had a worn brown
leather jacket over her black wide collared shirt. Fake leather of course.
“Is that Dashboard Confessional?” Elly asked, as the
elevator music warbled on. “God I haven’t heard this song in ages.”
“I know!” Isabol agreed with her, and then there was silence
again in the elevator.
“So, vampire children,” Elly said, as the elevator rumbled
to a stop and the doors opened with a ping to the sixth floor.’
“Have a good day,” Isabol said with a polite smile to the
woman, as they split up to go to their desks.
“Oh,” Elly said, clearly disappointed they didn’t get to
continue their conversation. “Okay.”
The Vice office’s top floor was a loft, with large glass
windows that shone into the open concept layout. Any walls on the top floor
were made of glass, short glass dividers separating the cubicle desks of ornate
cleanly carved wood. She passed all the cubicles to her desk, one of the larger
ones right by Shane’s office. There were balloons hung from the rafters and
taped to the wooden columns and cubicles. There seemed to be some kind of
celebration going on, but Isabol had no idea what it was people were
celebrating. She’d been out of the office for a week straight planning her
interview.
It seemed a number of reporters were crowding around one of
the other correspondent’s desk.
“Isabol!” said the man the desk belonged to, center of the
crowd, and of everyone’s attention in the room. Just the way he liked it. “I’m
back.”
“Greg. Were you gone?” Isabol asked with disinterest. The
crowd around him seemed to separate enough that he could make his way across
the aisle to her desk. She stood above it, trying not to match his gaze. She
didn’t feel like throwing up in her mouth.
“For a month, yeh,” He looked to the reporters around him
and laughed. “You’re gonna pretend loike yeh didn’t notice. That’s a laugh.” He
crossed his arms. “Moi friends call me Beckett by tha way.”
“So you keep saying,” Isabol said. At this point she was
just doing it to annoy him. Everyone was watching her, obviously all
celebrating his return. She tried to think of something to say so she didn’t
come across as a complete anti-social bitch. “Did you have a fun vacation?”
“I was in Africa buildin’ a school for ah bunch ah kids.”
“That sounds fun,” Isabol said absentmindedly, searching her
desk for something to distract her. It was mostly clear, except for a small
pile of mail in the corner. She didn’t use her desk often.
“It was important, is what it was,” Beckett continued as she
ignored him.
“Mmhmm.”
“I was helpin’ people. Yeh know? Makin a real difference,” Beckett
was tall and slender, disgustingly good looking with naturally blonde hair and
outrageous muscles. Just a little bit of eye shadow. Every woman in the office
had a crush on him, and he’d slept with most of them. He didn’t even need his
job there, he lived off his rich parents, and the huge trust fund they gave
him. He was often bragging about all the things he’d take time off to do.
Adventures helping people and being the best person he could be. And sleeping
with the hottest women.
“There was this one native I slept with there that reminded
me a lot ah yeh,” He told her, and she made a face.
“I really don’t want to hear about your conquests, Greg.”
She noticed Tom in the crowd of people around Beckett’s desk.
“It’s Beckett,” he repeated. “Everyone calls me by my last
name but you,” he said, continuing with his story. “Which is like what I was
sayin. This girl was different. Like you. She was tough, bad ass, strong.
Determined. Motivated. She made me realize a woman like you is worth a thousand
other girls.”
Isabol stopped what she was doing to try to process his
words. “You’re telling me that shagging up with another woman made you realize
I’m special?”
“She also started teaching me Swahili,” he said, smartly
changing the topic. “My ninth language if I can get it. I’ve bought a book to
keep up with it.”
“You speak nine language?” Isabol asked.
“From all over the world,” he told her. “Wherever I’m
needed, I like to be ready for anything. Everywhere I’ve volunteered at I’ve
tried to pick up the local language.” He nodded to her. “You ever do any
volunteer work like that?”
“Nope,” Isabol said with a shake of her head, not completely
true. “I guess you’re just a better person than me.” She backed away from
Beckett and met Tom’s gaze. “Did you submit our piece with the narration I sent
you last night?”
