Red Flood Page 2

  For three days, Moses sat in a cardboard box on the abandoned side of the city. He never left, and for three days the boy sat, staring at the small, iron box. He tried to open it, but gave up after several failed attempts. He thought about his grandmother, and the things she said to him before she died. He hadn’t been able to get much sleep since her death. His body felt weak. After the third day of staring at the box, Moses fell asleep. Not because he wanted to, because exhaustion forced him to. That was the first night he had the dream.

  A lady in white surrounded by falling snow .

  “Wake up,” Moses heard someone say. At first he wasn’t sure if it was real or if he was still dreaming. The boy opened his eyes, startled by the imposing hooded figure that hovered over him. The man was looking at him. Moses sat up, using his hands to back away.

  “Who are you?” Moses asked. The alley was dark. He couldn’t see the man’s face. The stranger knelt down so he was eye-level with Moses. He pulled back his hood.

  The man’s ebony skin was darker than the boy’s; dark like Moses’ grandmother’s skin. His eyes were brown. He had long, thick dreads pulled back behind his head. A thin beard lined his face. He had a scar that ran from his left ear to his nose, but the closer Moses examined the stranger’s face, the more he realized there was familiarity about it. The man was holding something. “Here,” he said, offering it to the boy. It was a picture, a picture of Moses’ grandmother and the man. The stranger and his grandmother were smiling. Moses thought the man didn’t look scary in the picture, with the baby in his arms. Moses studied the picture. “I’m your father,” the man said. He took the picture the picture back from Moses, tucking it inside his shirt. “Come on,” he said, holding out a hand, “we have to go now.” Moses grabbed his back pack in one hand and his father’s with the other. The man pulled the boy to his feet.

  Moses was tall for his age but his father towered over him. He followed his father to the end of the alley where a white utility van was waiting. An overweight, balding man was sitting in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down.

  “Cute kid, Alwan” the bald man said to Moses’ father, who didn’t reply. “What’s your name, son?” the man asked, looking at the boy.

  “Moses.”

  “I’m Vic,” the bald man said, sticking his hand out of the window. Moses shook his hand. Vic could tell the boy was frightened. “I’ve got a son,” Vic said, “He’s older than you.”

  “Who are they?” Moses asked, pointing to a photo on the van’s dashboard.

  “Grandkids,” Vic said, “I haven’t seen them in a while.” Moses saw a flash of sadness in the man’s eyes. “He’s not as bad as he looks, you know, “Vic said, gesturing with his head toward Moses’ father. Moses hoped that was true. Alwan opened the double-doors on the back of the van.

  “Come here,” he said to Moses. The boy walked over. The father raised a hand, signaling for Moses to enter. “This is where you’re gonna be for the next few days,” he said. Moses looked inside. The back of the van had a pillow, a blanket, some bottled drinks, and snack food. “We’re not stopping until we get there, so if you need to take a piss, do it now.”

  “I’m fine,” Moses said.

  “Alright then,” the father replied. The boy climbed into the back of the vehicle. Before his father shut the doors, he asked a question.

  “Where are we going?”

  “South,” the father replied.

  Moses slept most of the trip, still recovering from the days spent on his own after his grandmother’s death. He woke up to eat, usually peanuts or potato chips, drink some soda, and then go back to sleep. Every once in a while Moses would glance up toward the front of the van and catch his father looking at him through the sliding glass window that separated the front of the vehicle from the back. Alwan would turn away when he caught Moses looking at him. Moses didn’t know what to think of Alwan. He was angry at his father, but there was this other part of him that wanted to embrace the man he had long believed to be dead.

  Moses lost track of time. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed or how far they traveled. They stopped for gas a few times. Moses would watch Vic get out. He could hear him outside the van pumping the gas. When the man finished, he would walk around to the back of the van and open the rear doors. He’d smile at Moses and ask how he was doing. Moses smiled back after a while. Vic would empty Moses’ bottles of urine. Once, he told Moses he was sorry that he had to be stuck back there, but that the trip was almost over. The last stop was different.

  Both men got out of the van. The double doors swung open. It was his father. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, Moses,” Alwan said, “no matter what you hear, or what you think you hear, you are to stay inside this van until come back.” The boy stared blankly. “Do you understand?” the father asked. Moses nodded his head. “Good,” the man said as he shut one of the doors. Moses’ father started to shut the second door, but paused to stick his head in the van. “Oh, one more thing,” Alwan said, “it’s probably best if you lie flat.” Alwan closed the door. Moses was confused but did as his father instructed. The boy rolled onto his stomach and flattened himself. He heard the sound of a vehicle, tires spinning on gravel. The sound grew louder. Moses felt his chest vibrate as the vehicle approached. When the rumbling stopped, he heard car doors open and shut. There were muffled voices. Moses couldn’t understand anything they were saying. He pushed himself up and placed his ear on the van. An unfamiliar voice said something about a checkpoint. Moses pressed his ear more firmly against the van.

  “I’m sorry,” Vic said, “we just got lost I guess.”

