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“Why—” began Abdul, but a sudden fit of coughing punched its way out of his chest. Blood and something that looked like black oil spattered his hands and I instinctively moved away. Tiny threadlike white worms wriggled in the black stuff. The larvae of the parasite that was the base of Lucifer 113.
Abdul stared in horror at it, and any trace of peace that had been
in his eyes vanished. He raised those eyes to me and they were filled with the total helpless pleading of the lost. Big tears rolled down his cheeks. Baskerville got up and backed away, growling low and deep.
“Down,” I snapped, and the dog moved ten feet away and sat, eyes hooded and menacing.
“I . . . I . . . ” Abdul began, then buried his face in his hands.
I got to my feet. “Tell me what you want me to do,” I said as kindly as I could. When he looked up he saw that I had my pistol in my hand.
“Now or later?” I asked.
It took him a long time and cost him so much of what he had left to spend, but he got to his feet. Not his knees. His feet. That mattered. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the sword I wore.
“That’s a samurai sword?”
“Yes. A katana.”
“I . . . I saw you with it. You didn’t just learn it . . . you know . . . since?” It came out as a question.
I holstered my pistol. “No. I’ve been studying and practicing my whole life. I stole this from a dojo in Hagerstown. It’s a good sword. New, but top quality.”
He licked his lips, winced at the taste, turned and spat. There were ghosts in his eyes. “Would it be fast?”
It was such a hard question to ask. And to answer. He was a soldier, though. A warrior. It was one warrior asking that question of another warrior.
“Yes.”
“And you’re good?”
“I’m better than that.”
He didn’t ask if it would hurt. He was already hurt. This was going to end hurt, and he knew it.
“Let me pray first, okay?”
“Sure.”
He studied me. “Do you believe in God?”
I shook my head. “I really don’t know.”
Abdul nodded. He looked around to decide which direction was east, knelt, prayed. I moved away and cleaned my sword with water from my canteen. I did not pray, but I nodded to the sword as if it could understand.
Abdul finished. He used his own canteen to wash his hands. Thoroughly. And he dried them on the only clean part of his jacket. I came over and he held out his hand. He was infected but his hand wasn’t cut, he wasn’t bleeding. I shook his hand and we smiled at one another. Then he stepped back and began praying again in Arabic.
“Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
I’m good with languages. I knew the prayer. We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return.
There was a flash of silver fire in the sunlight and then the silence seemed to stretch on forever.
I cleaned my sword, put it away, sat down by the tree and did nothing at all until it was time to dig the grave.
— 8 —
DAHLIA AND THE PACK