“Uh,” Tom said behind his glasses, awkwardly fidgeting as all
the eyes in the crowd turned on him. “Ye-yeah. I think he’s in there watching
it right now.”
He glanced at Shane’s office at the back of the loft behind
her and Greg Beckett’s desks. The shades were closed, and the lights clearly
off behind them, as they usually were when he was viewing work prints.
“You should have led with that,” she told him, knowing full
well why he didn’t as she shot Greg a dirty look. He couldn’t just interrupt
Mr. alpha personality Beckett over there.
“Yeh’ve been workin’ on a new story, aye?” Beckett asked
Isabol.
“I guess you’ll have to find out on Friday,” Isabol told
him, the night their main show aired. They had a less popular nightly show, but
their Friday edition was always meant for their most in-depth reporting.
She turned her back on him and his pile of groupies. Let
them celebrate and eat cake without her. She had bigger things on her mind.
* * *
It was fourteen hours before their plane touched down at
Mosul International Airport. From conversations she’d had with the people
around her on the plane, it seemed the airport had only recently been opened
again for commercial traffic. There weren’t all that many people in the baggage
pick up.
There were, however, numerous armed soldiers standing guard
around the perimeter. She counted more armed guards than regular airport crew.
“I can’t believe you were in that bathroom for over forty
minutes,” she complained as he grabbed her bag from the rack. To make the point
that she didn’t need help, she lifted his bag off the same rack, forgetting
that it had been filled with cases of water bottles and weighed as much now as
her. She dropped it heavily onto its wheels.
“Ay’ve got stamina,” Greg boasted. “Most women would find
that a plus.” They traded suitcases, and aimed themselves for the exit.
“Besides, they didn’t have any magazines.”
Isabol frowned. “Please don’t tell me you spent the whole
forty minutes staring at yourself in the mirror.”
“I wasn’t just staring at myself,” he argued. “I was also
giving myself words of encouragement.” He mimed himself masterbating again.
“Everyone loves you. You have a beautiful penis.”
Isabol closed her eyes. “Stop.”
“I also practiced my Somali. Waxaad leedahay gus ah qurux
badan.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, changing her mind. “Wait,
I don’t want to know.”
They stepped through the automatic doors and the first thing
Isabol noticed was the heat, scorching her like a blanket of fire.
“Ah,” Beckett said beside her. “There’s something I don’t
miss. In Africa it was like this but only more humid.” He slapped shades onto
his face, and she scolded herself for forgetting to even bring sunglasses.
She’d just thrown as many clean socks and underwear that she could find into a
carry on, and that was it. Also on the way, they’d stopped by a bank where she
converted all the money she had in her account into Iraqi currency. Five
hundred thousand dinars.
It actually sounded more impressive in dinars.
The second thing she noticed was the people, pushing against
the military blockade keeping the crowds back. They were men and women and children,
screaming and crying, covered in sand and dirt, lips parched. They surged
against the blockade, reaching their arms past the gate that men with guns were
struggling to keep from bursting open. At least 30 or more. Isabol was
surprised there weren’t even more than that, but supposed much of the city was
likely evacuated during the fighting.
Everyone all seemed to be talking at once, and Isabol
couldn’t understand a word of it. One armed man approached them and said
something to them, and it took a couple repeats for her to realize he was
speaking in English.
“Do you have taxi? Or ride out of here?” he asked, seemingly
genuinely concerned. “I afraid walking to city would be quite impossible. We
call you transportation if you require.”
“We don’t have anything yet,” Isabol told him, her eyes
darting across the landscape. It was flat, so flat she could see the city to
the north of them. Sand was everywhere, as one would expect from a desert.
Construction was underway to rebuild a bombed out building inside the airport
grounds, a bulldozer clearing out rubble even as a crane was laying down new
foundations. It seemed like construction was being rushed.
“Did ISIS do that?” Isabl asked the English speaking guard.
