East vs. West

Lying on the ground watching the sun rise, his head resting on his rucksack, Isaiah had no idea what country he was in. In fact, he couldn't even tell what continent it was. He didn't care, he was finally getting his first leave and was on his way home. The warring nations would continue to fight, of course, they'd been at it for six years, but at least for the next few weeks their stupid war would have to go on without him.

He and the other grunts traveling with him had flown all day yesterday before arriving at this airbase, so he knew he was far from where he had been stationed all year. No one bothered to tell his group where they were, or even the name of the place, just that they would have to wait about an hour for another transport. But that was seven hours and one meal ago, and with no access to quarters or beds, they were left to wait in an empty hangar with only one bathroom. Unlike some of the other soldiers, he didn't mind the inconvenience as long as they got him home in the end.

Since the battery in his VR goggles was about to die and he didn't feel like talking to anyone, Isaiah closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. His mind was flooded with memories of the past twelve months, most of them involving endless training in the scorching heat. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it felt like he had spent his entire tour doing nothing but drills. That is, until a hypersonic missile came out of nowhere and wiped out nearly a quarter of his camp. As luck would have it, he was on the other side when it landed, but he remembered the smell of burning flesh. The drills resumed a week later, with the stench still in the air, and the destroyed facilities were never rebuilt. Their blackened ruins were fenced off and left to rot, a grim reminder that the lingering war, though dormant at times, was very much alive.

“Hey, you want a smoke?”

Isaiah opened his eyes to see another private, someone he didn't know, lean over and offer him a cigarette. Tobacco had become expensive after the crop failures around the world a few years earlier, so this was a pretty generous gesture. Putting aside his unwillingness to chat, Isaiah sat back against the wall and nodded, accepting the smoke. The other soldier sat down next to him and lit both his and Isaiah's cigarettes.

“So,” he asked Isaiah after the first drag, “who do you think is going to win the war?”

“Uh,” Isaiah grunted, finding the question odd, “us, of course. The East, right?” He wasn't entirely sure which side their country was on these days. It had changed at least three times since the beginning of the war, when it had been the United States, Europe, and Japan against China, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and pretty much everyone else who wasn't neutral. With the U.S. gone after its civil war, its ten successor states locked in a scramble for the scraps, and parts of Asia reduced to a nuclear wasteland, alliances had become sketchy over the years.

“No, I didn't mean that,” the other said, as if it were obvious. “I meant the war at home.”

Isaiah could not understand what the other was saying, but he did not like the sound of it. “I don't get it,” he finally said.

“Dude, don't you watch the news? When was the last time you were there?”

“Twelve months ago,” Isaiah replied. “This is my first leave.”

“Shit, they really did a number on you, huh? I got my first break after six months out. Anyway, things are pretty fucked up at home right now. There's been beef between North and South for a while, I guess you know that, but it just got real, man. They have troops fighting up there in the middle of the country right now. Lots of dead too, I hear. Lucky I live way down south near the border.”

The news, while not entirely unexpected, left Isaiah speechless for a moment. He knew that tensions between the richer South and the more populous North had been brewing since he was a boy, but he had assumed that the specter of what had happened to the United States would be enough to keep others from going down the same path.

When Isaiah made no comment, the other soldier asked, “So where are you from? North or South?” Isaiah replied by naming a city somewhere in the central part of the country, a little to the north.

“Really?” The private shook his head and whistled. “Tough luck, man. Battle line's pretty close.” He read Isaiah's expression and was quick to add, “But hey, it's not there yet, I don't think. Maybe this thing will blow over before it gets that far.”

“It's just great,” Isaiah said bitterly, “it's not enough to shoot strangers down here, we have to kill each other over there, too.” He left unsaid the sobering prospect that, given where they lived back home, they might one day find themselves on opposite sides of the front lines.

