The Elements of Zion: the Vine, the Branch, and the Thorn

Chapter 9 Wounds

Suddenly an explosion erupted beside me, jolting me out of my daze. A mortar round, fierce and unyielding, had struck mere yards from where I stood. The ground beneath me shook violently; I was knocked off my feet before I could react, the world around me blurring in a whirl of dust and noise. Struggling to regain my senses, I pushed up from the sandy ground, my palms rough against the grains of time. My head was a battlefield of its own, throbbing with a rhythm that echoed the chaos outside. I forced my eyes to focus, peering through the settling dust behind me, only to be met with a sight that made my heart stutter–the passage to this unfamiliar landscape, had vanished.

An eerie whistling pierced the air, its shrill tone slicing through the hot, dusty atmosphere. Another incoming mortar round. The harsh reality of it settled within me like a chunk of ice, numbing me momentarily. My hand instinctively flew to the hilt of my sword, fingers wrapping around the familiar coolness of its grip. With a swift, practiced motion, I sheathed the weapon at my side, the sleek steel disappearing into its protective casing. At the same time, I clamped the shield to my back, its weight a comforting presence. And then I ran.

My boots pounded against the scorched earth, kicking up small clouds of dust with every stride. A house, a lone figure amidst the desolate landscape, seemed leagues away. Each second stretched into a small eternity, the threat of destruction looming behind me. The bone-chilling whistling grew louder, the mortar's song of devastation growing closer with each passing moment. It struck behind me, searing heat and force slamming into my back. I stumbled forward, barely keeping my footing as the deafening sound engulfed me.

With a burst of strength born out of pure desperation, I lunged for the safety of the house. My body collided with the wooden door, splintering it apart as I burst through. Adrenaline-fueled panic gave way to confusion as I took in my surroundings. This was no ordinary home–it felt ancient, steeped in secrets and history. And yet, it also felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

Suddenly, amidst the disorienting quiet of the house, I heard the resonant voices of my fellow Marines. Lance Corporal Vincent and Private First Class Andrews were calling to each other, their familiar banter a stark contrast to the alien surroundings.

Andrews shrieked, "Peterson! Peterson, where are you?!"

I opened my mouth to respond but was cut off by a piercing scream that rattled the walls of the house. It was a scream that I could never forget, a scream only a mother could make. A scream that was etched into my memory as the day I lost a part of myself.

A surge of fear gripped me, my heart pounded against my rib cage like a trapped bird yearning for freedom. I forced my trembling legs to move, guiding me down the ancient, hushed hallway. Each step seemed to echo through the silence, the creaking floorboards beneath my feet sounding like the ominous tolling of a bell.

As I neared the end of the hallway, the dreadful screaming subsided into an aching, gut-wrenching sobbing. It was a sound that bore the weight of a broken heart, a despair so profound it threatened to consume everything in its path. I arrived at the door, its once vibrant paint now flaking and worn. I pushed it open with a trembling hand, the room beyond greeting me with a solemn silence.

The sight that met my eyes was nothing short of a nightmare. There, in the middle of the room, lit by the dim candlelight, was a woman. Her figure was doubled over in pain, clutching a tiny skeletal form to her chest. Her wails echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the ancient walls and embedding themselves in the very fabric of my soul. The tiny skeletal figure, so small and fragile, was a chilling replica of the child I remembered.

My eyes traced the tiny skeletal form, a chill seeping into my bones. Recognition dawned on me, and my heartbeat quickened in tandem with my burgeoning understanding. This was the same small, spectral figure that had led me here, its skeletal form the embodiment of the child that used to be. I stared, unable to pull away from the eerie figure, the implications of what I was seeing far too profound to immediately comprehend.

I tore my gaze from the spectral child, turning to the source of a stifled sob. Andrews was kneeling on the floor, his body hunched over the lifeless form of Vincent. His hands were stained crimson, a stark contrast against his pale skin. He was shaking, his wide eyes locked onto the lifeless form of our fellow marine.

He whipped his head around, panic and desperation contorting his face. "What do we do, Peterson?!". His eyes were pleading, searching for an answer I didn't have. I looked back at him, my mind a whirl of confusion and terror, struggling to make sense of the nightmare that had engulfed us.

Taking a shaky breath, I reached out to Andrews, who was still reeling in shock. "Andrews," I began, my voice barely a whisper, "I'm so...so sorry."

Andrews' face contorted into a sudden, insidious smile – a smile that sent shivers down my spine because it wasn't the man I knew. His voice, when he spoke, boomed – deep and cavernous, dripping with malice that froze my blood. "You know, Peterson," he murmured, his once-familiar eyes now gleaming with malevolent delight, "this is all your fault."

The stinging accusation sliced through the tense silence, striking me with the force of a blow. I recoiled, stumbling back in shock. "What...?" I began, my voice trailing off as the words stuck in my throat.

I took another step back, my heel connecting with the edge of a worn rug. I lost my balance, my body colliding with a solid figure behind me. I spun around, coming face-to-face with the woman. Her dark eyes were aflame with an anger so profound it was almost tangible. Her lips moved in a rapid, rhythmic pattern.

Her voice, when it came, was a harsh whisper, the words flowing in a rapid onslaught. I didn't need a translator to understand the venom in her tone. The cadence of her speech, the sharp inflections, the raw emotion—it was all too familiar. It was the same language I had heard countless times before, in the heat of battle, in the whispers of the wind, in the dying breaths of the innocent. She was cursing me in Iraqi.

Andrews' voice pierced the room, accusations echoing off the walls. "You took a life, Peterson!" he spat, his face contorted with rage. "A life you had no right to take! An innocent one, lost to your carelessness!" A cruel smile twisted his lips. "You brought this on yourself, Peterson. The blood on your hands... it leads right here."

His words, brimming with poisonous hatred, hit me harder than any bullet ever could. Each syllable was a knife, slicing through my defenses. I found myself at a loss for words, my throat closing tight under the weight of his accusations. The room seemed to close in around me, and for a moment, I found it hard to breathe. This was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

"Bullshit! Every word of it is a damn lie!" I roared back, squeezing my eyes shut. My voice cracked like a rifle over-firing, half rage, half terror. "This ends now!". 

The onslaught of noise abruptly ceased, replaced by a deafening silence that seemed to ripple outwards from the center of the room. It filled the space with an eerie calm, a moment of stillness amidst the chaos that had reigned just moments before.

A cold, bony hand suddenly clasped mine. Startled, I pried my eyes open, the sight that met my gaze sending a chill down my spine. The tiny skeleton stood beside me, its hollow eye sockets seemingly gazing up at me. We were alone, the room around us dissolving into a blur of shadows and dancing candlelight.

Its small, skeletal hand raised in a hushing motion, the chilling gesture commanding an instinctual silence. The room felt as if it were holding its breath, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I held my breath, straining to catch the sound that the skeletal child was directing me towards.

Then, like a faint melody playing in the distance, I heard it – a muffled cry, soft and desperate. My heart pounded in my chest as the sound filled the room, echoing off the ancient walls. It was a sound I knew as a father, one that sent a jolt of recognition through me. Abby. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, the sound of my daughter's cry piercing the silence and my heart. Abby was here.