There Are No People
Sticking out of her helmet the ends of Stephanie’s hair fluttered in the wind which usually blew hot but now felt so cold. Stephanie was all cold; she shivered. The action had concluded and bodies lay strewn like garbage across the desert, organic rubble interrupted periodically by the charred corpses of pickup trucks. The humvees were there too, not charred but shot. Bullet holes punched through grimy doors and windshields; revisions of the patterns of the traditional desert camo. Stephanie reloaded her rifle and looked at the rubble. It was now quiet except for the groans of the injured and the low moaning wind. Only one groan spoke English; this one she sought after.
“Anybody? Anybody?” Sergeant Menendez cried out, “Anybody? Anybody?” Stephanie called back.
“Private Swanson,” Sergeant Menendez spoke haltingly, “It’s good to hear your voice. Who is left? I can’t see. Anything. I can’t see anything.” Blood bubbled in his lungs.
“Just us, sir.” Stephanie started to tell him he no longer had legs but cut short; it didn’t really matter.
“Private Swanson, find a radio and raise base, we need help. God we need help, God.” The Sergeant’s eyes glazed.
“Yes sir.”
Stephanie stepped toward a humvee but tripped on one of the Sergeant’s departed legs and fell into the desert. Lifting her head from the sand she stared square into the face of a dead man. The dead man laid arms-out like a scarecrow and thick brown hands poked out from ragged robes. The right hand clutched an aged AK-47. The blood from the right hand trickled onto the firearm’s stock and pooled in a soft pocket of sand beneath. The blood from the forehead trickled past tranquil brown eyes; the eyes were beautiful and fixed on the sky. This was an enemy combatant, perhaps a terrorist, certainly an Arabian. Whether or not he was Iraqi no longer mattered – human compost needs no national identity. Stephanie introduced herself – “Stephanie Swanson, Private First Class, 138709366.”
“You are not a person,” Stephanie told the dead man, “because you can no longer kill. I am a person, but not for long. Soon I will no longer kill, either. We will neither be persons soon.” That didn’t sound right. She corrected herself. “Neither of us will be persons soon.” That didn’t sound right either. She nudged the dead man with her elbow as if they had shared a joke.
“Watch this,” she said, “I’m going to kill one more. Just one, right now.” She rose from the sand and took from the man’s hand his AK-47.
“You can’t see,” Stephanie chided the dead man, “if you’re not looking.” She bent down and tilted his head to the left. “Better.”
Stephanie approached Sergeant Menendez. Near gone, he asked weakly about reinforcements; she emptied into him a clip of ammunition. Now he was garbage like the rest. Sergeant Garbage. Legless rubble. Afterward she walked the perimeter of the engagement and reduced the remaining groans to garbage. It was now quiet except for the low moaning wind.
Stephanie returned to the dead man and sat down Indian-style by his side. “I killed more than one, I guess I lied. But I’m done now, no more killing. So I’m not a person just like you’re not a person. We are, neither of us, people. You can hold me to that.”
The dead man did not respond. Stephanie swatted away the flies that settled on his hands. They scattered and settled beyond her reach on the dead man’s cheekbones where they crawled across the thin film the desert left on cooling skin. She patted the dead man’s hand. The blood that had trickled had dried.
“My brother is also no longer a person,” Stephanie said, “He died in Baghdad last month. Killed by another man who is dead. You plus me plus my brother plus plus his killer equals four not-people. My brother was not as young as me though; he was 27. How old are you?”
The dead man did not respond.
“I bet you are young, I bet you have a family. I don’t have – well, I have parents, just not a husband or children. I have a brother but he is now not a person. We live in Wisconsin. You probably don’t know where that is. If you were a person, someday you could go there. It’s pretty during autumn.” She stared across the frozen waves of sand. “It’s pretty here too – a different kind. The earth is so beautiful, all of it. Even here, even Anbar is beautiful.”