“I just hope it ends before we get to the point of no return, you know?” the soldier said. “Like what happened with this goddamn war right here. Nobody wants to fight anymore. They've even stopped with the nukes. But they're all so damn scared of the payback for all the bad shit they've done to the enemy that they just don't have the guts to call it quits.”

Before Isaiah could answer, they noticed a low-ranking officer, not one of their immediate superiors, walk up to them and address the entire group. “All right, folks, pipe down and listen up. There's been a warning of a possible strike, so we're moving your flight up. Grab your gear and get to runway six on the double. You are to board your transport the minute it touches down.”

“Sir, what do you mean, move up our flight?” one of the soldiers asked, “We've been waiting here–”

“I said shut it, Private,” the officer roared. “You have ten minutes to get on that plane or you stay. Now go!”

Isaiah grabbed his backpack and ran with the others toward the designated runway, with only a vague idea of where it was. They reached it in time to see a large transport plane land and then stop at the head of the taxiway without turning off its engines. The airman signaling to the plane shouted to the group not to wait and to board immediately. They could see through the open rear cargo doors that there were nowhere near enough seats for everyone.

During all this, some of the soldiers continued to laugh and joke, obviously not taking any of it seriously. Isaiah was not worried either, for the screaming and running sounded like another drill. The officers loved to make them do everything in a hurry. But all the laughter died down when they heard the base's anti-aircraft systems go off in rapid succession. Rockets, dozens of them, shot up from the other side of the airfield, heading west. Their targets, they knew only too well, would reach them in a matter of minutes if they were not intercepted.

There was a scramble for the aircraft's doors, all pretense of military discipline abandoned. Even the marshaller stopped signaling and abandoned his post. The last soldier in the group managed to jump in while the plane was already moving, and in less time than Isaiah thought possible, they were airborne. There was no message from the pilot, and in the rush, the rear doors were left open.

The soldiers stood and watched the airbase fade into the distance, the bravest sitting on the edge of the bay. They noticed that the defense systems had stopped firing, but the tension did not ease until the base was almost out of sight. Only then did the chatter resume, with the prevailing opinion that it had been a false alarm.

Someone still looking outside shouted over the babble, “Jesus Christ!” There was a white mushroom cloud rising up into the sky. The doors were finally closed and everyone braced for the shock wave, but it never reached them. So, no nuclear bomb, Isaiah reasoned, as did everyone else. Still, thinking of all the people left on the base, no one spoke for a long time.

Two days later, Isaiah was dropped off in a city a hundred miles from where he lived, with orders to report back to duty in three weeks. Despite his protests, they wouldn't take him any closer to his hometown because of the ongoing internal conflict in the area. A personnel officer even urged him, “Don't be a fool, son. Find a girl or a boy your own age, whatever suits you, and enjoy your leave right here, where it is safe. Well, safer, if you know what I mean.” But Isaiah wouldn't hear of it.

After asking for directions, he arrived at the city's central station to find it packed with people, most of them standing in long lines. The noise was enormous and tempers were running high, with a heated argument breaking out every few minutes. He even saw two men pointing guns at each other after one accused the other of being a Southerner, but nothing came of it. Through it all, Isaiah tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, making sure to conceal the service pistol his commanding officers had neglected to retrieve. He also hid his combat knife under his cargo pants. At this point, he was more afraid of the weapons being stolen in the crowd than of having to use them.

He waited patiently in line for over an hour until the booking clerk called him over. The middle-aged woman didn't even look at him, she just said, sounding completely exhausted, “Where to?” He told her the name of his town, and only then did she raise her eyes to him, surprised rather than annoyed.

“Where did they keep you, boy?” she asked, noticing his uniform. “Under a rock? Don't you know there's another war going on down there?”

“I heard it's not quite there yet,” he replied, sounding apologetic.

“It may well be by the time you get there,” she countered. “It's a hair's breadth away as it is.”

“I just have to go, ma'am,” he insisted, “My family is there. My friends.”

She threw up her hands in surrender and muttered, “Well, it's your life.” Then she continued more matter-of-factly, “There are no more trains or buses that go all the way there. The closest I can get you is ...” She named a place about twenty miles from his hometown.

