A World Made of Blood

By Sebastian Junger

BYLINER FICTION

Copyright © 2012 by Sebastian Junger

All rights reserved

Cover Image © James Cotier/Getty Images

ISBN: 978-1-61452-054-2

Byliner Inc.

San Francisco, California

www.byliner.com

For press inquiries, please contact media@byliner.com

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Table of Contents

- Story

- About the Author

- About Byliner

- Byliner Originals & Byliner Fiction

“Andre?”

Nothing.

“Andre, this is bad.”

Daniel says this into the new darkness that has come in suddenly, with strange birdcalls and a restless murmuring of the forest. A few of the soldiers turn their heads, but Daniel can barely see their faces now. He doesn’t know them by name anyway. There’s nothing left of the long, blazing day behind them but the West African heat. It sits heavily amid the palm trees and radiates from the pitted asphalt road. Daniel lights a cigarette to see if anyone will tell him to put it out. For a minute or two, no one says anything, and he’s tempted to think maybe they’re not in such a bad spot until the captain makes a hissing sound from across the clearing. Daniel looks up and nods and stubs it into the sandy soil.

The soldiers are strung along the road in no particular formation. They’ve backed the armored personnel carrier up into the clearing and thrown some palm fronds over it. For some reason, the stubby little barrel points out toward the road, though Daniel can’t imagine anyone trying to approach that way. They’d come quietly through the trees and then suddenly the darkness would explode. Or at least that’s how Daniel imagines it. He’s never been in anything like that—few of them have, despite the cocktail-party stories that come later. Andre finally walks over. Andre’s the photographer. Andre’s been through all of this before.

“What’s happening, mate?” he says. Andre’s Australian. He and Daniel have been together for a couple of weeks now.

“Apparently this is a nonsmoking flight.”

“It’s ridiculous. We’re miles away.”

“Maybe we’re not. Maybe they’re right over there.”

Andre looks around and shrugs. “You got any water?”

Daniel pulls a plastic water bottle out of his pack and hands it over. It’s half empty; they bought three bottles in town this morning before they came out here, and two are already gone. “We’re obviously not going back tonight.”

Andre doesn’t answer, just settles down in the dirt beside Daniel. Andre’s had malaria twice, and so he’s back on the Lariam pills that prompt a famously psychotic reaction in him. The pills give him bad dreams or bad ideas about the darkness. Once he woke up shouting because an old lady was standing over him trying to put something in his mouth—a beetle or something. The old lady disappeared when Daniel jumped up and turned the light on. Andre got up and went to the bathroom and washed his mouth out anyway.

That was back in the rotting little capital that everyone is fighting over. The fighting is at least twenty miles outside of town, but the presidential palace has anti-aircraft batteries on the roof, and all the embassies have been abandoned. The country is free to do whatever it wants to itself.

When they left the capital this morning, taxi drivers refused to take Daniel and Andre past the first cluster of charred cars that mark the high-water point of the offensive; beyond that, the villages were gutted and the animals were dead. Once in a while there was a body in the ditch, undulating with vermin and stinking up a half-mile of road. They drove as far as they could and then got out of the taxi and started walking. Everyone else was headed the other way: beautiful young women with babies on their hips and children carrying bags and old ladies with aluminum pots on their heads for cooking and old men with skin like ruined parchment. The old men had no expression, no comment on what was happening, but the old women were angry and they would rattle at you in the native Krio if you looked at them. The soldiers were the worst; they were nothing but teenagers, and they drifted back from the fighting in small groups and then larger groups, out of bullets, out of food, out of whatever narrow sense of duty put them out here in the first place. There were no officers among them and no radios and no discipline; even the villagers kept their eyes down when they walked past.

Andre and Daniel eventually got a ride from a captain who was leading a detachment of forty kids in baggy uniforms. They were regular army but looked even shabbier than the rebels they were fighting. The captain himself was rigid and old-school in a way that suggested implacable loyalty to whoever was calling the shots. He was about fifty, and his uniform was immaculate and absurdly pressed in the jungle heat. His men walked double file behind the armored personnel carrier, and the captain brought his machine to a stop and told his soldiers to check their papers and then waved Andre and Daniel into the vehicle. The double steel doors opened in the back and they stepped in. They drove another hour until they could hear gunfire up ahead. The APC stopped and the kids spread out along the flanks of the road, then continued slowly for another half-mile.

The gunfire got louder and more insistent. The sound turned Daniel’s insides heavy as lead but seemed to make Andre come alive. He and Andre had worked together several times in the past few months, but this was the first time they’d been in combat. Everyone was saying it was going to be ’99 all over again—a three-week rampage of slaughter and mass rape—but Andre shrugged the idea off. Either he didn’t think so or he didn’t care. At the sound of gunfire, he double-tied his shoelaces and rechecked his cameras and zipped up the pockets on his photographer’s vest. He looked the part, and he seemed to enjoy looking the part, but he wasn’t the sort of arrogant prick that Daniel had braced himself for. He worked hard and he cared about people—which was more than you could say about a lot of journalists—and people liked him. Children gathered around him and laughed at things he did, and teenage girls in town shot him shy, challenging looks as he walked through the market. Even the whores at the hotel seemed taken by him.

