Chapter 1. The Visitor

The tattered man shook violently from the biting cold o  f the desert night. His sharp eyes were long since caked as crags with dust. Countless lines carved across the wrecked features; the tributaries of struggle tattooed within dappled skin. Fruitless experience marked permanently. The floundered endeavour come to naught, its pain etched as indelible scars. Each pore an epitaph to a comrade lost, a friendship expunged. With hope vanquished amid the anarchic chaos, astride a vehicle that had, through sputtered sighs, afforded late respite from that seemingly endless trek necessitated by the retreating danger that still loomed large. His soiled khakis blistered from the ruin of each step from that long journey that had brought him to the threshold of his home. 

And now, finally, respite within the confines of the small central square, arrived at last. A committee of bewildered faces awaited, uncertain of this visitor, flecks of fear coloured their eyes. Was he so unrecognisable? His visage: a face scattered with greying bristles, lips cracked and bled from the desert dry. In truth the faces that met him seemed unfamiliar, the background cast of yesteryear no doubt having found elevation within a vacuum of leadership. He was out of body momentarily, the withering exhaustion wrenching him from the obsessive resolve that had carried him so far, against the odds. He remembered that final, terrible battle, a desperate muddle. His men taking the initiative even as the air had grown dark with cluster munitions. But communications had failed them, and, in the end, more had fallen from misplaced allied incendiaries than by the Caliph’s long blunted blade. 

Alone he had emerged from that last pyrrhic, banquet of war. A confused desperate skirmish marking the final convulsions of the once all-powerful Caliph. Knocked from his feet and rendered unconscious by something hard, the gash on his temple would be weeks in healing. He had awoken from within a makeshift graveyard, surrounded by corpses, inexplicably alive and all but unharmed. Refusing the comfort of the assembling conclave of foreign forces, he had determined his place was home, or whatever remained after the countless months passed. 

With arms and scant supplies replenished, he escaped quietly into the night. Ever wary to avoid the rag tag remnants of the Caliph, that, at times lay only a few hundred metres in all directions. Too many had fallen to friendly fire, he would not risk such a lottery. And so, the Visitor, had determined it safest to trek on foot, along a lonely, withered path, where day was as night, his steady step syncopated with blistered feet. Ever careful to measure his pace, taking succour from the din of aerial warships. The firewall that would ensure the Caliph found no peace within retreat. A first crisis wrought from a burning thirst which consumed his attention. But his path had refused to bend to adversity’s will. A malignant determination to arrive had kept him moving, keep going, no matter the obstruction. The shining promise of peace and perhaps family did await. Floundering, his body failing, having been starved of water for too long, until finally satisfied by the vague outline of a goat, whose effigy had led him to the relief of an albeit muddied drink. He rested there awhile, the water filling him like fuel, his strength returned enough to remind him of the untended wounds to his forehead and feet: knowing too well that feet undressed would quicker kill him than any desert threat. But the lost day was well spent, his resumed pace had quickened within the anticipation of home. 

But the welcome party’s fear was  encapsulated in the half frozen faces and stilted motions. What cruel fate had brought this savage just when hope had made a brief return? With not even a full week passed since that rabble of men, who had at one time so confidently proclaimed themselves eternal, had so hastily abandoned this insignificant hamlet. Those base men with their assorted arms packed up and slunk off in retreat within the valley. And in that instant that dark veil had seemed lifted. The dazed survivors emerged gingerly from their refuge. And the emaciated body of that last unlucky one was finally hoisted down from the terrible makeshift scaffold. A gathering of sorts to convene a council before a few words were said and the wretched remains committed to the earth. But in short order came the grapple to consider a new emergency: food. For, whilst all kinds of heavy weaponry and equipment were left simply abandoned, the men had made damn sure to suck the last droplets of succour from the village’s already depleted stores. With its ancient fields planted with all manner of dangers, a harvest of any substance was out of the question. Arguments and discussions mixed with joy and relief, “But we cannot eat freedom,” had remarked one of them, “we will need to send for help, we won’t last a month and even that is a stretch.”