“I'll take it,” he said eagerly, handing her the money. She gave him a bus ticket and waved him off, saying, “Just don't complain later that no one tried to warn you. You leave in half an hour. Next!”

After the woman's admonition, Isaiah assumed the bus would be mostly empty. To his surprise, almost every seat was taken, and he had to sit next to a scruffy-looking old man smoking a fetid cigar. Eventually the two struck up a conversation, and when asked about the impending civil war, the older man became indignant. Gesturing wildly, he exclaimed, “Bullshit! War with the South, my ass. There's no war over there, it's all lies. The bastards are lying through their teeth to keep us under their thumb. That's what they always do, those sons of bitches. But they can't fool me anymore! No sir.” Isaiah did not dispute the idea, but the old man's mood had soured, and he flatly refused to speak any further.

When they reached their destination, the passengers quickly got off the bus and scattered like mad. The old man tried to push past Isaiah without a word of goodbye, but as he struggled to get his suitcase off the top rack, Isaiah asked him if he knew anyone who could give him a ride back to his hometown. The sun was very hot, as it was most days now, and war or no war, he would rather not have to walk the last twenty miles.

The old man scowled at him, and Isaiah thought he wouldn't answer, but he finally volunteered a name and address. “Tell him Oscar sent you, you hear?” the man shouted before leaving.

The small town was buzzing with nervous activity, as if something important was about to happen. Still, everywhere Isaiah went, people stopped, stared, and whispered. He saw no troops, but twice he spotted men dressed like farmers carrying hunting rifles. He picked up his pace and, almost by accident, found the address the old man had given him, which happened to be a run-down auto repair shop.

The garage owner eyed Isaiah warily as he explained his business, and when he mentioned Oscar's name, the stranger snickered, “Oh, sure. If that old hack sent you, you're in for one hell of a deal.” The fee he then charged for the trip was exorbitant, all the more so since the only working car available looked even more decrepit than the facility. Despite this, Isaiah gave in without much protest, so desperate was he to get home.

“We'll take a long turn to get there,” the man explained as they prepared to leave. “I don't wanna run into no tanks. I ain't seen any on this side of the river yet, but you never know.”

“So there's definitely a war?” Isaiah asked. “Oscar said ...”

The mechanic cut him off with a sneer, “Some folks 'round here believe nothing until it smacks them in the mug.” With a puff of black smoke, the old vehicle lurched forward.

Traveling only on back roads, it took them two hours to get there, and the driver would not take Isaiah directly home, only to the outskirts of town. Isaiah was furious, but the revolver the mechanic kept at his side in a cup holder convinced him to drop his plans to demand a refund. He didn't want to risk getting shot now that he was close, so he made his way into town on foot. At least the sun was slowly setting and the heat was not so unbearable.

Isaiah's apartment was on the other side of town, across from the railroad tracks that crisscrossed the city, and he mentally charted the shortest route to get there. As he walked, he could see that the city hadn't changed much since he'd left, but the people here seemed even more on edge than in the previous one. Some houses had their windows boarded up, though they were obviously still in use, their occupants watching him closely through half-closed doors as he passed. He felt like he was entering a foreign city, not his hometown, and the few suspicious passersby he encountered on the streets only added to that feeling.

At one point he heard gunfire in the distance, far away, and later had to change course when he hit a barricade of charred cars. Although no one seemed to be guarding it at the moment, it completely blocked the road. Eventually he reached the old city center, which was still dotted with businesses, though not the most prosperous. Except for a bar and a pharmacy, nothing was open. He checked his watch and confirmed that it was a bit early for all the shops to be closed.

As he looked around, his attention was drawn to some shouting coming from the other side of the square. He saw a dark-haired woman scurrying away from three or four hoodlums who were chasing her with clubs. She rounded the first corner and disappeared from view, but her pursuers seemed in no hurry to catch up with her, and Isaiah thought he knew why. If he remembered correctly, this was not a real street she had taken, but a dead-end alley.