Daniel tried taking notes, but there wasn’t much to say, and his hands were shaking anyway. At one point the gunfire had suddenly become very heavy and very close, and the APC stopped again and the gunner swept the turret barrel from left to right and back again to survey the jungle around them. The gun shot big, fat rounds that exploded on impact, and it could clear a lot of ground, but this was open palm forest with undergrowth along the road, and the rebels could be anywhere. The soldiers were tensed in a half crouch with their guns pointing ahead of them. They looked tentative and confused and utterly unready for whatever was about to happen. The captain said something in Krio and the APC started up again and the soldiers advanced, their faces blank now and sweat making their foreheads gleam in the high sun. Daniel felt like throwing up.

It turned out to be just celebratory fire in the town of Masiaka. Government militia—more kids, really, given guns and told to point them toward the enemy—had stormed in this morning, but of course no one had radios, so the captain had no idea who was doing the shooting up ahead. Apparently the militias had been expecting more of a fight, and so when they got into town there was too much ammunition left. It was only a matter of time before someone started shooting it into the air.

The APC stopped at the edge of the main plaza, and Daniel watched things get steadily out of hand. The captain looked powerless to do anything about it and didn’t even try. He told his men to keep their guns cocked. There were a few bodies clustered by what must have been an old colonial administrative building, and Andre wandered through the gunfire to take photos, but Daniel didn’t want to leave the vicinity of the APC. He was the writer, and he could see what was happening quite well from there. An argument developed between two of the commanders—Daniel later found out it was over who had done the most fighting—and very quickly guns were leveled and the plaza cleared, and the captain backed the APC up and put his men in defensive position on the edge of town. The various government militias disliked one another almost as much as they disliked the rebels—in fact, some of them were rebels not that long ago—and the regular army kept a healthy distance from all of them.

The shouting died down as quickly as it had started, and the guns came down and there were handshakes and the fighters moved on up the road. That was midafternoon. The captain decided that they shouldn’t proceed further until reinforcements arrived. They sat in the shade for a few hours, smoking and talking. Once in a while Andre would walk out to the road and peer in one direction and then the other and then come back shaking his head. He was hoping there was some way to get a ride back to town so he could file his photos, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. They were stuck here at least for the night. And that was the good scenario.

* * *

Now it’s full dark—no moon, even—and Daniel leans back against a palm tree and listens to the chatter of the forest. The sounds get quieter until there’s almost nothing but the low voices of the soldiers around him. An occasional bird screech somewhere, a rattle of insects. Andre is quiet, maybe he’s sleeping, and the soldiers are just shapes in the darkness. There are sentries somewhere out there in the bush, but they’re probably asleep as well. For some reason, there are no mosquitoes; back in Freetown there were swarms of them. Foul, ruined Freetown … children with no arms and packs of feral dogs on the white-sand beaches and young toughs standing around on street corners with long knives in their belts. Daniel was sent there several weeks ago by an American newspaper to cover the peacekeeping efforts, but the situation fell apart almost immediately, and suddenly you couldn’t even go out at night without risking your life. The rebels were moving mortars and their ammo trucks forward in preparation for an assault, and more rebels were rumored to be in the city itself, just waiting for the signal to rise up. People in the city were jumpy and paranoid—the last time the rebels had gotten this close, it had taken Russian mercenaries flying attack helicopters from their hotel lawn to drive them back.

“What do you think we should do?” Andre asks, breaking a long silence. Daniel is mildly surprised he’s asking his advice.

“I don’t know.” Not very journalistic of him, but it’s the truth.

“We’re kind of nowhere with these guys, you know,” he says. “We’re not in town, but we’re not out at the front, either. We should’ve hooked up with those kids this morning.”

“Are you joking?”

Andre rubs his forehead. “Aw, we’re white: they wouldn’t mess with us.”

“What makes you think that?”

Andre doesn’t answer.

“Listen, they have no problem—none—with the idea of killing. They barely even have a problem with the idea of dying. What possible motivation could they have to not mess with us?”

“You’re right,” Andre says sarcastically. “We’d better play it safe.”

Silence. Fuck you, Daniel thinks. He’s not nearly as experienced as Andre, but he’s no idiot, either. After college, Daniel worked his way through various small-town papers, and he finally escaped his native Midwest six months ago by moving to Nairobi to try freelancing. A few weeks into it, his girlfriend, Jennifer, was robbed at knifepoint, and within days she was on a plane home. He stayed. A couple of assignments came in. He was prone to shameful bouts of loneliness and the dismal conviction that he had no business being here at all. Which—he thinks, glancing through the darkness toward a road that leads north, basically straight into hell—he probably doesn’t.