He laughed and shook his head. “That one was Americans,” he
said, with a cold shrug.
Isabol pointed out to the buildings she saw past the beggars
at the gate. Three out of the four in her view were equally bombed out, and
reconstruction hadn’t gotten to them yet. “What about those?”
“The Americans,” he said again. “You have to be
understanding, when we were fighting to retake this place there were snipers on
those rooftops. Stolen military APC blocked road there.” He pointed to a crater
in the street. “Man with, what you say R P G. That rooftop.” He pointed to the
building inside the grounds currently under construction.
“It is complicated,” he continued, “to say who is to blame.”
Isabol nodded to the crowd of people begging for help. “Who
do they blame?”
“It changes,” he responded. “Depending on who you ask.”
Isabol spared a glance at Beckett, and was surprised to find
he had his SLR out and pointed at them, apparently recording their
conversation. For his many faults, she was glad to see he could come through
when it mattered.
“I’m gunna get some B-roll over there, if ya don’t moind,”
he told Isabol, turning to capture the construction going on to their right.
The guard followed Beckett with a look of concern. “What is
your reason for visit?” he asked her.
“We’re journalists,” She told him. She offered him her hand.
“Isabol Tseung Voice News.”
He stiffened, and notably didn’t take her hand. “You should
not be announcing this around here.” His eyes shifted to the other guards
around them, all seemingly ignoring them. Assuming this soldier had them covered.
Isabol yelled across to Beckett, “Hey maybe keep it in your
pants.” He turned to her confused. And she darted her eyes to the left. He
didn’t get it. She took a couple steps toward him so she wouldn’t have to speak
so loud. “Till were further away from some of these men with guns?” she
suggested.
He nodded his understanding and hid his camera in his bag.
“So is there some kind of attack going on?” She asked the
guard, stepping closer to him and speaking in hushed tones.
He laughed, not sharing her subtlety. “Was it not your
president who called the news enemy of people?”
“Yeah,” Isabol mumbled. “And we had words about that.” She
pulled out her phone, finding a picture of Suzie she’d downloaded to her phone.
“Have you seen this woman at all?”
He looked at the picture, and then to her, and then back to
the picture. He sighed, and then pulled his own phone out of his pocket,
pulling up a picture, and pointing it at her. It was a very different shot, but
there could be no denying it. It was a picture of her, looking tied up and
bloodied, on a wanted poster.
“Have you?”
Isabol put her phone away. “That could be an added
complication,” She took a swig from her water bottle. The heat was already
getting to her. Or maybe it was the desert sun. What did suzie get up to, that
would have her wanted by the government. A government that apparently had a
prejudice against reporters, how much did Isabol want to bet Suzie was just
doing her job?
At the gate, a child was able to squeeze through the metal
bars, and he scurried past the legs of the guards to reach Isabol and hug at
her leg tightly.
“Raja'. 'ant tabdu mithl almalak,” the boy said,
incoherently. “Hal yumkinuk 'ana taetini alma'? 'Ana eatashan jiddaan.”
“The little goi says e’s thirsty,” Greg translated, joining
Isabol’s side, “and asks if ‘e can have some a ya wateh.”
“Yeah,” Isabol said, handing her water bottle to the kid.
The top of his head barely reached her waist, he couldn’t have been older than
seven, with wild black hair and dirty torn clothes. His face was tanned to the
point of sun burnt. If she had to guess, he hadn’t been home in a while.
The kid hungrily unscrewed the lid and gulped down the water
like it was his first drops in days. Isabol looked past him at all the other
people pushing against the gate.
“Hey Greg,” she said, “Bust open one of those cases of
water, would you?” He unzipped his suitcase, and ripped open a case, passing
her some bottles.
“They’re cold!” she said in surprise, not expecting them to
be cool to her touch.
“It’s an insulated case,” he told her, “And I packed a ton
of ice packs.”
“Do you mind?” Isabol asked the guard, taking the water
bottles to the people at the gate.
His expression implied that he didn’t really want the
hassle. Begrudgingly however, he approached the gate, and waved her to come
with him.
