Beyond Mortality

Desolation

Afghanistan

Sand. Every grain of it, a tiny reflection of the desolation around her. The desert stretched endlessly, an unforgiving landscape of sun-scorched earth and bitter winds. Charlotte "Charlie" Hunter hated sand. She hated the way it clung to her skin, coarse and gritty, a constant reminder of where she was. But more than the sand, she hated the war—the guns, the dirt, the poverty, the sounds of children crying, and the smell of despair that permeated the air like the stench of death itself. This place was a graveyard, not just for the dead, but for the living too.

She crouched low behind a crumbling wall, surveying the area and keeping an eye out for any suspicious behaviour. The village was destroyed. A mere ghost of its once magnificent beauty. The mission was simple: find the war criminal, capture him alive, and get out. But simplicity was a luxury she hadn't known in years. There was nothing simple about war. War was messy, chaotic, and cruel. And it left scars, not just on the body, but on the soul.

Nile Freeman, her closest friend and the leader of their squadron, was handing out candy to the village children, trying to bring a bit of light to their dark world. Charlie watched her with a mix of admiration and sorrow. Nile was always the one who found a way to bring hope where there was none. It was one of the things Charlie loved about her. But here, in this hellish place, hope felt like a lie.

"Freeman, where're you at?" The sergeant's voice cut through the silence like a knife, bringing Charlie back to the present.

"Over here, Sergeant!" Nile called out, her voice steady.Nile rushed over for orders, her boots crunching on the gravel beneath her.

"The women are holed up in the house with the arches. Take a right at the building with the red carpet. Get me some information," the sergeant instructed, his voice devoid of emotion. It was just another routine task, one of many they had carried out in this godforsaken land. But Charlie knew better than to let her guard down. Routine had a way of turning deadly in an instant.

Nile called for the squad, and together they moved towards the house where the women and children were hiding. The building was small and decrepit, its walls cracked and crumbling, much like the lives of the people inside. As they approached, Charlie's grip tightened on her weapon. She could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

Thirteen women and children huddled together, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion. Charlie's heart ached at the sight, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Nile made the initial rehearsed greeting in Pashto, her voice calm and soothing. Charlie admired her friend's ability to remain composed under pressure. She then relied on the translator to ask the women about their target, the man who had brought so much pain and suffering to their people.

The women shook their heads, their eyes avoiding contact. But then, one of them hesitated, glancing towards a red carpet hanging against the wall. Charlie followed her gaze and felt a chill run down her spine. Nile signaled for them to get ready, her eyes sharp and alert. Charlie's pulse quickened as she ushered the civilians out of harm's way, her mind racing with the possibilities of what lay behind that curtain.

The squad lined up at the door, weapons drawn, ready to breach. Charlie's breath caught in her throat as she watched, every muscle in her body tensed, ready to spring into action. Before anyone could act, shots rang out, shattering the stillness. A woman screamed, clutching her arm where a bullet had grazed her.

"Shit!" Charlie swore under her breath, rushing to the woman's side. She dragged her to cover, her hands moving instinctively to apply pressure to the wound. The woman's eyes were wide with fear, tears streaming down her face. Charlie spoke to her in Pashto, trying to calm her down as she reached for her med kit. She worked quickly, sanitizing the wound and stitching it up with practiced precision.