“Do you have any food?” Daniel asks after a while.

“I don’t think we should eat in front of these guys,” Andre says. “They don’t have much. I wish we had the goddamn sat phone,” he goes on. “At least I could call my editor. He has absolutely no idea where I am.”

Daniel doesn’t respond—the satellite phone is back in the hotel because he, Daniel, forgot it there, a completely unprofessional move. Daniel doesn’t know what to say, and so he just leans back and closes his eyes. A cigarette would help things tremendously right now. “Look, I want to get a story as much as you do,” he finally says. “I want to get a story and get out of here. But we have a responsibility—”

“I know, to our families, our newspaper.”

“To not get ourselves killed like a couple of assholes.”

Daniel tries to say this with the right amount of bravado, but the dismal truth is that the idea of going another hundred miles into this freak show is about the most frightening thing he can think of. Andre seems like he would do it with barely a second thought. There is no way to head into something this uncertain, this dark, and not be scared about the outcome. You have to abandon any real interest in the rest of your wonderful young life. Andre is married to a Czech girl in Paris who seems to put up with his shit, and he has a couple of girlfriends scattered around Africa’s capitals, and maybe at heart he really doesn’t give a shit about anything.

“All right,” Andre declares, “how about this. These guys move forward, we go with them; they sit around for another day, we go back, file, and figure out what to do next.”

“No militias?”

“Not this time.”

Andre unscrews the cap of the water bottle, takes a swallow, recaps the bottle, and puts it away. “You’ll see—you’ll love it up there,” he says. “It’s beautiful country, I swear. I’ve been all over Africa. It’s a country like no other.”

Daniel doesn’t answer. It occurs to him that Andre might simply be crazy. “Don’t you ever get lonely out here?” Daniel finally asks. “I mean, is this it for you?”

“Lonely? No, I guess not.”

“And your wife?”

Andre settles back with his hands clasped behind his head. “What about her?”

“You don’t miss her?”

“Not in the way you mean.”

“What way is that?”

Andre thinks for a moment. “Well, like I’d rather be there than here.”

* * *

Gray light and whooping birdcalls. Low Krio voices. It’s dawn and the soldiers are stirring. Yesterday filters back into Daniel’s mind, leeching through some strange dream about his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—that’s gone as soon as he tries to capture it. He sits up, pulls the cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, and slides one into his mouth. He finds a book of damp matches in his pocket and manages to light the third one. A cigarette goes a long way toward making something feel manageable. He coughs and pulls on his cigarette and watches the soldiers stumble around in the growing light. Andre is still asleep next to him, apparently untroubled by Lariam delusions or the prospect of what is waiting for them.

When Daniel was a teenager, he and some friends went out to a flooded quarry to dive off the cliffs. They dove at thirty feet and then at forty feet, and then when the guys started talking about the high ledge—sixty feet or so—Daniel walked off into the woods to take a leak and just kept walking. There was no way he was jumping from sixty feet—even at forty feet the acceleration was so out of control it almost felt malicious. He walked all the way home and never did anything with those guys again.

Andre finally stirs and then sits up abruptly, looking around in puzzlement. Daniel watches him figure out where he is. Andre rubs his eyes and reaches for a cigarette. There’s no need to dress because they slept in their clothes with their boots on. You never know how quickly you’re going to have to wake up. The soldiers are shuffling around, but there’s no food to cook, so they have nothing to do but wait for orders. Before Daniel has finished his cigarette, the captain comes over and Daniel and Andre stand up and the captain says that they’re going to move up the road back into Masiaka. They’re going to set up a command post and wait for reinforcements and food. Then he turns and walks away.

Daniel has the feeling he’s not terribly thrilled that he and Andre are there. He watches Andre’s ill mood return in a matter of seconds. “I told you we were fucked,” says Andre, fishing for another cigarette in his vest. “We can’t go forward and we can’t go back.”

Daniel doesn’t react. He wonders what Andre thinks of him. Deadweight? Worse? Maybe he’s so absorbed with what he’s doing that he doesn’t even have an opinion. “All right,” Daniel says. “One day, up and back, that’s it. You get us the ride, militias, whatever, I don’t care. If things look bad out there, I’m turning around, and you can do whatever the hell you want.”

Andre looks at him without expression. If Daniel was looking for approval—was he?—Andre wasn’t going to dole it out that easily. It was possible that he, Daniel, had just traded a trip up-country for absolutely nothing at all.

“You won’t regret this, mate, I promise,” Andre says, flicking his cigarette toward the road. “One day in, one day out.”