Isaiah considered moving on, telling himself that this was a problem for the police, not him, but changed his mind. He thought there was something familiar about the woman being pursued, though he couldn't place her. Intrigued, he waited until the thugs entered the alley and decided to follow them, careful not to be seen.

The first thing Isaiah heard when he reached the blind alley was, “I'm telling you, Zeke, I went to school with her. She's from Uptown.” The hoodlums had stopped a few steps away from their terrified victim, and the one who had just spoken was addressing the tallest of the group. Now that he was closer, Isaiah saw that they were wearing some sort of uniform, though not one he could identify.

“Is that right?” said the burly one, obviously their leader. He turned to the young woman and asked in a menacing tone, “Now tell me, what are you doing Downtown? Are you spying on us?”

“What? No!” the woman replied, her fear tinged with indignation. “You're crazy, I just want to go home. Let me go, you jerks.”

“Cussing us now,” spat one of the thugs, “Let's teach her a lesson.”

“Cassie?” The name carried clearly through the alley, and all the thugs turned in Isaiah's direction. “Who the hell is that?” one of them asked.

“My God, Isaiah!” the woman cried after a second, “Please help me!” She began to run toward him, but the leader of the gang raised his truncheon at her.

“My friend asked you a question, soldier boy,” he said. “Who do you think you are, sticking your nose in here?”

Instead of answering, Isaiah pulled his pistol from under his shirt. He said to the woman as steadily as he could, “Keep walking toward me, Cassie.”

“We're not afraid of guns,” the leader said, though the other hoodlums had flinched at the sight of the firearm. “You don't know who–” But he never finished the sentence. His wooden club exploded in his hands as the sound of the pistol filled the alley. He stumbled backward, unharmed, and glared at Isaiah with venom as he regained his footing.

Hitting the truncheon had been pure luck, nothing more. A year in the army had not made Isaiah a sharp shot, and he had actually aimed at a garbage can sitting next to the big goon. Unaware of this, no one tried to stop the woman again as she rushed to where Isaiah was. With her safely behind him, he lowered his gun.

“I'm going to find you,” the leader said, putting on a brave face. “Next time you come to our side of the city, I'll find you, and that peashooter won't help you a bit. You hear? Not one bit.” But he made no attempt to move as Isaiah and the woman left the alley.

“Assholes! Motherfuckers,” the woman ranted as she and Isaiah fled as fast as they could without actually running. A block away, Isaiah asked without stopping, “Cassie, is that really you? What happened to your hair?” Not only was the color of her hair different, but she was much thinner than he remembered.

Without slowing her pace, she replied, “Oh, right. You haven't seen me since I dyed my hair. It's been a while.” They had known each other since childhood, and had even made out at a party as teenagers, but things had gone nowhere after that, and they eventually drifted apart. After a moment she added, “Thank you, you came just in time. But we can slow down now. They won't follow us here, so close to the tracks.”

Isaiah realized she was right, they were a block away from the railroad and heading in the direction he had intended to go to get home. He asked, “Listen, what was that all about? Those guys were in uniform. Are they from the South?”

She looked at him uncomprehendingly and said, “The South? What do you mean? Oh, I get it. No, that has nothing to do with it.”

Instead of continuing her explanation, Cassie grabbed his arm and said, “The tracks are just over there, let's wait here for a moment and see if everything is okay before we go on.” She sat down on a low brick wall and motioned for him to join her. With his nerves still frayed from the recent confrontation, he was happy to oblige and rest for a while.

“What happened,” she resumed her story as she scanned their surroundings, “was that some guys from Downtown started a militia or something to bully people from Uptown. You remember how it is, they blame Uptown for everything, for making Downtown worse off and all that. It's a lot of crap, but I guess some people believe it. Uptown citizens were being robbed in broad daylight and the police on this side of the tracks were doing nothing to stop it. So our people started their own militia to defend themselves, and the next thing you know, things got completely out of hand. It's kind of quiet now, if you can believe it, but two weeks ago they were killing each other in the streets. I had to go see my dad today, he's been sick for weeks and he lives on this side of town. Otherwise I would never have come back here, especially these days.”

