The Desert Wolf, Chapter 2

						                  	 ----------The Desert Wolf----------
														   Chapter 2
												   A Wolf in Taliban Clothing
March 7, 2013
Sinjar Mountain Range
PFC Jason Winters

    A quick death. The only thing Jason wants now, the only hope he have of escaping this hell of imprisonment and degradation is revoked from him. The sweet release of death preferable to the horrendous treatment he know awaits him, being a captive of the Islamic State. You don't have to be in the Army to hear about the nightmarish fates of captured soldiers. The mere thought of it sends horrid images of beaten, butchered and murdered service men flooding into Jason's mind, sending shivers through his body.

    It had been about a day since Jason's convoy had been ambushed on the road to Sinjar. The Islamic State had used the Sinjar Mountains to hole up in, watching the town that lay on the outskirts of the one hundred kilometer stretch of mountains. They were a patient lot, keeping scouts posted in and around the village for months to report the movements of any U.S. troops back to the main body. They had bided their time until an opportunity presented itself to strike at the American troops they so viciously hated. To think that an entire populace could be brainwashed into hating you for the sole reason that you hailed from America was without sense or reason to him.

    After the insurgents had decimated the platoon, they took him prisoner, stripped him of his equipment and started the trek back into the 62 mile long range of mountains they called home. Base camp for local sect of jihadists Jason surmised. Hands tied behind his back and a blindfold over his eyes, Jason was forced to march with them all the way back as their spoil of war. They paid no heed to the ragged gash in his left thigh, a souvenir for his first taste of battle; beyond seemingly forcing the strange, tailed woman to wrap a bandage around it to stanch the bleeding, they expected him to walk the whole distance back. The bag over his head making him effectively blind to the land, Jason was led along by rope tied to his waist and guided by being pushed and shoved in the direction of travel.

    The brisk pace at which the group traveled was agonizing for him, due to the injury and the rough terrain of the mountains. The devastating heat, hunger, and thirst lumped together with the pitiful treatment from the men made it all the worse. They all moved by day through the mountains and rested at night. No food or water for him, and nothing to fend off the cold other than his combat uniform made for miserably cold nights. The extremist fighters had their fires to keep them warm though, seeming not to care about it being spotted in the remote areas of the mountain range.

    "You boys are going through a lot of trouble to take me somewhere just to kill me later. Not much sense in it don't you think?" Jason quips, the lack of talking and the continuous dark from the blindfold making the days seem like weeks. But no one cares to reply back, only shove him forward again as they move. "Not much for talk, huh?"

    The thought of escape slowly slips from his mind. With no way of seeing where he were led, and no sense of bearing from his deprivation of sight, he didn't know if he could find his way out, on the off chance Jason managed to slip away while their attention was elsewhere.

    They continued to showed no sympathy for his condition, keeping their pace and only stopping right before dusk to rest for the night. Keeping this up for an entire days worth, moving quickly during the day with no break for food or water and only stopping near dusk drained Jason body and spirit. Soon, the blazing sun begins to quickly descend into the horizon, painting the mountains a shade of orange before giving way to the dark and pale light of the waning moon. One of the men calls for the others to stop for the night. At last a chance to lie down and rest Jason thinks, the wound in his thigh burns and aches down to the bone. But his hope of resting was shattered when one of the Arabs walks up to him and pulls the bag off his head. Jason blinks for a moment, the light from the fire the men had made blinding him from the time spent in darkness. Looking around, he figures out that they've taken refuge in a small cave with a high roof sunk into the side of the mountain. Then he turns his gaze to the Arab in front of him, the one seeming to be in charge.

    He seems a good deal older than the rest of the men, the sun weathered skin, graying hair and lines on his face holding untold stories from his many years on this earth. Jason thinks maybe they're just going to kill him now and put him out of his misery.

    "It couldn't come any sooner," Jason mumbles to himself. He almost welcomed the thought. But to his surprise, he lifts up a canteen of water; the one from his pack he realizes. He unscrews the lid and puts it to Jason's mouth, ordering him to drink.

    "Drink water, will need for walk tomorrow American," saying the last word as it left a bad taste lingering in his mouth. This being the first time since being taken captive that Jason's blindfold has been removed, he only stares blankly at him for a moment. Jason opens his mouth as ordered shortly after and allows him to pour a small amount. He considers swallowing the drink, having not been fed or offered water since being taken captive. But instead of swallowing, Jason inhales through his nose and spits the liquid back in his face.