She handed the two bottles to people reaching, one to a
woman, and another to a little girl. Beckett came up to join her at the fence,
handing her more bottles.
The guard waved at the people pressing against the gate. “Alwuquf
wadih min albawwaba,” he said to the people, and many of them seemed to take a
step back. The guards were looking at him funny, but he yelled to them, “Aftah
albuabat. Sayakun bikhayrin!”
“Aftah Albawwaba!” another guard yelled to a man in the
tower. The man yelled out to the man across the way in the other tower.
“Aftah Albawwaba!” he said as well. The gate began to creak
open.
“Quickly,” the guard she’d been talking to said to her as
there was enough room for her to fit through. “It not be open long much time.”
“Right,” Isabol said, taking the kid’s hand and walking with
him through the gate. Greg pulled the suitcase after them, and as soon as he
was through the gate, Isabol turned in time to see the guard she’d been talking
to nod to the guard on the right tower.
“'Ughliq albawwaba!” he yelled across to the guard in the
left tower, and the gate quickly sealed closed behind them.
“Hey!” Isabol yelled at him, feeling betrayed.
The guard smiled at her, then, ignoring her, looked out at
the crowd and yelled, “'Inhum jamieaan lika.” He laughed at the crowd and
continued. “Khudh alma' walmala. 'aqtul wa'aklihim , nahn la nihtam.”
“What did he just say?” Isabol asked Greg as the crowd
closed in around them.
Beckett shook his head. “You don’t want to know,” he promised
Isabol. “Just trust me that they’re not going to open those gates for us
again.”
The child she’d given water to clutched her leg tensely as
the crowd seemed hungry for their flesh.
“Take out one of those cases of water,” she told Greg.
He frowned. “I only could fit eight,” he warned her.
“Just do it,” she hissed, and he did, handing it to her. She
placed the open case on the ground. “This is all yours if you’d be willing to
help us out and answer some questions.”
“Yumkinuk alhusul ealaa hadhih almiah,” Greg said,
translating what she was saying as fast as he could. “'iidha kunt sawf takun
sadiquna”
She pulled out her wallet and counted out some money.
“Also,” she said loudly. “Two hundred thousand dinars.” She raised it in the
air. A man stepped forward to grab it and she raised it high in the air. “For
the person willing to give us a tour of the city.”
“Lilqiam bijawla,” Greg translated.
The man who had approached Isabol reached down and grabbed a
bottle of water. He opened the top and took a sip.
“'Iinah jayid,” he yelled to the crowd. The old man, he had
a grisled beard and no shirt, his upper body a scrawny skeleton of a man. She
could see the indents of his ribs.
That man turned to Greg and embraced him suddenly. “Bandar
min alma',” he said with excitement. “Sadiq.” The rest of the crowd moved in,
ripping the case apart and passing around the bottles of water.
“Yes,” Greg responded, awkwardly turning red. “'Iinaa sadiq.”
“It’s okay,” he told Isabol. “They loike us now.”
“Well done,” Isabol said with relief. She knelt down so that
she was the same height as the child that still clung to her leg. “Is your
mommy or daddy here amongst this crowd?”
“'Ayn eayilatuk,” Greg Beckett translated.
The kid shook his head. “Ymknny 'an akhadhak lahum.”
“He says he can take us,” Greg told Isabol. “Is that – Is
that something we want?”
Isabol wasn’t sure either. But they couldn’t stand around
outside the gate forever. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
“'Iintalaq,” Greg said in Arabic, and the kid nodded, taking
off down the road toward the city. Greg and her shared a look then followed
behind him, dragging their luggage behind them. And behind their luggage, about
half of the people from the crowd chose to follow after them, almost as if the
three of them were leading a protest march, or roving band of explorers.
They walked down the sand swept highway for over fifteen
minutes before finally the child stopped, about half way between the airport
and the city. Both were a distant horizon, though the wind whipping sands made
it hard to see much in the distance. All she knew was there there were no
buildings in the vicinity. Just a few bombed out cars around a crater. The boy
led her from the crater to the side of the road, and pointed to some rags. Not
just rags, bones and rotting flesh. Insects eating at their skin and eyeballs.