Five soldiers are already on the pavement, milling around in the half-light. The APC coughs and shakes and belches smoke behind them. Daniel picks up his knapsack with his notebooks and flashlight and water bottle and slings it over his shoulder while keeping an eye on the captain. He’s walking around sour-faced. The captain climbs onto the APC and it jolts into first gear, then clanks out onto the old asphalt road. Daniel and Andre follow behind it, along with the rest of the soldiers. They’re only five minutes outside of Masiaka, and by the time they’re clustered in the red-dirt plaza, the first rays of the equatorial sun are touching the low brick-and-mortar buildings. They’ve been gutted by five years of war but were once an elegant colonial pink, with stone balustrades overlooking what must have once been the town marketplace. Someone has set up a PKM on a tripod on one of the balconies. Its ugly little barrel pokes out over the square like an admonishing finger.

Fighters emerge by twos and threes, the guys who’ve been left behind to guard the town. They keep their distance from the new arrivals, so Andre walks over to them, and Daniel follows a few minutes later. He takes out his notebook and writes, Destroyed colonial town pink facades a few kids on guard no apparent order. The day is already getting hot, and the sun hasn’t even risen.

“These guys say there’s a big fight going on at a town called Mile 91, on the road to Makeni,” Andre says. He’s snapping photos of the kids while he talks. “I think we should go.”

“What was yesterday like?” Daniel asks, flipping his notebook open. “What was the battle like?”

The kid unleashes a fast, guttural account that is accompanied by chops and slashes with his hands. Daniel barely understands any of it. He writes what he sees: Native fighters with loops of ammunition over their shoulders and leather pouches and feathers and beaded fetishes around their necks.

“They came in last morning and cleared the plaza and killed three rebels,” Andre says. “There were at least two hundred rebels. They’re regrouping up-country. There’s going to be a big fight.”

Daniel scribbles, 200 rebels, three dead. “Is it safe to go up there?”

“Da road dae no’ fine,” the kid says. “So so soljahman, so so rebel.”

“The road’s no good—too many soldiers, too many rebels,” Andre translates.

“What do you think of those guys?” Daniel says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the soldiers. The kid spits into the dust. Daniel offers the kid a cigarette, which he takes. He pulls one out for himself but doesn’t light it. It occurs to him that he’s smoking too much. He can quit when this thing’s over with. A few more fighters wander toward them with their guns over their shoulders. Some have sunglasses and some have no shirts and some are barefoot. Most of them have lines of parallel scars on their cheeks that were put in when they were young. Pretty soon there’s a crowd of ten or twelve of them pressed around. Daniel hands out more cigarettes. They’re so young that if it weren’t for the guns, he’d feel like some schoolyard pervert corrupting the neighborhood children. “This is a waste of time,” Daniel says to Andre. “We’re not getting anything.”

“We’re not getting a ride, that’s for sure,” Andre says. He drops his camera back onto the strap around his neck. The kids are starting to lose interest and edge off around the empty plaza. Daniel hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and his stomach is a sour mix of bile and cigarettes. He’s starting to think about disengaging from the group and walking back to the APC when he hears the sound of a car engine. Two pickup trucks come around a building from the other side of town, drive through the plaza, and come to a stop in the open. A dozen fighters jump out. They’re from one of the militia groups. The letters CDF are badly painted on the door of one of the trucks: the Civilian Defense Force, a frankly terrifying bunch of lunatics who would probably be attacking Freetown if they hadn’t been bribed into defending it. Daniel can see the captain watching them carefully. “Those guys,” says Andre. “Maybe those guys.”

Even at a distance, the energy coming off them is agitated and ugly; the kids in the square seem to sense it as well. Daniel reluctantly follows Andre over to the trucks. It doesn’t even feel safe to approach them, much less beg a ride to the front, but the fighters barely acknowledge their presence. There’s a dead guy in the back of one of the trucks, but Daniel doesn’t know if he’s a rebel or not. There’s a lot of excited talk. Daniel doesn’t understand much of it—he busies himself writing down what he sees. Local color: it’s better than nothing. Andre finally barges into the conversation. “Mile 91,” he says. “We’re trying to get to Mile 91.”

This prompts a lot of shouting. The CDF commander pulls back the cocking bolt on his machine gun and points the barrel into Andre’s chest. His eyes are blank with an inexplicable rage. “NO, NO,” he screams. “Whatin na’ you name?”

Andre doesn’t flinch. Daniel feels his bowels slide around hotly inside him. “Andre and Daniel,” Andre says. “We’re journalists. We’re hoping to go north.”

All the men seem to have both hands on their guns. The commander screams some more, and the other fighters look around uncomfortably. The sun is barely up and we’re in trouble, Daniel thinks. Andre has his hands up apologetically, and he starts to back up, and Daniel backs up with him, and soon they’re walking back to the APC. The soldiers stare at them when they return. Andre doesn’t say anything, just walks by them to the fresh early-morning shade behind the APC and sits down against one of the oversize tires. “All right, I give up,” he says. “We’ll take the next ride out of here.”