    The other men from the small group that had stayed behind to take him back into the mountains leaped from their seats on the ground, shouting insults and  drawing knives from their robes. Jason can feel the murderous rage emanating from them, they mean to kill him for his impudence. But the old Arab raised his hand, motioning for them to stop. He stares at Jason for a moment, the light from the moon dancing across his face, the shadows giving the war worn man a spectral look.

    Faster than he thought possible, he unslings his rifle and smacks Jason across the thigh with the stock; right where the shrapnel had torn his flesh. Fierce, indescribable pain streaks through Jason's body from his left foot up into his groin and around his hip. Jason crumples to the ground, unable to support his weight from his left leg going limp. The old man stares at him in silence, wiping the spit and water from his face while the other Arabs laugh and sneer at Jason. Pressing his luck, Jason makes a jab at the old man between the gasps accompanying the torment.

    "What, that the best you hajis can do? I've had leg cramps worse than this," Jason remarks. What does it matter? They'll either kill you now, he thinks to himself, or kill you later. And I'd rather get it over with. But the old Arab does nothing, just glares at him for a moment longer before walking back to the group men under his command to sit and eat their rations. Jason lies on the ground in pain, ignoring the Arabs chatter until the old one speaks up, but not to Jason or his men.

    "You, rifle, come here now!" He barks, seeming agitated for no reason. Then the realization hits Jason that he is yelling orders...at a rifle?

    "Is this guy whacked in the head or what?" Jason says to himself, looking at the elderly Arab in bewilderment. Jason raises up and look to see what on earth the old man is doing. He scans the group and spots an AKM laying on a log, noting that it has a red and white checkered shemagh tied to it for use as a sling. Then it dons on him, that's the rifle that the odd woman had earlier. But why would he be talking to a gun; is he really losing his wits? The woman from earlier is no where to be seen. Turning his gaze back to the rifle, Jason blinks. One moment the rifle is there, and the next it's gone and the woman is standing there.

    "Oh God, I am going crazy," Jason whispers to himself. A slight stir of panic creeps into the folds of his mind. Was it the stress from the firefight? Maybe the heat and dehydration had fried his brain, causing him to hallucinate? But one way or another there she is, standing by the group, out of thin air. Same loose black robes, same rich black hair poking out from her head wrap, same lightly tanned skin, and that...tail, sticking out from a small slit in her loose pants. It's definitely a tail Jason concludes. Long, bushy for most of it's length tapering to a tip near the very end, and dark black like her hair.

    She walks over to the older man, fists clenched in anger, but her face showed no hint of emotion. Leaning down to converse with the old man, Jason sees her eyes twitch and her nose flare slightly. She turns her gaze to him, and for an instant he notices her eyes become highlighted by the light of the moon. They widen with anger, before turning their attention back to the elderly jihadist.

    Moving her mouth to answer him, she talks back; but Jason doesn't know what is said, being out of earshot. Apparently he doesn't like what she has to say. His face contorts into a visage of rage, and he back hands her across the face, muttering what Jason assumes is a string of insults aimed at the woman. But the woman just stands there holding her face with the left hand, stone faced, eyes cast down to the ground. He reaches in front of him and shoves something in her hands, then points to Jason before turning back to his meal.

    This is all too much for him to comprehend, and Jason eases back down onto his side, back facing the group and the warmth of the fire he longed to be near. He tries to think about something pleasant to take his mind off the chill of the night and the hunger pains gnawing at his stomach. But the only things that keep slipping into his minds eye are the images of the aftermath from the ambush. The gruesome images flood his vision and Jason feels chills running down your spine. The sound of footsteps, quick and light, snap him back to the moment and he turns to look up at the mysterious female.

    He's able to get a good look at her now and can't help but stare. Her beauty is rather breath taking, not what he'd would expect from someone, or something, from this part of the world. She looks to be about twenty or so. Removing her head wrap to readjust it, her glossy raven black hair was let down. It stopped just above her her shoulders, long and straight. Her eyes, now that he sees them up close, are a deep vibrant blue, a stark contrast to her lightly tanned skin and dark hair. Her face draws Jason's gaze inwards and he notes her graceful face and slender eyebrows. Her nose small and cute and lips neither full or thin; a happy middle ground in between the two and seemingly soft to boot. A perfect example of feminine beauty. The light from the flames splash off the walls in the cave, lighting up her face for a moment and Jason makes out the hint of something snaking its way vertically up her face from her neckline. A tattoo, surely not? Weren't those against these peoples beliefs? Speechless, Jason etches her features into his memory.