Stephanie removed the cap from her canteen and splashed a handful of water on her face. She leaned forward and tipped the canteen; water drops wet the dead man’s dark lips and trickled into his mouth.
“Your tongue is going to blow up like a balloon. A little water will put that off for now. I can’t do much more for it though.”
The dead man did not respond. The flies crawled up his cheek bones and nested on his eyes. Stephanie reached far over and swatted the flies away and closed the dead man’s eyes. “You don’t want the flies to eat your eyes,” she said.
“My brother was a ranger in Baghdad – you’re not listening.” Stephanie opened his eyes again. “Hold on a sec, I’ve got it,” she removed a pair of sunglasses from her breast pocket and fitted them over the dead man’s eyes. “Is that better? No flies, no sun, just comfort.”
The dead man did not respond.
“My brother was a marine in Baghdad. He was killed by a bomber. He was 27 years old. He was a sniper; a one man, independently operating not-person generator. He never told me how many people he made not. He never married. I guess that’s good at least. I bet you have children.
The dead man did not respond
“I’d like to have children,” she continued, “and a husband. I think I will have both when I get back to River Falls. You know it’s snowing there now, I bet you’ve never seen snow. I bet you’ll never see snow now that you’re not a person. You’ll be busy with your 69 virgins. 69 or 72? I think it’s 69. You’ll be taking 69 virgins and my brother will be storming the gates of heaven in his dress blues. He was devout; heaven will be a sure thing. You and him and all the other no-longer-people will be up there. When do you think heaven will be full? At the end of this war, or the next? Maybe the war after, or maybe never. Maybe heaven has been full for years. If that’s the case we should get together and stop killing each other so we can hang around here as long as possible.
The dead man did not respond.
“Graveyards fill. All the time, as a matter of fact. Look around, this desert is filling with not-people. One big landfill. Landfills get full too, and then they have to cap them off. When will Heaven be capped off? Maybe my brother can’t get in. He'll probably hop the pearly gates. What about your virgins, do you ever run out of them in paradise?
The dead man did not respond.
“I mean,” Stephanie continued, “so many virgins for all you martyrs. Maybe that’s what the suicide bombers do with those souk bombings. Kill the young girls that go to market so they can go to paradise instead and become forever virgins. Trash blasted across the ground, virgin in paradise. I wonder who explains that to the mothers. The imams? I’d rather be a former person than that imam, but I’m sure the imams think the opposite.
Stephanie drank down the canteen and gave the dead man the remaining drops of water; she recalled the Sergeant’s order for reinforcements.
“It doesn’t matter; I don’t think we need reinforcements. The choppers will show up soon, or somebody else, maybe more humvees. They’ll put you in a plastic bag. They’ll take your glasses away and your Koran too. I guess you won’t need those in your bag; there will be no sun and it will be too dark to read. I should move along though, I don’t want to be here when the choppers or humvees arrive. Enjoy your virgins in heaven.
The dead man did not respond.
Grabbing a nearby soldier’s canteen Stephanie rose wobbly to her feet. Suddenly the heat returned and it weakened her knees and blurred her eyes. She buried the AK-47’s muzzle into the sand to steady herself. The heat reminded Stephanie of the overwhelming sun and she thought about reclaiming her sunglasses but decided against it. She was not an Indian-giver. Wading through the trash and weapons Stephanie approached the nearest humvee. It stank of oil and a former person – a former soldier, a former friend – slumped in the passenger seat. Stephanie flipped on the radio and it crackled. She threw on a headset and spoke to the army.
“The only people here in the desert are the people that kill people and since there are no people here that kill people because they have been killed there are no people.”
Stephanie abandoned the humvee and quit the strewn garbage and set out into the desert between a pair of blunted sand dunes. She paused briefly between the apexes of the dunes and listened hard. She turned to face the rubble but did not want to see it so she closed her eyes and just listened and listened. She heard the dead man whispering, calling her back to the pile of trash in the desert, calling her back to talk some more because it gets so lonely when you are no longer a person, calling and chiding her to keep her promise, the promise to no longer be a person, to no longer kill. She heard it all for a moment and she whispered back “I’ll keep good.” The whispers dovetailed and trailed off and then there was only the low moaning wind and the trash and the desert. Stephanie moved on.