Isaiah continued to stare forward, looking at nothing in particular, and murmured, “I get it.” He could not think of another word to say to her. After a year of fantasizing about going home and finding the solace he craved, it finally dawned on him that those days were over. The traces of barely contained despair on Cassie's face, on lips he had once kissed, were the final proof, as if the desolate streets were not enough. Now all he had to look forward to was his family. Maybe he could convince them to leave the city, or better yet, the country, and then he wouldn't have to return to military service.

Ignoring his sinking mood, Cassie climbed down from the wall and said, “I think we're okay, let's go.” They began to cut through the open field where the railroad ran and were almost halfway across when a shot rang out. Isaiah heard the bullet pass over their heads and dropped to the ground, his rucksack tossed to the side. He didn't have to worry about Cassie; she was already lying on the dirt next to him.

“Those idiots,” she said, gritting her teeth, “it's our side that's shooting at us.”

“Hey!” Isaiah yelled in the direction the shot had come from, without getting up. “Hey, we're from Uptown!”

“Shut up, Isaiah,” Cassie blurted out. “God, didn't they teach you anything in the army? We're too far away for them to hear us.” As if to confirm her words, another shot was fired, but the bullet hit the gravel more than a hundred feet from where they stood. Isaiah assumed the shooter was trying to scare them off, not kill them.

They crawled all the way back to the low wall and waited behind it, mostly in silence, until the night grew dark. Only then did they try to cross the field again, a furlong down the railroad tracks, this time successfully. By unspoken agreement, they headed through the shadowy streets to Isaiah's apartment.

With the danger now behind them, they allowed themselves to be distracted by reminiscing about old times. In fact, Cassie was much more interested in talking about that than the current situation. She even laughed when they remembered the night they had cuddled, and she joked about how bad a kisser he was. Things got tense again, however, when they bumped into a group of young men in uniforms, no less thuggish looking than those on the other side of town, but they all knew Cassie and eventually let them pass.

Twenty minutes later, they reached Isaiah's building, and he was glad to see that it hadn't changed at all. Even his key, which he had kept safe all this time, still fit the lock. He looked at Cassie again and asked, “Are you sure you don't want me to take you home?”

“No, I'm fine. I mean, I'm not with my mom anymore, I'm with some people and ...” He could see that she was struggling with something, but she couldn't bring herself to say what it was. In the end, she mumbled, “Well, goodbye. And thanks again. Talk to you soon, okay?”

“Absolutely, drop by anytime,” he replied with a smile, then turned to open the door. He was already inside the building when he heard her call out to him again, “Hey. Isaiah, wait.” He turned to see her standing in the doorway, looking flustered, one hand clasping the other.

“Changed your mind?” he asked, far less enthusiastic about seeing her home after knowing she was living with strangers.

“Listen,” she said, her voice rising with urgency, “why don't we just get out of here? We could leave this damn city behind, just the two of us. Right now, right this minute, while we still can. Never look back.” She looked him straight in the eye, a desperate plea in her eyes, “Just come with me, Isaiah. Please!”

As she stood there in the dim light, fidgeting with her hands, she reminded him of a cornered animal, frightened and helpless. If he had ever been attracted to her, he certainly didn't feel it anymore, but that didn't stop him from being flattered that she would make such a suggestion when she had just met him again. With no intention of accepting her offer now that he was mere steps aways from home, he said, “Why don't you come upstairs? You can see my parents again, maybe spend the night. We'll figure this out in the morning, all right?”

She immediately backed away from him and raised her hands as if he had just slapped her. Her face went stiff and she said, “No. Oh no, you just don't get it. My God, I ... I have to go.” She stormed off without saying goodbye or looking back, and he made no pretense of following her.