    "What the hell are you?" He asks, not expecting an answer. The woman in black stares at him for what seems a lifetime. Just when he thinks she's going to remain that way, she moves behind him to untie his restraints; then she surprises Jason further by opening her mouth to speak.

    "I am a rifle," she answers matter of fact, as if were the norm for guns to sprout bodies and move around on their own, before throwing a handkerchief of dried meat strips into his lap. Her answer does little to satisfy his curiosity and Jason just stares at her dumbstruck. "Now eat, you will need your energy for tomorrow, and do not try anything. I was told to shoot you if you did," she says, watching him like a hawk. The sound of her voice is strange, as if her accent were a blend of multiple countries. It was like a mix of Arabic and something else, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

    "How do you plan to do that with no gun?" Jason questions her, seeing that she had no weapons on her person in view. "Would be rather hard to accomplish with no firearm, wouldn't you say?"

    The woman says nothing, instead reaching to her shoulder to unsling an AKM and hold it at her side. It's the same one as before, the one she used to strike him with. He looks at it in disbelief. It looks like an ordinary AKM to him; slant brake, iron sights, black painted finish, steel magazine in the mag well. The only thing that stands out to him are the designs on the the wooden furniture. Curving, swirling lines encompass the length of the butt stock, pistol grip, and handguards. It's odd seeing a rifle so intricately detailed among the Taliban. Most of them just have ordinary, beat up guns, and don't go through the trouble of personalizing them this much.

    "I have myself to shoot you with if necessary, now be quiet and eat," she quips back, and he chooses to not pursue the matter of her being armed any further.

    "I'm not hungry," Jason replies, giving her attitude. He is, in fact, starving and Jason is certain she can hear his stomach growling, but he doesn't want to accept help from them or her.

    "It is not poisoned. If we wished to kill you, we would have done it back on the road. Now eat or I will force feed it to you!" She retorts, shouting the last words like an order, drawing some stray looks for the men. Their stares and the girls remarks finally break him and he picks up a strip of the jerky and chews. It's flavorless and tough, not like the stuff he was used to back home in the states. He chokes down the last of it and she takes back the handkerchief, walking back over the the elderly Arab who back handed her.

    He takes the rag from her and stuffs it back in his pack. He stifles a yawn and one of the younger fighters douses the fire with dirt to prevent it from smoking them all out of the cave.

    Must be time to sleep, Jason surmises. Shame about the fire, it was cold enough in the night to make him shiver violently and they offered no blankets for him. Shaking like rag doll, Jason curls up into a ball to help retain whatever heat he could, when the old man speaks to the woman in Arabic. He has no idea what the old man says but looking at the woman's facial expressions, Jason can see she isn't happy with it. The old Arab lies down next to the group of the men at the front of the cave and covers himself with a pile of blankets, shattering any chance of sneaking out after they've all dozed off.

    She trudges over to where Jason lies, carrying a large blanket with her. Plopping down beside him, she drapes the big sheet over the both of their bodies. Before he can open his mouth wide enough to ask what she is doing, she answers the questions that have yet to roll off his tongue.

    "I was told to sleep beside you here to keep watch of you during the night. The blanket is so you don't shiver all night and keep me awake, I did not do it for your benefit," she informs him. "Now go to sleep and keep your hands to yourself. I'll cut your throat if you let them wander."

    Jason just stares at her a moment, a questioning look in his eyes, before pulling the blanket tighter around him. Did she really think he would try something? Isn't she a gun anyway, why would he try to get intimate with a firearm? And given his disheveled, battered condition, there was no way he could, even if he wanted to fraternize with the enemy.

    "Hey, what's your name?" Jason asks, realizing he had no idea what to call her.

    "I have no name, I am a rifle. Do you name your watch?" she replies, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

    "So what do I call you then?" Jason responds, pushing his luck once more with her. Seems odd to literally sleep with the enemy and not know their name.

    "What the others call me, rifle, now quit talking and go to sleep American," she answers, signaling it's time for him to shut up and sleep.

    Jason tries to think of something more suiting to call his captor, but nothing comes to mind. Why are you bothering to anyway, he thinks to himself. Could it be because shes pretty, or maybe because she is the only one who has said more than a handful of words to you since you were taken? He didn't know, but he can't put it out of his head.

    "Hey, for what it's worth-" Jason starts, before she cuts him off with a glare of anger.

    "You Americans talk too much about nothing. Stop talking, and sleep. Now," she interjects, rolling over on to her side and pulling her AKM close to her torso.

    "...Thanks for the blanket," he says, turning over, and passing out for the night, smirking a bit as he hears her huff and swear in Arabic.