  “State the purpose of your trip,” the unknown man demanded.

  “We’re missionaries, on a mission to share The Book of Mormon,” Vic said, “would you like a copy?”

  “No,” the stranger replied.

  “Again, I apologize for taking up your time,” Vic said, “just tell me how to get to the nearest checkpoint and we’ll head that way.”

  “I need to look in the vehicle,” the stranger said. Moses heard the sound of footsteps. Someone opened the van’s driver side door. The boy lay back down, covering himself with a blanket. He tried not to move. There was rustling in the front cabin of the van. Moses lifted the blanket for a peek. He saw the convex curve of a helmet. It was black like the kind worn by government troops. Moses couldn’t see the man’s face; his view was obstructed by the driver and passenger side seats. The boy watched the top of the helmet move from side to side; bobbing up and down, like the man was looking for something. Fear took hold of Moses. He pulled the blanket back over his head. He began to shake. Moses tried not to move, but the more he focused on remaining still, the more he shook. The rustling stopped. “Thank god, he’s gone,” the boy thought. Moses lifted up the blanket. The man in the black helmet was staring at him through the glass window. Someone outside the van opened the driver’s side door. The man in the helmet turned toward them.

  “What the fuu,” the helmet wearing man started to say but his words were cut short by the loudest sound Moses had ever heard. The man’s head exploded. The blast ripped through the glass window spraying Moses with blood and brain matter. He couldn’t hear anything except a ringing sensation in his ears. He put his hands over his head, tucked his chin down, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to envision somewhere else, somewhere safe. The ringing faded. Moses could hear the sound of a man moaning in agony. The man called out for his mother, and then there was silence. The boy’s eyes were still closed when he heard the back door open.

  “Alright, get out,” the man said in a voice he recognized. Moses opened his eyes, looking around the van. There were four or five beams of light shining through holes in the van above his head. Moses reached up to touch one of the holes but pulled back when he noticed blood on his hand. He looked d
own at his other hand and then his shirt. There was red matter all over his body.

  “Come here,” his father said. Moses felt like he was paralyzed. “It’s okay now,” Alwan said softly. Moses sat up and put on his backpack. He scooted across the floor of the van until his feet stuck out over the bumper. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Alwan offered his hand, helping the boy to his feet. Moses’ legs were wobbly. He started to fall, but was caught by his father. Moses’ felt the man’s strength. Alwan put an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

  “We’re going to walk now,” the man said, “I want you to look down at my feet, don’t look up until I tell you.” Moses didn’t speak. The boy bowed his head and Alwan pulled him in close. The two of them began walking. Moses kept his head down, never taking his eyes off his father’s boots. He noticed that his father was limping. There was something wrong with the man’s left leg. His father’s trousers were stained with blood making it impossible for Moses to pinpoint the source of the injury. After taking several steps, Moses heard a man cough. It was more of a gurgle than a cough. Moses’ father stopped walking. The boy kept his gaze fixed on the ground. He could see the coughing man’s boots; the toes were pointed toward the sky.

  “I owe you,” Moses’ father said. The other man laughed, then coughed, then spit in the dirt near his feet.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” the man said, “just let me see him before you go.”

  “You can look up now, Moses,” Alwan said. Moses raised his head. Vic was sitting upright, his back against the van. He had his hands on his stomach, a small amount of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Vic smiled at the boy.

  “Good luck, Moses,” Vic said, “listen to your old man, he’s ugly as sin, but he’ll keep you safe.” Moses nodded. Vic looked at Alwan, “We’re even now,” he said. Moses’ father made a fist with his right hand and touched the left side of his chest. Vic did the same.

  “Goodbye, old friend,” Alwan said.

  “Goodbye,” Vic replied.

  Alwan looked down at Moses, “Let’s go,” he said.

  Moses walked for several minutes, with his father’s arm still tightly wrapped around his shoulder before he looked back. The van was small in the distance. The heat shimmer rising from the ground distorted its appearance. Moses saw six, dark, lifeless figures lying on the ground. Vic was in the same position that he was when they left. He was still alive. Moses watched Vic reach into his shirt. Vic removed something, holding it up in the sunlight. Moses thought it looked like a picture.

  “We should help him,” Moses said, looking up at his father.

  “We can’t,” Alwan replied. Moses’ father started walking again. The boy followed. Moses looked back once more. Vic was holding something else. “Come on, Moses,” his father said. The boy followed. Not long after, Moses heard a shot. The father looked at Moses.

  “Remember that,” the man said.

  “Remember what?” Moses asked.

  “The sacrifice,” the father replied, “it’s not the first, and it won’t be the last.” Moses didn’t know what that meant.

  Chapter 3

  “Where are we?” Moses asked.

  “The Badlands,” his father replied.