 But the gathering was interrupted by the news of the Visitor arriving from who knew where. A dark new visage. A broken man, with carbine slung from a scarfed neck, a sidearm conspicuous above the belt and who knew what else hidden within his folds? Here perhaps to steal the hope from that short-lived celebration. As he entered the courtyard, his unfamiliar emblems identified an allegiance distinct from the Caliph for he bore no trace of that all too dark script of black and green. However, experience had only taught the surviving clan, old and young, women and cripples, to wonder at what new horror this arrival might visit upon their hope. These last of a scattered huddle who had grappled over these few years that had stretched like decades until the final unsteady stalemate had been breached by the Unity of Nations. The foreign powers who had for so long paid lip service only visiting their attention when the terror of the Caliph had threatened interests closer to home. Under the cover of humanitarian succour, those nations had lifted but the lightest finger in response to the misery and applied a scalpel to extract the Caliph for good. Whilst the villagers felt sure that the war was over for them, little did they know of its reach outside their small enclave. Their view was but a microcosmic fractal of the whole, whose vast chaotic scale was an endless replication of failure. A senseless descent into primal violence. A relentless subjugation, awful and cruel. A dizzying blur of fear. A rumour of intervention from the outside world, the great powers finally risen from slumber, swift in their effect, had offered little solace and with so much already lost. And as the din of artillery and fighting closed in there came the chaotic breakdown before seemingly overnight, abandoned, the wild tyranny fled.

But now the Visitor had arrived, and he did not appear to bring with him anything of use. He had contemplated this reception moments before those final few steps had brought him within sight. How strange the mind works, for months fantasising about that moment, yearning for home, thinking only of the journey’s end and yet on its final realisation, he was soaked in a kind of panic. Doubt had crept in; would he be remembered? He had considered concealing his weapon or even surrendering, for his fight, he was sure, was at last done. But cautious habits persisted and so too, did the instinct to remain alert, at least for now, even within the safety of brethren. So much had passed. So many had perished without notice. He, a witness to so much suffering, even an architect of it at times, but always, he still believed, one of the good. The right side or at least the closest approximation of goodness afforded within these times of chaos.

What the welcome party could not have known, was the fate that had befallen their onetime captors following their hasty flight. Once gathered in a makeshift convoy, the vestiges of the Caliph had sped through those first few kilometres without incident. That was until they had arrived at the mouth of the valley that served as the gate to the south and where just beyond, lay the rallying point. But the messages received had been confusing  and contradictory; their codes, it seemed, had been compromised and they had dithered longer than was wise, until finally a hand-scrawled edict had arrived by courier, containing the unmistakable scratchings of their commander. It was brief and flowery, exalting the remnant fighters to not despair but regroup in unison and ready themselves for the fight back. But an hour into the journey, the relatively smooth road wilted before them into first a trail and then nothing. Their pace had seemed to evaporate as the pot-holed but passable road deteriorated. In its place, a faded dust track snaked its way into the valley,  the narrow path growing treacherous with its sharp crags, immovable boulders and craters that variously jarred apart, shook open and trapped the already poorly maintained vehicles. The slow progress was interrupted further as tyres and tracks required constant repair, even as heavy vehicles were levered painfully out of the gullies left behind by the evaporating track. 

More in desperation than good thinking, two fighters were despatched atop plundered dirt bikes, trusted members, who could be depended upon to reconnoitre the terrain for alternative passage. The first to return several hours later made it clear that retreat was no option, they were too far into the Valley to make a meaningful impact on their progress, moreover he had heard the distinctive hum of those flying drones from the united force, no doubt in search of any remnants of resistance. No, it was reasoned, their current position, awkward as it was, at least offered some cover with the valley looming overhead, their earlier progress perhaps just enough to provide time for their escape. 