A little while later, the CDF trucks start up and drive off with five or six fighters in the back and more hanging out the windows, rifles and RPGs pointing up into the air. One of them fires off a short burst from his gun, and the shots clatter across the plaza and make everyone jump, even the captain. A sick infusion of adrenaline doesn’t reach Daniel’s system until long after the echoes have died off, and it lingers in his gut for a while like warm poison.

* * *

Their ride comes that afternoon. Andre doesn’t say a word the entire time, and Daniel is just as glad; they sit hungry and silent, watching the road leading west to Freetown. Daniel pretends he has decided to leave Africa—in fact, to leave journalism—to see how it makes him feel, but it doesn’t seem to solve anything. A whole new set of problems appear. What’s more frightening at age thirty: a rebel checkpoint or a job interview for a life you don’t want? Eventually a convoy of trucks appears in the heat-shimmer a mile away, and the soldiers take up positions, because of course there are no radios and no communication, and they have no idea who it is. The trucks turn out to be regular army—four flatbeds filled with soldiers and a Suzuki Samurai sporting a bad camouflage paint job and more soldiers standing up in the back. The trucks chug to a stop in the shade, and the soldiers jump down and start unloading ammunition. Daniel watches the captain walk over to talk with them.

“You think he’s trying to get us a ride?” Daniel asks.

“I think he’s trying to get us the fuck out of here, if that’s what you mean,” Andre answers.

The captain is gesturing vigorously and then turns to look at them and continues talking. Several of the soldiers look over as well.

“I think we’ve just become part of our story,” Daniel says. “That’s a big ethical no-no at journalism school.”

Andre flicks a pebble into the dirt. “Ethics,” he grunts. “I’d drive this piece of shit myself if they’d let me.”

Andre as some kind of rogue reporter who’s gone native up-country with an APC is not hard for Daniel to imagine. He has the sort of hard confidence—coupled with a deep exasperation with the natives—that kept the Brits in control of places like this for centuries. But he also has a nearly bottomless sympathy for the locals that Daniel can’t hope to match. Daniel is endlessly polite—he never yells at the drivers or the translators or tries to bully the soldiers—but in his heart he knows he also doesn’t give a damn about these people. At the end of the day, he’s going home and Andre isn’t—Andre belongs here, and the locals can tell that in an instant.

The conversation over by the trucks breaks up, and the captain starts walking back toward the APC. Andre and Daniel get to their feet. “This better be good,” Andre mutters. The captain stops in front of them, looking displeased. The other soldiers look away.

“You’re leaving now and you will not come back,” the captain says in his good English. He’s obviously had some schooling, maybe even in London. “You’ve caused a lot of problems.”

“What kind of fucking problems?” says Andre. “We’re journalists, and we’re just trying to do our work.”

“You didn’t get permission from the minister of information to come out here,” the captain says. “You know very well you were supposed to. Back in Freetown, they’re saying you’re spies.”

Spies is bad, Daniel thinks. Spies gets you killed.

“Spies? You know damn well we’re not spies,” Andre says, his voice rising. “This is fucking outrageous. We have press passes from your government.”

The captain goes from polite to steely in an instant. The soldiers shift on their feet, unsure whether to stay out of it or present some kind of backup for their captain. The captain is shouting now: “You are in a military zone without permission. You have asked about troop strength. You’re trying to get up to the front line. Do you have a satellite phone in your bag?”

“Of course we don’t have a satellite phone,” Andre says. “If we did—”

“If you do,” the captain interrupts, “you will be taken right over there and shot. Soldier!” One of the young soldiers jerks to attention. “Take control of these men.”

The bewildered soldier cocks his machine gun and points it unsteadily at their bellies. Daniel can feel his heart suddenly whacking sickly in his chest. His head is not swimming yet, but that’s next. Andre is holding on to some measure of indignation that will either save them or get them killed.

“Over there!” the captain shouts. Daniel and Andre walk off into the sunlight and stand there squinting while the captain kneels down and starts to go through their bags. Daniel is unsure whether he should put his hands in the air, but Andre hasn’t, and so he just stands there trying to look unconcerned. Daniel watches the captain throw all of Andre’s camera gear onto the ground and then open the knapsack and upend it until everything—the water bottle, the flashlight, his book, his precious notes—has tumbled out. Scattered in the packed red dirt, their belongings look pathetic, almost embarrassing. Dead bodies look pathetic in the same way, Daniel thinks. He hasn’t seen very many, but on some level there’s always some smug thought, “I’m alive, you’re dead.” There’s no greater gulf between two people, no greater inequality.

“You are very lucky,” the captain says. “I would have had a very difficult decision to make, but I am a soldier, and I assure you I would have made it.”

