He had slept. Hard. But the penalty was that his body had locked up. As if it were encased in a hard, jointless shell. The lobster man. Through the slits of his swollen eyes, his smashed hand with its broken finger really did look like a claw.
When he coughed and spit up blood, it hurt his entire torso, his neck, his head. Kidneys, groin, ribs, indefinite organs that had never complained before. The sheet was raw with sweat and lumped with clots of maroon blood.
He could hear, though. With at least one ear. The sounds of battle had come much closer. Not just artillery, either. He believed he could hear the crack of main-gun rounds.
“Pussy,” he told himself. “You cunt. Get up. Get
Yes, he was going to lie there and piss his pants all day. And all night. As long as he continued to live.
The owner of the house hadn’t dared look in on him. At least, the owner hadn’t done so while Nasr was awake.
Was he awake? He wasn’t even certain if he was conscious with any consistency.
The bastards who had beaten him were artists, he decided. How else could they have done so much damage without killing him?
He tried to straighten his leg, to free it briefly of the cooling piss-wet and grime. But he couldn’t even do that.
I’m not going to cry, he insisted. Yesterday, I was weak. But nothing can make me cry. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.
Lies, lies, lies. A spasm wracked his lungs, and he barked up a clot of dark blood. Bright red blood chased it. Despite all the will he could muster, tears came to his eyes.
Get a new body at Ranger Joe’s. Next time I get down to Benning. One size larger, please.
Benning. The all-you-can-eat chicken at Country’s Barbecue. Goodbye to all that. Iron Mike was made of flesh and blood, after all.
He tried to think rationally, asking himself if he had left any part of his mission undone that he might still accomplish.
Nasr laughed at himself. Hurting his jaw, his smashed lips, his rib cage again.
You can’t even get up to piss. Who’re you trying to fool?
Me. Just me. Please help me, Jesus. I’m sorry for all the wrong things that I’ve done. I need your help now. Here. In Nazareth. I’m out of juice, and I need your touch to bring me back…
He was afraid to pray properly. Afraid that it would be a prelude to death.
With an effort that stole energy from elsewhere in the universe, he cocked himself up from the bed. Halfway. Just far enough to notice that he’d pissed blood.
There were people he would’ve liked to have seen a last time. Most of them women. It hadn’t been a bad ride, after all.
Jesus, I need you now. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Help me.
The door opened. Instead of spirits, Nasr saw a compact man in a perfectly pressed uniform. A col o nel. In the Jihadi regulars, the Blessed Army of the Great Jihad. The col o nel wrinkled his nose.
Yeah, I stink, Nasr thought. Come and have a lick, you cock-sucker.
When the col o nel spoke, without advancing from the doorway, his English accent was plummy. Oxbridge, Knightsbridge, and contract bridge.
“Dear me, Major Nasr, you’re looking the worse for wear. Would it be a great bother for you to get up now, do you think?”
No bother at all. I was just relaxing.
When Nasr didn’t move, the col o nel said, “You’re really looking rather peaked. We’ll see about some assistance, shall we?”
The col o nel clapped his hands and made way. Two underlings, also uniformed as regulars, excused their way past him and made for Nasr.
He couldn’t put up any re sis tance. The best he could do was not to break down in tears when they lifted him. It felt as though his every bone and sinew were coming apart.
The officer spoke in Arabic. Telling his subordinates to go gently, that they would suffer themselves if they did Nasr any further damage.
“I suppose,” the col o nel told Nasr, “I should have brought a nurse along. Thoughtless of me.”
As the men carried Nasr down the corridor, only one of his feet dragged. The other leg curled back, as if in an elbow cast.
Outside, the bright sun shut the slits of his eyes. The enlisted Jihadis really did try to be gentle with him. It didn’t help much. When they put him in the back seat of the sedan, he imagined himself imploding, collapsing into a mound of gristle and bone fragments.
“Your forces are doing rather well,” the col o nel told him, once he had settled himself on the seat beside Nasr. “We Arabs never do seem to get the knack of this sort of warfare. Of course, we have our own repertoire.” He tapped the back of the front seat with a swagger stick, and the car proceeded to grind down the broken alley.
“We haven’t much time,” the col o nel told him. “I expect your forces to arrive in Nazareth in a matter of hours. Perhaps sooner. And it would hardly do for me to be here.”
Nasr was so crumpled that he barely saw over the ledge of the car door, giving him a child’s view. The houses were shut up tight.
“The refugees,” Nasr said. He had to repeat it several times before he could make himself understood.
“Oh, they’re still here,” the col o nel told him, once he’d deciphered Nasr’s mumbling. “Down in the old city. I’m afraid we’ve had to shoot a few, to make them understand they’re not to leave.”
“Why?”
“Just riff-raff, really. The ‘intelligentsia’ of the Middle East. No feeling for Islam. No sense of faith, of purity. We see them as something of a fifth column. Impossible to reform.” The col o nel half-turned toward Nasr. “They’re our gift to you. Perhaps you can build your new Middle East with them. As your president wished to do, when I was a lad. One must never give up hope — isn’t that so?”
As the car threaded its way through the labyrinth of Nazareth, Nasr glimpsed crowds of civilians crammed together in the lower streets.
The noise of war ruled the world beyond.
The car turned south. On the main road.
“I really must apologize to you,” the col o nel said. “In advance. In war time, one finds oneself compelled to do things that don’t really square with the old conscience. Allah will forgive me, of course. Nonetheless, I find it embarrassing.”
Nasr didn’t find it embarrassing. Nor did he have another word for what he saw when they pulled up to a stretch of the road where empty lots on either side had become the site of an artificial forest.
“Get him out of the car,” the col o nel told his subordinates.
They came around and drew Nasr into the warm sunlight.
This? Was this the way it would end? Would there be a special dispensation for this?
They held him up in a mockery of standing. Before him, Nasr saw dozens of crucifixes. Each bore an American soldier or Marine.
“Deplorable, I know,” the col o nel told him. “But we feel we need to make a point. Not least, given what your MOBIC fellows have gotten up to in Jerusalem.” He brought his face close to Nasr’s, braving the stench. Nasr saw a youngish man, handsome, with skin the color of coffee with milk.
“The message is that there will be no quarter. From this day forward. This is a war of extermination. Do you think this display sufficient to drive that home?” He backed away. Slightly. “We’re not complete barbarians, you understand. Unlike your ‘Military Order of the Brothers in Christ.’ Is it really Christ’s message they carry? I’m surprised, really. But what I wanted to say was only that we’re not animals. We killed these men before we nailed them up. No need to gild the lily.”
Nasr let his head sink. He could bear the sight no longer. The crows were already at some of the crosses. Crows and flies.
“I suppose I should’ve mentioned it earlier,” the col o nel resumed. “Bad form on my part.