When the second scout returned, the relief was palpable. It seemed the path ahead eventually gave way to some scrub and beyond that, a road, an actual road. Whilst the next few kilometres would be torture, it was determined that they would simply need to slow the progress and endure the path ahead. With the repairs complete and the men exhausted from the slow progress of their first day, a camp was struck with the vehicles carefully concealed beneath tarpaulin. Each fighter searching out a fitful sleep where they could, as silence spread across the camp. 

High above, more than a kilometre’s gaze away, stalked their undoing. Safe from his vantage point, the Visitor had spied the men’s movement as he approached the village and determined upon one final action before his return home. Tracking their movement astride his own recently ‘liberated’ vehicle, the Visitor ventured close enough to observe through his sights the distinct features of their leader within the dust trail, as the bewildered frightened folk looked on. Was he purposefully delaying his return home? Nervous perhaps? Unwilling to confront the past or accept the new reality? The thoughts welled in him, soon to be replaced with that steely logic and insight that had for so long served him well. This unforeseen detour would be a good investment if it ensured that none would ever return to haunt the village, his home after all. No, he reasoned, this was not a choice. Their haste in flight was too late and they might still return. The Visitor resolved there and then to meet their cruel actions with consequence. Tracing their every movement, his intimate knowledge of the terrain that swept ahead served as his weapon. The sinews of the valley sparking warm memories from a misspent youth chasing after goats. Indeed, unbeknownst to the convoy, childhood shortcuts afforded some subtle sabotage in the form of a series of concealed potholes, courtesy of a shovel and some brush. The dance was delicate, but the years of fighting had instilled an expertise in the Visitor that ensured his quarry remained entirely unaware of his presence. Now, with the light of day slunk off and with night proving impenetrable to the machinery, he observed the convoy as it disintegrated into a makeshift encampment. 

He approached, obscured by the gloom and shelter of the night, systematically measuring the disarray of vehicles and men. From a vantage point mere metres away, the Visitor was startled Did he not recognise the leader of the formation? A memory dredged from a past long ago of a disaffected, warped youth. It was no surprise that the thief raised from a pack of outcasts had been sadistically elevated to a status within the brotherhood and afforded a devilish moniker that surely overstated his worth. No more than a teenager the last time their paths had crossed, a year or so prior to the chaos of war, the eyes and grimace were unmistakable. Aah so this was ‘the Butcher’. 

A grotesque name that had quickly become synonymous with pious hypocrisy and impulsive cruelty. All grown up and now a savage man who took grizzly satisfaction in albeit fleeting power, a reckless will that poisoned any glimmer of progress. But after the heady jubilance of conquest came the spiralling descent into madness, with its brutality sheathed clumsily within fanatical, ill-fitting cassocks. The Butcher was now a shadow of that all-powerful figure that had reigned such terror over his subjects just days prior, his sleep delayed by regret for those heady days of indulgence, that wonderful moment in the sun where none could defy his will and his word was as law. All that power now slipped into the past, replaced by an aching emptiness. To simply survive the coming hours would require him to conjure the mirage of escape, an almost insurmountable task given his bedraggled entourage. And so, The Visitor spied the would-be conqueror, propped in the shade of his vehicle, eyes gazing toward a dark gloomy sky as he leaned into the numb of narcotic relief. A habit held secret all these years, it had become his release during that brief, glorious moment. Despite the Butcher finding himself down to the last of his supply, he had afforded himself a reprise from the journey’s ache, his sharp wits numbed even as the Visitor’s footing shifted just beyond the camp.  The Visitor recoiled at the noise he made, an unforgivable slip in tradecraft. And even within the soft haze, the Butcher’s attention returned, recoiling at the crack of movement from far off in the dark. Dredged now by adrenalin from his relief, the Butcher fumbled with the radio from his dozing bannerman that lay within his boot’s reach. Kicking the tardy dog from his slumber, his awareness arrested once more. “Get over here, go check there…” The oaf had replaced his trusty adjutant following an infamous bout of paranoia that had seen a trio of his closest men tried and executed over a dispute that he could barely now recall.