Daniel can’t even bring himself to think about the sat phone. That’s for later; that’s for some long, sick drunk in Nairobi before he goes home. Andre and Daniel are allowed to collect their belongings while the soldiers look off in embarrassment. The one who had his gun on them walks off across the plaza and comes back a few minutes later driving the Suzuki. He risks an apologetic smile and waves them into the truck. The captain says, “If you come back here without permission, you will be shot.” Andre ignores him and climbs into the passenger seat of the truck, and Daniel throws his bag into the backseat and then gets in next to it. The captain walks off, the soldier forces the stick shift into first. He seems to want to get out of there as fast as they do. He’s seventeen, maybe eighteen, and if nothing else he’s going back to Freetown for the day.

Andre is sitting sullenly in front, watching the jungle scroll by, a scraggly green wall occasionally broken by a burnt house or a clearing. The soldier looks over brightly to say something but notices the expression on Andre’s face and decides against it.

“Hey, my name’s Daniel, and my friend here is Andre,” Daniel says, leaning forward into the front seat. The soldier’s Kalashnikov is wedged next to the hand brake; he can feel the muzzle against his chest.

“Na’ me name Sammy,” the kid says, glancing back in the mirror.

“Do you live in Freetown?”

“Yessah.”

“Are you going to see your family?”

“Yessah.”

The kid goes on to say something in Krio that Daniel doesn’t understand. The language is a thick blend of English, French, and native dialects that should be easy to understand, but it isn’t. Then you wake up one morning, Andre says, and suddenly you understand everything.

“He’s inviting us to his house for dinner,” Andre says without turning his head.

“Thank you,” Daniel says. “Maybe we’ll do that.”

Portrait of a soldier and his family, he thinks. A soldier’s-eye view of the war. It’s better than nothing.

“Were you here last year? Were you here for ’99?”

Ninety-nine was the rebel occupation—it lasted two weeks, and it was hell on earth. Amputation squads, children made to shoot their own parents, women raped on bridges and then thrown over the side. There were almost no journalists in the city to report it, and perhaps in a sense it was unreportable anyway.

“Na boat we tek go Guinea, na’ now a de ton back kam,” Sammy says. “A kam back fo’ go skul, na day soljahman dem ketch we, tay tiday nary a ah dae.”

“He went to Guinea but came back for school,” Andre says flatly. “The army caught him, so now here he is.”

The kid says this with a smile, like he’s glad it has all worked out this way. Maybe because he’s driving us two idiots around, Daniel thinks. He’s probably never been in a car with two white guys before. Daniel sees something up ahead on the road, a dark shape askew in some kind of disastrous way. Andre sees it too and instinctively puts his hand on his camera. “Rebel dead,” the kid says. He pulls over to the left to head around it, a pickup truck flipped over onto its roof. It must have been hit by something big, a tank round maybe.

“Stop!” Andre yells. “Stop the truck!”

The kid is startled and skids the Suzuki to a halt. Andre has the door open even before it’s stopped moving. Engine parts are sprayed across the road, and two charred corpses lie contorted in the wreckage. Andre puts the camera to his eye and crouches down, moving from angle to angle, his motor drive whirring.

“Na’ bad bad place dis,” the kid says, turning to Daniel apologetically. “So so rebel, ah no’ go able koba yu oh.”

Lots of rebels, he can’t protect us, Daniel thinks—something along those lines. “Andre!” Daniel shouts. “Andre, come on, let’s go. It’s not safe.”

Andre doesn’t answer. He’s close up to one of the corpses now, the camera right in its face, click, whir, click, whir. Embarrassment tugs at Daniel, but the kid could care less about the dignity of dead rebels at the moment. He’s too worried about live ones.

“Na’ bad bad place dis,” the kid repeats, still convinced Daniel can do something. “Na’ rebel ah de watch for so.”

Daniel just shrugs. The kid waits another moment, looking at him hopefully, and then gets out of the truck with his gun and walks out to the middle of the road. He starts turning slowly in a circle with the gun at his shoulder, scanning the forest for trouble. Jesus, he’d die for us right here if he had to, Daniel thinks. There’s nothing else to do, so Daniel climbs out of the truck too and walks over to the wreckage and looks down at one of the rebels. His arms are flung over his head and he has a shocked expression on his face, as if in that final moment he had time to register his disbelief. Mouth open, eyes wide, teeth bared. Andre straightens up and drops the camera back onto his neck.

“Okay,” he says. “Done. Let’s go.”

The kid looks over with relief when he sees them move back toward the truck. He lowers his gun and hurries over. “Na’ bad bad place dis.”

Soon they’re speeding down the road again, the forest a pale blur on both sides. Andre empties his camera and slides the roll into his vest pocket and loads a fresh roll. “The editors will never run those photos, but it’s good to send that kind of stuff,” he shouts over the wind. “It reminds them where the fuck you are.”

“Yeah,” Daniel says without much interest. The stunned expression on the dead guy’s face is still in his head. “It sure does.”

