Drifters: The First Generation

3

April 26, 2019
Outskirts of Raqqa, Iraq
12:52 a.m.

The grounds are desolate, sand dunes stretched beyond the lights of the downtown city, small houses casting shadows on the roads. The sky is dark and the air smells metallic. Wind gusts had reached up to 40 miles per hour that day, ripping and roaring its ugly head through the community, scaring some civilians into thinking a storm would be coming. They were correct in their theories; a storm was coming but not a storm they had seen before.

The only sound that can be heard are the men snoring in their homes and the wind howling against their roofs. Not a soul is awake, save one. Shiloh stares into the dark shadows of her house, her makeshift wall made out of blankets are the only thing that can be seen with the bare minimum of light she is offered but she doesn’t need light to know every corner of this place. Already she is imagining the corridor leading to her father’s chambers, the one past their tiny kitchen and even smaller sitting room. Shiloh’s father’s snores fill the void along with the others.

Quietly, she slips from her mattress and creeps like a snake towards a gap between two blankets. Time is not wasted on her behalf as she achieves complete silence and stealth. The sitting area is dark, no windows to give light. The shadows don’t scare Shiloh as she sneaks into her father’s bedroom. To see him lying there, regal in his silk sheets and grand bed frame, Shiloh was overcome with anger directed at the man in the bed.

The man in question was spread out in a star shape, mouth open and drooling; regrettably vulnerable. Shiloh thought of all he had done to make her suffer, all that he had done to their people and thousands more. She felt glee as she slid the knife out from under her shirt, thrilled to defuse her last bomb. She came up on the left side of the bed. First, she pointed the knife’s end at his stomach. Then, she pointed it at his throat.

Caught in an internal conflict on the best position to stick the knife in, Shiloh instinctively pulled on her ponytail underneath her hijab. She shook her head, forcing herself to snap out of it. It can’t be too hard, she thought, just don’t think about it. She let out a slow breath and steadied herself. With both hands gripping the knife, she decided to point the knife at his side where his most important internal organs lay. Better a slow death for him, it was what he deserved. Shiloh inhaled once but stopped breathing when her father began to turn. She steeled herself not to move, quietly begging in her head to whatever god there was for him not to wake up and see her there. Her father laid on his side, facing her, but he did not wake. Shiloh let out the breath she had been holding as a sigh of relief and dropped the knife to her side.

Suddenly, her father’s eyes opened, and he looked directly at Shiloh. Frowning, he rubbed his head and sat up in bed. In Arabic, he said, “What are you doing here at this hour, girl? Are the beetles showing their face in your dreams again?” He let out a hearty laugh.

Shiloh’s fingers tightened on the knife as waves of anger tore through her so violently, she had begun to shake. Underneath the surface was something greater and far worse: fear as ancient as Death himself, centered around the memory of her first love, Tamir. His bright brown eyes and soft warm hands were replaced by the image of his cold dead hands and dull lifeless eyes, his neck splattered with blood, the horrific hole in his forehead that went through his skull, the brain matter that had leaked on Shiloh’s robes and stained her soul. Her father had poisoned her, turned her into a monster who would go to such lengths.

What was it he had said? You can do better than a simple farmer. The years of abuse and helplessness under her father’s hand was gone. Now was Shiloh’s chance. In the neck, in the head, kidney, liver, heart. So many places the knife can go, Shiloh thought amongst herself.

Shiloh’s father tilted his head down her frame and saw the knife. The horror in his eyes was shown for a split second before anger filled the whites and swallowed the rest of the color with it. The time was now or never, the opportunity would not arise for this again if he were alive. Shiloh was a just a tad bit slower than her father, an Iraqi specially trained assassin. He struck out and grazed her hip as she slid back and brought the knife down, slicing his hand.

As he howled in pain, Shiloh took an opportunity to run. If she didn’t get away fast, her father would kill her for betraying him. There was no other punishment for these actions than death. She raced through the house, out the front door into the pouring rain. She wore no shoes and the ground was slick with mud. She heard a noise that resonated like a lightning bolt, then a searing pain raced through her as a bullet ripped through her stomach. Having reached the top of the hill, she collapsed and tumbled down the slope.

Her side was in horrible pain, so much that she shifted into a fetal position. Quietly, she wished she would die soon. Shivering and regretful, she was a pathetic sight to behold when her father caught up and looked her in the eye. Speaking in their native tongue, he began his signature superior lecture.

Stroking the gun, he said, “This is a 6.5 Creedmoor. It is one of the most accurate shots in the world. I can do anything with this rifle. Except shoot up close. You should remember this from your training, you fool. Now, for your next lesson,” He dropped the rifle and grabbed Shiloh by her upper arms, pulling her up into a standing position. She cried out and wobbled on her feet, as she felt her wound slightly tear. Shiloh gritted her teeth and forced herself not to pass out from the pain.

Her father pressed his mouth against her ear, gripping her neck with one hand. “Silly girl, thinking you could escape me. I could almost kill you right now. But that would mean freedom for you. Even Allah knows I can’t let you go. Instead, for your traitorous acts against this community and this country, I sentence you to a life of imprisonment inside headquarters. We both know that place is hell, a very deserving position for a stupid bitch like you. I’ll have you shining my guns until the end of time.”

Shiloh began to scream, the noise drowning in the rain and swallowed by the thunder. Her father laughed, cutting her wound deeper. Shiloh was consumed by rage and hatred for this man, who intended to torture and confine her for the rest of her life. As if she hadn’t already lived a miserable life; constantly part of her father’s experiments and playing cat and mouse with explosives. The thing he didn’t realize was that she had nothing left to lose. If she was going out, she was taking him with her.

The knife had never left Shiloh’s hand and she gripped it tight now. She didn’t shake now, as she flipped the knife to face behind her and sunk it into her father’s side from where he stood pressed to her. Shiloh was still screaming, and her voice had begun to grow hoarse. The last of her strength was released as she dug the knife deeper and twisted one last time. She collapsed alongside her father. The rain pelted her body, washing the blood away and mixing with the puddles around them. She could barely hear her father’s gasps anymore. The sparkling lights of downtown Raqqa still gleamed as if nothing had gone on, although someone had to know.

Darkness began to consume Shiloh’s vision and she closed her eyelids to finally rest. Peace settled over her like a blanket, pain began to recede. Just before she drifted away, she heard a small sound next to her. It reminded her of the noise made from a gun with a silencer, the same gun that her father used to kill Tamir and his father. She could have sworn she felt a hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t pay any mind as the feeling of sleep took over and silenced her forever.