“Anybody? Anybody?” Sergeant Menendez cried out, “Anybody? Anybody?” Stephanie called back.
“Private Swanson,” Sergeant Menendez spoke haltingly, “It’s good to hear your voice. Who is left? I can’t see. Anything. I can’t see anything.” Blood bubbled in his lungs.
“Just us, sir.” Stephanie started to tell him he no longer had legs but cut short; it didn’t really matter.
“Private Swanson, find a radio and raise base, we need help. God we need help, God.” The Sergeant’s eyes glazed.
“Yes sir.”
Stephanie stepped toward a humvee but tripped on one of the Sergeant’s departed legs and fell into the desert. Lifting her head from the sand she stared square into the face of a dead man. The dead man laid arms-out like a scarecrow and thick brown hands poked out from ragged robes. The right hand clutched an aged AK-47. The blood from the right hand trickled onto the firearm’s stock and pooled in a soft pocket of sand beneath. The blood from the forehead trickled past tranquil brown eyes; the eyes were beautiful and fixed on the sky. This was an enemy combatant, perhaps a terrorist, certainly an Arabian. Whether or not he was Iraqi no longer mattered – human compost needs no national identity. Stephanie introduced herself – “Stephanie Swanson, Private First Class, 138709366.”
“You are not a person,” Stephanie told the dead man, “because you can no longer kill. I am a person, but not for long. Soon I will no longer kill, either. We will neither be persons soon.” That didn’t sound right. She corrected herself. “Neither of us will be persons soon.” That didn’t sound right either. She nudged the dead man with her elbow as if they had shared a joke.
“Watch this,” she said, “I’m going to kill one more. Just one, right now.” She rose from the sand and took from the man’s hand his AK-47.
“You can’t see,” Stephanie chided the dead man, “if you’re not looking.” She bent down and tilted his head to the left. “Better.”
Stephanie approached Sergeant Menendez. Near gone, he asked weakly about reinforcements; she emptied into him a clip of ammunition. Now he was garbage like the rest. Sergeant Garbage. Legless rubble. Afterward she walked the perimeter of the engagement and reduced the remaining groans to garbage. It was now quiet except for the low moaning wind.
Stephanie returned to the dead man and sat down Indian-style by his side. “I killed more than one, I guess I lied. But I’m done now, no more killing. So I’m not a person just like you’re not a person. We are, neither of us, people. You can hold me to that.”
The dead man did not respond. Stephanie swatted away the flies that settled on his hands. They scattered and settled beyond her reach on the dead man’s cheekbones where they crawled across the thin film the desert left on cooling skin. She patted the dead man’s hand. The blood that had trickled had dried.
“My brother is also no longer a person,” Stephanie said, “He died in Baghdad last month. Killed by another man who is dead. You plus me plus my brother plus plus his killer equals four not-people. My brother was not as young as me though; he was 27. How old are you?”
The dead man did not respond.
“I bet you are young, I bet you have a family. I don’t have – well, I have parents, just not a husband or children. I have a brother but he is now not a person. We live in Wisconsin. You probably don’t know where that is. If you were a person, someday you could go there. It’s pretty during autumn.” She stared across the frozen waves of sand. “It’s pretty here too – a different kind. The earth is so beautiful, all of it. Even here, even Anbar is beautiful.”
Stephanie removed the cap from her canteen and splashed a handful of water on her face. She leaned forward and tipped the canteen; water drops wet the dead man’s dark lips and trickled into his mouth.
“Your tongue is going to blow up like a balloon. A little water will put that off for now. I can’t do much more for it though.”