They were as likely enemies within, he reassured himself. The swift actions had not, of course, been his alone, but instead the divine will that was ever watchful through his agency in its protection of the Caliph. But how could anyone really blame him? They had all succumbed to exhaustion. A relentless decline. So, he thought better of executing the loyal fool, such dereliction of duty now accommodated out  of necessity. Desperate to retain the meagre scraps of company without whom he would have no hope of survival. 

Within the shroud of the dim light, his blurred vision wrestled with the keypad on the precious radio. The last connection to the familiar voice, the omniscient commander that had once rallied had remained stubbornly quiet. Would such quiet strike out his hope? It would take scant words, anything at all, to halt this wavering belief. He yearned to feel reignited by the sermons that had so persuasively promised Valhalla. He still wondered if even in retreat, from the embers of their recent undoing, could they not re-emerge once more within his light? But doubt had crawled into their fervour, fissures of uncertainty infected every decision. The self-belief splintered with weary gaps, hope faded, perhaps too stubborn to be resuscitated. A growing reality had set in, that this pathetic band of survivors was indeed all that remained of a once unstoppable legion. But from nowhere, almost as if a dream, the crackle of relief became palpable. At last, the great plan revealed - the anticipated trap to be sprung. The destiny to be fulfilled. Static, crackles, flickering led lights, the signal weak but holding before at last that distinctive voice of the Caliph himself returned, unchanged, ferocious, unbending. No doubt ‘They’ all would soon regret their folly in questioning the will of God, and in that fractional moment he felt resuscitated, elated from despair. “God is great.”

“We are some distance but will…”, the lights flickered once more, the voice peppered with digital static and interrupted. “Do ##!@ proceed further, radio silence is to be,” infuriating noise, “, a messenger will ##!% but…” interference, “vanish and await the crucial hour.” Silence. Long unbroken silence, that was it. There would be no further message that night. Despair returned once more like an avalanche.

The Butcher, surrounded now by the bemused, bedraggled fighters who looked to him for comfort, but found none. “Go back to sleep, you fools. Leave me.” The would-be leader still gripped the silent handset, beseeching its voice to return. His attention, a hostage to a lost cause. Willing the crackle of static to return once more from the abject silence. Cupped no longer by the opium’s  embrace, he would not rest, there would be no relief from this doomed reality. An hour or so passed, the camp restored once more to sleeping antiquity. The Butcher wondering what was meant by the message that had been only half understood. Relieved to unearth one final dose of Narcotic relief within the chaos of his provisions, his last for some time to come would momentarily ease the despair, and in that new forced haze, he would remain oblivious to the whispered footsteps, barely fighting the arm that rendered him to the ground, even as an enormous hand muffled his regret before a razor-sharp blade sliced quickly at his neck. 

The entourage would not dare to disturb his remains before the glare of the next morning had run uncomfortably late. Had he not also collapsed after consuming too much? But the bloodied colour indicated otherwise. Panicked by the butchered corpse his men, had gathered around wondering what next to do. Unnoticed lay the wire that would be tripped as the men began to strip the body of its valuables. The blast killed two devotees instantly and scattered limbs from two more of the remnant stragglers, who would bleed out in the hot sun. 

None would ultimately escape the wrapped gifts of exploding nails that the Visitor had so carefully planted throughout the camp. The remaining pair, with bloodied faces, guns fired desperately, magazines emptied in defiance. Before single shots reduced each man to remains, wounded expertly, their chests blown open to bathe in the hot light of morning. All that remained were the agonised whimpers for those unfortunate to escape his instant mercy, a slow death within the solitude of a forgotten valley. The Visitor surveyed his carnage with a quiet satisfaction, swapped his own battered ride for the best of their vehicles. With the light of morning emerged, he foraged to replenish his arsenal before permitting himself finally, to retrace the short distance toward a long-remembered home.

Edited by Kathy Pelich

© Daniel Zeff 2023 All Rights Reserved