Isabol screamed despite herself.
“Hadha mamana,” the boy said.
“That’s ‘is Mommy,” Greg translated solemnly.
The boy pointed to another pile of rags and rotting flesh.
“Hadha ‘abi.”
“That’s my father,” Greg said, forgetting to even change the
pronoun.
Isabol breathed deeply so as not to scream again, the effort
coming out like a gasp. She could feel her eyes tearing up, and her legs wobble
under her weight. Dropping to her knees, she threw up into the sand.
“Why didn’t anyone bury them?” she asked the boy, his face
emotionless even as she fell apart before his eyes.
“Hal turid minaa dafanuhum?” Greg Beckett asked the boy.
An older man, with a graying beard and overalls, slapped
Beckett on the back as he passed him, followed by a few of the other men who
had been in the crowd of people following behind them. “Sanadifanahum,” the old
man said to Greg. “Aimnahawna eshr daqayiqa.”
“He said they will bury the boy’s family,” Greg told her.
“In thanks for the water. Come on, let’s get yeh back on the road. Yeh don’t
have ta watch this.”
“Come on,” Isabol called to the little boy. “You shouldn’t
have to see this either.” The boy took her hand and allowed her to lead him
after Beckett to the road. They sat on the hood of a bombed out car as the men
gave the boy’s family a proper burial.
Beckett pulled out his camera and began filming the tender
moment as Isabol watched the boy fidget and gaze concernedly at the men at
work.
“How long have they been dead?” she asked the boy.
“Mundh mataa wa'ant bidun 'umuk wa'abuk?” Greg asked without
taking his eyes off the camera viewscreen.
“Tset 'ashhur,” the boy responded.
“Nine months,” Greg told her.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered under her breath. “Where have
you been living since then? Do you have any family?”
“'Ayn taeish alana?” Greg asked the boy.
“Fi 'ayi makan
aistatyea,” the boy told him, digging his shoe into the ground. “Almabani
almahjurat. Fi bed al'ahyan 'anqad minhim.”
“’e’s been living
anywhere ‘e can,” Beckett told her. “Ruins a places n’ shit. He’s got no one
else.”
Isabol could feel
herself tearing up. A reporter had to keep herself distant. “What about food.
What about school. Toys. Play? Having a normal childhood?”
Greg looked at her.
“Yeh really want me ta ask him all that?”
“No,” she muttered.
“I don’t know.”
“Look around,” Greg
told her. “Normal’s gone out the door. We’ve entered hell. The rules have
changed. It’s not about living your best life out here, luv. It’s about makin
it day boi day.” He closed his camera, and slid off the car. “Why the hell did
yeh think I didn’t wanna come out here,” he muttered, facing away from her.
“I’m sorry,” Isabol
muttered back. As much as she hated to say it, she was the novice here, and he
was the expert. He’d been to areas like this. Probably worse even. He’d made it
his fool’s errand seeking danger. But he certainly wasn’t chasing it anymore.
Isabol wondered when this change had happened in him, and why she hadn’t seen
it before.
“What about aid,”
Isabol asked no one in particular. “The united states. Canada. The UN.”
“We see nothing
like that,” a woman nursing her child to her breast said from the small crowd
that had followed behind them. “No aid.”
It seemed the men
were done with the burial, and one of them, a middle aged man with a thick
moustache and beige robes, approached her. “I have a truck,” he told her,
speaking even better English than the woman. “I’ll give you that tour,” he
paused. “For the two hundred thousand dinars.”
“Of course,” she
said, handing the money over to him as a sign of good faith.
He took it and
pocketed it in a fold amongst his robes. “It’s just up this way,” he told her.
“Not far from here.”
Isabol looked at
Greg, and reluctantly he grabbed his suitcase, pulling on it to follow along
behind her.
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