* * *

The next time the car slows down, it’s half an hour later and Daniel is thinking about Nairobi—about Jennifer, more precisely. It’s been a month since she left him, and they’ve spoken a few times on the phone, but it’s mostly a charade of pretending there’s something left. He carries a kind of bleak nostalgia for her that he realizes—in his better moments—is more about fear than about love. The truck’s speed backs off a notch and Daniel can feel the kid braking—more of a question mark than a real braking action—and he looks up. “Shit,” Andre says.

At first he thinks it’s just another checkpoint, but those are manned by regular army. These guys are shirtless and ill-grouped, ranged along one side of the road with their weapons leveled. Daniel feels Andre go tense. “This doesn’t look good, mate,” he says.

It’s all wrong even before they pull to a full stop. Daniel recognizes the CDF commander from earlier that morning, standing apart from the others. The rest are training their guns on the car. One kid even has a grenade launcher leveled at them. If he fires it, he’ll kill us and half his friends, Daniel thinks. The commander is stripped to the waist and has an ammunition belt over his muscular chest. He’s strung with necklaces of cowry shells and amulets and leather satchels, and he’s got some kind of bowler on his head with a hatband made of more bullet shells. He’s holding a machete in one hand and a pistol in the other, and he walks toward the car pointing the machete at the driver and unloading an incomprehensible torrent of Krio invective. Daniel barely understands a word.

The kid in the driver’s seat puts his palms out and tries to explain himself, but the commander cuts him off in a fury and puts the machete under his chin. The kid falls silent, hands still up. Daniel catches something about the Suzuki and the captain back in town—it’s a matter of respect and doesn’t seem to have anything to do with them—but when Andre tries to intercede, one of the fighters swears and cocks his machine gun with a loud clack. He takes three steps backwards, everyone looks at him, and then with a sudden laugh he simply starts shooting.

Time doesn’t slow down or stop or do anything particularly exotic, and Daniel certainly doesn’t think anything brave. His mind is still wallowing in disbelief, encumbered by some Western sense that certain things are not allowed to happen and other things certainly can’t happen to him, when the gunfire crashes through the heavy midday air. It is only then that he realizes one of the other fighters must have grabbed the barrel of the gun and jerked it upward, because they’re wrestling for the gun now and otherwise the inconceivable would already have happened: he would now be doubled over in the backseat with his chest cavity impossibly opened up and the darkness rushing in on him like some final eclipse of the sun.

Daniel watches it all numbly and without much fear, a few stumbling thoughts about whether this is going to hurt and what his family will think. Andre is curled up in the front seat with his hands up, palms outward, while the kid frantically starts explaining something and the rest of the fighters start racking their guns. Several of them seem to be arguing with each other. The kid who did the shooting is now at the windshield screaming. The commander is silent. It goes on for a while, the argument rising and falling until at times it seems like they might start shooting each other. Then their attention turns back to the car and things slide again toward the unthinkable.

Daniel sits in the backseat wondering dully if diving out of the car at the last moment would save him—no thought of Andre or the driver here, only raw survival—when he catches the commander’s eye. The commander seems to have reached some decision. He shakes his head and raises his pistol and steps up to the kid in the driver’s seat, who is still pleading his case. The kid is still talking when the commander puts the pistol to his head and the kid is still talking when the commander cocks the hammer back and the kid is still talking and not daring to look when the commander tells him to shut the fuck up and then in midsentence he shoots the kid in the head just like that.

The execution is oddly undramatic: the kid stops talking and falls over. The commander laughs, and the other fighters start laughing. The laughter is almost worse than the murder itself, and all Daniel can think is that the amount of blood coming out of the kid is unbelievable. It’s everywhere, rivering between the seats and puddling beneath his shoes and covering all of them and everything, even the fighters on the far side of the truck. There’s so much blood on Daniel that in his dull confusion he wonders if maybe he hasn’t been shot as well. He’s not dying, though, and Andre’s not dying—everything is the same except that the kid is hanging strangely in his seat and the entire world seems to be made of his blood.

“Jesus,” Andre finally says. “He didn’t have to do that.”

They almost have to kill us now, Daniel thinks. That line has been crossed, and it’s easier to kill us than not to. The fighters glance at one another, and then one of them steps backwards. Another one backs up, and then a third, a widening circle studded with black little holes. This isn’t happening. Daniel feels his body go to wood.

“Just a minute,” Andre says loudly, no shake to his voice at all.

The fighters exchange looks. Daniel is too numb to be interested in what Andre is going to say. His tongue feels thick as a piece of wood and his vision has started to go dark around the edges. He watches Andre’s hands find refuge around his camera, automatic reflexes that he probably isn’t even aware of. His thumb flips the advance lever while the other hand cups the focus ring.

“That’s right,” Andre says. “Don’t move an inch.”

Andre has his camera up, and Daniel can hear the whir of the motor drive. The fighters are too puzzled to do anything, even kill him. Andre is shooting and opening the car door and shooting some more, on his feet now and moving from angle to angle, talking as he always does to his subjects, though the fighters can’t understand a word. One of them finally glances to either side and then presents his gun self-consciously across his chest in an exaggerated Rambo pose. One by one, the others reposition their guns—across the chest, cocked in the elbow, straight up into the air—until they look like a caricature of the nightmare that they are.