The dead man did not respond. The flies crawled up his cheek bones and nested on his eyes. Stephanie reached far over and swatted the flies away and closed the dead man’s eyes. “You don’t want the flies to eat your eyes,” she said.
“My brother was a ranger in Baghdad – you’re not listening.” Stephanie opened his eyes again. “Hold on a sec, I’ve got it,” she removed a pair of sunglasses from her breast pocket and fitted them over the dead man’s eyes. “Is that better? No flies, no sun, just comfort.”
The dead man did not respond.
“My brother was a marine in Baghdad. He was killed by a bomber. He was 27 years old. He was a sniper; a one man, independently operating not-person generator. He never told me how many people he made not. He never married. I guess that’s good at least. I bet you have children.
The dead man did not respond
“I’d like to have children,” she continued, “and a husband. I think I will have both when I get back to River Falls. You know it’s snowing there now, I bet you’ve never seen snow. I bet you’ll never see snow now that you’re not a person. You’ll be busy with your 69 virgins. 69 or 72? I think it’s 69. You’ll be taking 69 virgins and my brother will be storming the gates of heaven in his dress blues. He was devout; heaven will be a sure thing. You and him and all the other no-longer-people will be up there. When do you think heaven will be full? At the end of this war, or the next? Maybe the war after, or maybe never. Maybe heaven has been full for years. If that’s the case we should get together and stop killing each other so we can hang around here as long as possible.
The dead man did not respond.
“Graveyards fill. All the time, as a matter of fact. Look around, this desert is filling with not-people. One big landfill. Landfills get full too, and then they have to cap them off. When will Heaven be capped off? Maybe my brother can’t get in. He'll probably hop the pearly gates. What about your virgins, do you ever run out of them in paradise?
The dead man did not respond.
“I mean,” Stephanie continued, “so many virgins for all you martyrs. Maybe that’s what the suicide bombers do with those souk bombings. Kill the young girls that go to market so they can go to paradise instead and become forever virgins. Trash blasted across the ground, virgin in paradise. I wonder who explains that to the mothers. The imams? I’d rather be a former person than that imam, but I’m sure the imams think the opposite.
Stephanie drank down the canteen and gave the dead man the remaining drops of water; she recalled the Sergeant’s order for reinforcements.
“It doesn’t matter; I don’t think we need reinforcements. The choppers will show up soon, or somebody else, maybe more humvees. They’ll put you in a plastic bag. They’ll take your glasses away and your Koran too. I guess you won’t need those in your bag; there will be no sun and it will be too dark to read. I should move along though, I don’t want to be here when the choppers or humvees arrive. Enjoy your virgins in heaven.
The dead man did not respond.
Grabbing a nearby soldier’s canteen Stephanie rose wobbly to her feet. Suddenly the heat returned and it weakened her knees and blurred her eyes. She buried the AK-47’s muzzle into the sand to steady herself. The heat reminded Stephanie of the overwhelming sun and she thought about reclaiming her sunglasses but decided against it. She was not an Indian-giver. Wading through the trash and weapons Stephanie approached the nearest humvee. It stank of oil and a former person – a former soldier, a former friend – slumped in the passenger seat. Stephanie flipped on the radio and it crackled. She threw on a headset and spoke to the army.
“The only people here in the desert are the people that kill people and since there are no people here that kill people because they have been killed there are no people.”
Stephanie abandoned the humvee and quit the strewn garbage and set out into the desert between a pair of blunted sand dunes. She paused briefly between the apexes of the dunes and listened hard. She turned to face the rubble but did not want to see it so she closed her eyes and just listened and listened. She heard the dead man whispering, calling her back to the pile of trash in the desert, calling her back to talk some more because it gets so lonely when you are no longer a person, calling and chiding her to keep her promise, the promise to no longer be a person, to no longer kill. She heard it all for a moment and she whispered back “I’ll keep good.” The whispers dovetailed and trailed off and then there was only the low moaning wind and the trash and the desert. Stephanie moved on.