  Even though he was just a child, Moses knew about The Badlands. Everyone knew about them. Moses’ teacher taught about The Great War, and what happened when it ended. After the Rebel terrorist’s treacherous victory at The Battle of Flagstaff, the U.S. government relinquished control of the southwest giving complete autonomy to the resistance forces in return for a cease-fire. New borders were created. Both parties agreed to designate a vast piece of land that served as a demilitarized border, meaning neither the U.S. nor the rebels could occupy the territory. Not long after the cease-fire, that piece of deserted land got a name. Moses had heard The Badlands was lawless, inhabited by drug smugglers and armed gangs. Even worse, were stories about The Raiders, who attacked villages along the border in the middle of the night killing everyone, doing terrible things with their victim’s bodies. Thinking about it made him shudder.

  The father’s limp worsened. By late afternoon, Alwan was grimacing with each step. When nightfall arrived, the father had them stop. He made a small fire. Moses was exhausted. He covered himself with a blanket and quickly fell asleep. He saw the lady in white, the same woman that had visited him in a dream before. He was present in this dream, unlike the earlier one. He walked in snow toward the woman. She reached out for him, but before he could touch her, Moses was woken up by the sound of fabric being torn. The boy sat up. His father was lying on his side. There was a large rip on the back of one of his pant legs. Alwan had a hand inside the tear, was digging and prodding.

  “What are you doing?” Moses asked.

  “I’ve been shot, Moses,” his father coolly replied, “The bullet has to come out or the wound’ll get infected.” Alwan grunted and went back to working on his leg.

  “Can I help you?” Moses asked.

  “I don’t think so,” his father replied. The man took his hand out of the tear and pulled a knife from his rucksack. Alwan poked at the wound with the tip of the blade trying in vain to dig out the bullet. After several failed attempts, he gave up.

  “I can’t get it out,” the father said.

  “I can,” Moses replied. His father looked surprised. The boy got up and walked over to Alwan, still on his side. Moses crouched down for a better look. Dried blood was caked around the outside of the bullet hole as fresh blood oozed out from inside. Moses turned away from the gruesome sight.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Alwan said. Moses turned around and looked his father in the eye.

  “If I don’t get the bullet out, you’ll get sick. If you get sick, I’ll end up alone,” the boy said, his voice trailing off. Moses looked down at the dirt. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

  “Alright then,” the father replied, “do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “Okay,” Moses said.

  “Pick up the knife.”

  When it was done, Moses helped his father dress the wound with a piece of cloth cut from the boy’s blanket. “You did good,” Alwan said. Moses smiled. Alwan limped less on the following day’s walk. After a week, the limp was gone.

  To Moses, being in The Badlands was like being on another planet. He had grown up in a city. There were roads where he was from, buildings that stretched into the clouds, people everywhere, cars clogging up the streets, and grocery stores on every corner. Moses saw none of those things in The Badlands. There were no roads, only dust. Mountains touched the clouds instead of buildings. He and his father were the only people. They traveled on foot since there were no cars and no gas stations to keep them going. Food came from the land. Each morning the father and son would walk for hours. Moses would ask Alwan where they were going. The father would say “south” and other than that conversation was sparse. They walked and walked and walked until the sun started to dip, then they’d stop. The father would make Moses gather rocks and twigs. The man would make a fire. He would tell Moses to sit and wait. Alwan would leave for a bit, returning with the day’s meal. He never came back empty-handed. Most nights they ate rabbit. Moses enjoyed the way the animal tasted. Some nights they ate other things Moses didn’t like but ate nonetheless.

  Moses, full off rabbit stew, closed his eyes. He was drained from the day’s march, but the cold kept him awake. He grabbed his blanket and settled by the campfire.

  “Careful,” the father said, “don’t get too close.” Moses scooted back a couple feet. He looked up at the night sky. When he was younger his grandmother tried to teach him about the constellations. She had to use books because the brightness of city lights made it difficult to see the stars. Moses looked through the fire at his father. The man was like stone, staring into the flame each and every night. Moses never s
aw Alwan sleep.

  “They’re beautiful,” the boy said, without realizing he spoke aloud.

  “What are?” the father asked keeping his gaze locked on the fire.

  “The stars,” Moses replied. Alwan said nothing. “Grandma told me that some of those stars are dead, that they’re burnt out.”

  “She told me the same thing when I was a boy,” the father said.

  “She said that didn’t matter though. She said I could choose to believe they were alive if I wanted to,” Moses replied.

  “What did you choose to believe?” the father asked.

  “That they were alive,” the boy replied. The man’s face softened.

  “Get some sleep,” Alwan said, “we’ve got a hard walk tomorrow.” The boy pulled the blanket up to his neck and rolled to his side, turning his back to the fire.

  “Goodnight,” Moses said.

  “Goodnight,” Alwan replied.

  The father couldn’t sleep, not because of the cold, or Moses’ snoring. The kid snored every night. He couldn’t sleep because he felt weak, and vulnerable. He told himself that this was supposed to be like any other mission. He tried to convince himself that this wasn’t any different from the rest. Alwan pulled down his blanket and stood up. He walked over to the sleeping child. The boy was shivering. The father squatted down and placed his blanket on Moses. He reached out and touched the sleeping boy’s head. “Don’t get too close,” Alwan said to himself. But this time was different. This was his son.