The commander walks over and takes his position out front. Andre runs out of film and keeps talking while his hands unload the roll, pocket it, dig for a new one in his vest, and load it into the camera. The fighters start to jostle one another, trying to get in front. One of them laughs. Another one says something and shoves his friend out of the way. They’re teenagers, Daniel thinks. They’ve probably never had their pictures taken before.

“You’re going to be famous, mates,” Andre says from behind his camera. “You’re all going to be fucking movie stars.”

Daniel hasn’t moved from the back of the truck. The kid, absurdly, is wearing his seatbelt and hangs patiently from it, ignored and irrelevant. The world has already moved on. Daniel pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lights it and sits in the blood and the heat, smoking and watching Andre talk to the fighters. Andre says something funny in Krio, and for a moment the commander’s face opens up like a child’s, laughing, and the next instant he’s a killer again. All of them shift back and forth from men to boys and back to men again before Daniel’s eyes. If we hadn’t come out here, this kid wouldn’t be dead, Daniel thinks. If Andre hadn’t done something, all three of us would be dead.

Daniel tries to picture it. The killers would move on up the road toward the rest of their brutal little lives while the three of them stayed where they were, unrecognizable in their last agony, forever unconcerned with the affairs of men. The shadows would lengthen and it wouldn’t matter and the sun would set and it wouldn’t matter and finally dusk would creep in—the birdcalls, the sudden agitation of the forest—and still it wouldn’t matter. None of it would ever matter again, and it occurs to Daniel, drawing down the last of his cigarette, that no one can really say for sure who actually escaped from whom.

About the Author

Sebastian Junger is the author of the bestsellers War, The Perfect Storm, Fire, and A Death in Belmont. With the late Tim Hetherington, he shot and directed Restrepo, which won the 2010 Grand Jury Prize for Documentary at the Sundance Film Festival and was nominated for a 2010 Academy Award for Best Documentary. He went on to direct a movie about Hetherington, Which Way Is the Front Line From Here? which airs on HBO in 2013. He also started a medical training program for freelance war reporters called Reporters Instructed in Saving Colleagues (www.risctraining.org.) A contributing editor to Vanity Fair, he has won a National Magazine Award and the SAIS-Novartis Prize.

Read more of Sebastian Junger’s stories at Byliner.com

Photograph by Tim Hetherington

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Nonfiction

- Finding the Devil by William Langewiesche

- Falling by Alexandra Fuller

- 15 Gothic Street, Episode Two: The Human Circus by Joe McGinniss

- The Living and the Dead by Brian Mockenhaupt

- Rough Beasts by Charles Siebert

- Between Heaven and Hell by Bob Shacochis

- 43* by Jeff Greenfield

- Mob Fest ’29 by Bill Tonelli

- 15 Gothic Street, Episode One: Primitives by Joe McGinniss

- The Fire Horse by Elizabeth Mitchell

- All My Love, Samples Later by Craig Vetter

- How to Get Away with Murder in America by Evan Wright

- The Ghost by Paige Williams

- After Friday Night Lights by Buzz Bissinger

- Farthest North by Todd Balf

- Lifeboat No. 8 by Elizabeth Kaye

- Sober Is My New Drunk by Paul Carr

- One Way Forward by Lawrence Lessig

- Death Comes to Happy Valley by Jonathan Mahler

- The Secret World of Saints by Bill Donahue

- A Killing in Iowa by Rachel Corbett

- Joan by Sara Davidson

- Lady with a Past by Elizabeth Mitchell

- Sleeping with Famous Men by Elizabeth Kaye

- The Cartel by Taylor Branch

- The Getaway Car by Ann Patchett

- Cooking Solves Everything by Mark Bittman

- The Fearless Mrs. Goodwin by Elizabeth Mitchell

- The Baby Chase by Holly Finn

- Planet Killers by Tad Friend

- I Hope Like Heck by Michael Solomon

- And the War Came by Jamie Malanowski

- Into the Forbidden Zone by William T. Vollmann

- Three Cups of Deceit by Jon Krakauer

Fiction

- Genie by Richard Powers

- Shakedown by James Ellroy

- Positron, Episode Two: Choke Collar by Margaret Atwood

- An Arrangement of Light by Nicole Krauss

- The Boy Vanishes by Jennifer Haigh

- Everyone’s Reading Bastard by Nick Hornby

- Don’t Eat Cat by Jess Walter

- Positron, Episode One: I’m Starved for You by Margaret Atwood

- Rules for Virgins by Amy Tan

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Story

About the Author

About Byliner

Byliner Originals & Byliner Fiction

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Story

About the Author

About Byliner

Byliner Originals & Byliner Fiction