Body Count

Body Count

“Killed ten,” said the Dobara woman without looking up.

“What?”

“She said she killed ten,” Steve piped up, helpfully. He smiled, wondering where this might lead. Nothing like chucking in a verbal hand-grenade to liven a long nights’ conversation, he thought.

“Bull. Shit!” The soldier spat into the sand and looked away.

The Dobara woman did not respond. She seldom spoke and when she did, it was to communicate, to answer a question, to relay information. But she did look up.

Her eyes met Dorran’s. He looked at her and blustered, “Ten? What are you, some kinda Ninja? Some kind of karate, ju-jitsu, martial arts expert? Some kinda kung-fu warrior?”

Steve settled down to enjoy himself: “I remember in the Congo, shit, who was it….? That guy from Poland, Pietr, he killed over twenty, but shit you should have seen him after. He was a mess!”

Dorran sat and fumed. He couldn’t just call her a liar. She was looking at him. It wasn’t sexy. He sat uneasily, uncomfortable in the heat.

The Dobara woman just sat. Then she leaned forward to pick up the packet of Benson and Hedges that lay on the sand between her crossed feet. She took out a cigarette with slow elegant fingers and unwrapped the Bedouin scarf that covered her face. Dobara women do not wear burkhas and her face was not covered out of modesty, but to keep the sand and the ever present mosquitoes from entering her mouth, nose and being breathed in as part of the night air. The men had all seen the terrible scar that disfigured her lips so no-one stared as she lit up and took a long drag of the American cigarette.

“Killed ten,” she repeated and held up her hands to show ten long fingers and the bloodstains still on her palms.

“Aw shit, that’s disgusting!” muttered Dorran. The Dobara woman had just the slightest smile around her lips as she took her next long drag.

The desert wind kicked up and flicked her scarf into her face. She wrapped it around her neck to keep it from flapping; her movements slow and controlled like everything else about her. She was dressed like a Bedouin man, and worked alongside the men as one of them. It was her sincere hope that if the Taliban caught them, she would be killed as a man.

The Dobara are a tribe of nomadic Bedouins and keep their faith as strictly or as loosely as they like, seeing as they travel constantly and the constraints of an urban society are not foisted upon them. The women work with the men and such education as they can get, is shared equally among both sexes. The Taliban hate them. The Dobara keep out of their way.

But it was a Taliban rocket that wiped out the Dobara woman’s family in the very minute that she had left their shelter. It had dealt her a permanent scar, not that she needed a reminder. One minute: Everyone gone. One minute. Everyone. Gone. Everyone.

* * *

She knew the area well, having travelled here all her life, spoke Farsi as well as all the local dialects. She had approached the soldiers and offered her services. They had laughed and made lewd comments about her ‘services’. One of them had grabbed her breast and she'd managed to break two of his fingers before the others hauled her off. Fortunately, their officer had broken up the fight before the kicking had got serious, or she might have had much worse than a cracked rib.

“What are you doing here?” he’d yelled at her. She removed her veil, displaying the barely healed smash of her lips.

“I know this place. I speak the tongues. I will show you.”

The officer barely flicked an eye. He had seen many terrible disfigurements in his years of conflict. He asked her a few questions, nodded and ordered her to wait under a tree. “You,” he’d said to Steve, “You, keep an eye on her. Don’t talk to her, don’t touch her. But don’t let her leave.”

Steve leaned in the shade of a building a few yards away, his rifle leaned beside him. Both were quiet and both were deadly. At the first sign of trouble, he wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot her. The woman sat in the shade of the tree. She didn’t move or speak. She didn’t ask for water and none was offered. Two hours later, the officer returned. “Come with me.”

His office was stifling, but nobody commented. “I asked about you. You lost your family.” The woman nodded. Her eyes hardened, but she said nothing. “And you will be our guide. You will work against your own people?”

“Not. My. People.” She stated simply.

The officer sighed. God knows, they needed a guide and a translator. But nobody would do it. They were all afraid of reprisals. The Taliban would kill distant relatives to punish a collaborator.

“What do you want from us?” he’d asked.

She’d asked for three things: Men’s clothing. To be left alone, unmolested. And a live grenade.

“Let me think about that.”

She had waited under the tree for another two hours. By now the sun was going down and the first mosquitoes were rising. She still had not been given a drink and her lips were parched and dry. The scar tissue was nagging and she licked it repeatedly. Other than that, she did not move.

The officer returned. Over his arm was Bedouin clothing. In his hand was a grenade. Even with the sun behind him she could see it had the firing pin in place. She hoped that they had not defused it – but what choice did she have? She held out her hand. The officer stepped back.

“I am giving you two of the things you asked for and I am promising the third. They will not touch you.”

* * *

The men had been furious. She had a grenade, for fuck’s sake! What if she’s just another fucking Jihadi militant and blew herself to pieces taking them with her? The grenade was openly strapped to her waist and ensured that she was not even approached, much less molested by the soldiers.

* * *

Now she sat in the sand and the men sat around, mostly smoking. After all, if you have a chance of being shot or blown up any day, what threat is lung cancer, they reasoned. The drone of the mosquitoes grew louder as they grew in number. The sun had only been gone for an hour and the darkness was deeper than the sea.

Everyone sat outside at dusk. They did not need a fire, it would not be cold for a while yet and a fire would attract unwelcome attention. It had become their habit to gather at dusk to chat and smoke. At first, the Dobara woman had sat a distance away, not welcomed by the untrusting men. Not wanting to join them, anyway. Then one had offered her a cigarette and she liked it. Finally they had something in common.

She leaned forward and ground out her cigarette in the sand. The heavy lump of her ever present grenade dug in to her waist. Now the men joked if she showered and slept with it. No-one dared find out.

The loud whine of mosquitoes zeroed in on her face and she brought her hands up with a clap! She opened her hands to expose two bloody corpses spread across her palms.

“Killed twelve,” she said. This time she smiled.

Authors note: This story is a complete fantasy that emerged from a writing prompt: Killed ten, said the Dobara.

Ref: Roadside Writers Group, Mill Park Library.