The elevator was not functioning, so Isaiah had to climb all three flights of stairs to his floor. The sounds of a baby crying and people arguing in some of the apartments below echoed through the corridors, and he climbed faster. He reached the door to his apartment and was relieved to see that his key still worked.

Isaiah closed the door behind him, hardly believing that he had made it. He breathed a sigh of relief, but it faded the moment he saw the room he was now in. Most of the furniture was gone or had been piled up to partially block the two hallways leading to the rest of the apartment. The white walls were stained with soot, and there was evidence of a previous fire in one corner.

He never felt the backpack slip from his fingers and hit the floor, but the sound seemed to attract attention, for he heard footsteps approaching. His father's voice came from the hallway on the left, “Stop it, stop right there, you ... Oh, but it's Isaiah! You're back!”

Pausing at the pile of broken furniture in front of him, his father cracked a smile, but it was not the easy, broad grin of the man Isaiah knew so well. His hair was disheveled, his clothes dirty, something Isaiah thought impossible, so neat the man always was, and his face was etched with lines of worry. He looked not one but ten years older.

“When did you arrive?” his father asked. Before Isaiah could answer, he added, “Quick, come this way before she–”

The father's words were interrupted by the arrival of Isaiah's mother, who burst in from the opposite hallway. The unbridled disgust on her face melted away when she saw her son standing there with his mouth open. She clapped her hands and exclaimed, “But it's Isaiah! You're home! I kept praying that you'd arrive safely. Come and give me a kiss, dear.”

Isaiah was shocked to see that his mother's transformation was no less profound than his father's. Always so self-conscious about her appearance, her hair, now prematurely white, looked filthy, as if she hadn't washed it in weeks, and there were large dark circles under her eyes. In one hand she held a sharp knife that she had brandished just before she saw Isaiah.

“Wait, son,” the father said when Isaiah began to move toward his mother as she had asked. “There are things going on that you don't know about. You better come here first.” He motioned for Isaiah to come to his side of the room while holding what appeared to be a wooden table leg with his other hand.

“That's just like you, you bastard,” the mother shouted as she took two steps toward the father, pointing her knife at him. “Isaiah has just arrived and you are already trying to turn my son against me. Don't trust his lies, Isaiah. He has become a monster.”

“Oh, I'm the monster?” the father yelled back at her, taking several steps forward so that they were now face to face. “You evil bitch, you're the one who attacked me.”

“You're damn right I hit you, I had to defend myself. Or have you already forgotten that you tried to rape me?” She looked at Isaiah for a second, her face contorted with rage, and said, “Did you hear what he tried to do to me? Do you see how I suffer?”

The father held the wooden stick to her face and roared, “Rape you? Why would I want to rape you? I can't bear to look at you!” Swinging their weapons at each other, the father and mother continued to scream, louder and louder.

Shaken to the core by this gruesome sight, Isaiah stood frozen in place. He was terrified that his parents would kill each other if he did nothing to stop them. At the same time, he felt a fierce resentment rise up inside of him. He wanted to help them, but he also needed to punish them; to make everything go back to the way it was when there was still love, and to make them pay for their selfish disregard for him. Dark thoughts gripped his mind, and behind them were hints of even worse horrors he dared not name, could not even begin to acknowledge.

Not knowing what to do next, he moved. His right leg went forward, but his left leg slipped backward, toward the door. He lost his balance and stumbled to the floor, awkward, comical, his legs spread as far apart as they would go. As he lay on the ground, neither his mother nor his father made fun of his misstep or came to his aid. They did not even notice him, so absorbed were they in their struggle.

In pain, he tried to stand up, but found that his body would not respond. He tried to laugh at the situation, but no sound came out. His left hand went up and began to dig its fingernails into the right side of his face, drawing blood. It would not stop, it clawed at his right eye. The right hand reached for the knife at his belt, ready to stab the other, ready to tear the enemy apart.