A CHILD IN RED (2): Horrors of War
The sound of rustling paper roused him from his slumber.
He rolled his head to the side to see her, drawing as innocently as he imagined any other child would at around four years old. She was the same age as his niece Karina and appeared to view the world around her with the same level of curiosity and wonder.
She turned her head and smiled. “Sehehar mo pakher.”
It wasn’t an entirely bad way to wake up in the morning, her beautiful green eyes looking at him, ready to see what the day had prepared for them.
“Good morning,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to see what she was drawing.
She had several drawings prepared. She was coloring the ground with a bright red crayon. The image was of a pile of bodies around a gnarled tree, with armed men wearing dark green fatigues and carrying what looked like AK-47s.
What is this?
There was another drawing of a woman screaming on the side of a road with a tank driving over her.
He put his hand to his mouth in surprise.
Oh my god.
The final image was of a mother holding her child and lying on the ground, with an armed soldier standing over them, a ribbon of blood drained away from the mother’s head.
I don’t even know how to ask her what this is.
Walsh looked down at the smiling cherubic face smiling up at him. He stacked the pictures up neatly and set them in the corner of the desk. He squeezed her shoulder and sat up in the bed. Quietly, she hummed while staining the stones below her pile of corpses red with her warped crayon.
What are these drawings of? The uniforms are too dark to be American. Maybe Russian. That would have happened long before she was born unless she is a ghost left over from that time. Did the Russians kill her? I wish I could speak their Derka language so I could ask.
“You want breakfast, bro?” Miller said, popping his head into the doorway.
Walsh looked over at her, still humming to herself and scribbling away.
“Yeah, let me go take a quick shower,” Walsh said.
I don’t really need to shower. But I’m not going to change in here with her. Am I nervous about changing in front of a ghost?
He gathered his uniform, hygiene gear, and rifle and walked to the shower trailer. She sang her “Qoo qoo qoo,” song and followed him out the door.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I need a little privacy in the shower,” he tried to explain to her.
She smiled in return and grabbed a piece of his shirt to hold on to.
“What is your name?” he asked. “You don’t know what I’m saying.”
Pointing to himself, he said, “I’m Kevin.”
She pointed to herself. “I’m Kevin.”
“No, no, no.” He waved and pointed back at himself. “Kevin.”
He pointed at her.
She grinned and giggled.
I think I will have a very different experience at war than other guys.
“Kevin,” he said, pointing at himself again and directing his finger back at her.
“Afsoon,” she said.
“Afsoon,” he mimicked.
She nodded, pointed at him, and said, ”Kevin.”
“Afsoon,” he said, pointing at her.
“Kevin.” She pointed back at him.
“Yes. I’m glad we got that under control. Now I know what to call you, at least,” Walsh said, walking down around the barriers and opening the door of the shower trailer. Standing in the doorway was old Sergeant Krandall in all his wrinkled, naked glory.
Afsoon screamed, turned around, and ran.
That’s probably for the best.
Stepping inside, he tossed his things down on the bench and hung his towel on a hook beside an unoccupied shower.
“How is it going, Sergeant?” Walsh asked, taking off his shirt.
“Same ol’ shit. They stuck me on the LZ, told me it was my job to manage,” Krandall said, bending over to pick up his shampoo from the back corner of his shower, directing his bare bottom at Walsh.
“Is that good or bad?” Walsh asked, shying away and focusing on grabbing what he would need from his hygiene bag.
“It’s bull shit. Did a combat jump before half these clowns were alive, but whatever. I got one of those John Deere Gators. I’m going to mount a machine gun to the front. And fuck anyone who tells me otherwise.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Walsh said, turning the water on in his stall.
* * *
There was a lot of talk about the Reaper Platoon having been out on their first patrol. It hadn’t gone very well.
Walsh returned from breakfast with Miller to find Afsoon drawing away. On his bed, she had a scattered pile of images of the same massacre and the same gnarled tree, and on her desk, she had various images of the same massacre and the same tree.
“You are going a little overboard with all your drawings, Walsh,” Miller said, glancing briefly at the scattered crayon drawings in the room.
“Yeah, for real,” Walsh said, wondering where she got all the paper.
Afsoon turned around. “Kevin!” she squealed, taking a few steps toward him. He took a knee to receive her and pretended to set his rifle down while he hugged her, just in case someone watched.
She kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “Zaa sta sara mena larm. valiskala ma maa pregda.” Her voice was sweet and lyrical.
He squeezed her in reply, unsure what she said, then stood back up. He gathered up the papers.
There were decapitations, mass graves, and lines of bearded men besides women wearing blue burkas, who were on their knees with soldiers behind them, rifles to their heads. One horrible scene after another. She smiled at him as if she had clumsily drawn a butterfly or a flower.
He smiled back.
Setting the papers in a neat stack at the corner of his bed, he pulled a movie up on his laptop.
The door to the barracks opened. Around lunchtime, Sergeant Kerr yelled, “Suit up, boys, and be on the LZ in an hour. We have a patrol.”
“About time,” Miller said.
Afsoon drew while he put his gear on.
Walsh paused his movie and slid his laptop underneath his pillow.
Miller was out the door in fifteen minutes. The guy who would be late to his funeral was going to be forty-five minutes early to this patrol. “Come on, bro,” he said from the doorway.
“I thought we had an hour,” Walsh said, looking at Afsoon working diligently at his desk.
“Yeah, but you know how it is, fifteen minutes early to fifteen minutes early to fifteen minutes early. We are fucking late already.” Miller smiled.
“Ok, give me a minute,” Walsh said. He grabbed the last of his gear, picked up his rifle, squeezed Afsoon’s shoulder, and walked out the door.
She waved goodbye to him while he was walking out of the room.
They didn’t get back in until dinner was nearly over. Their lieutenant had to complain to the cooks to open the kitchen. After reheating chili and macaroni, which are best prepared by military cooks, they finally made it up to their barracks.
Afsoon was patiently waiting for him with a stack of drawings. He gave her a big hug and opened his laptop to start his movie again. It played while he dropped his equipment and stretched his shoulders a bit. Seven hours had taken their toll on his young body. Jumping into the bed, he leaned back against the wall of his room.
Afsoon must have heard the movie starting because she climbed onto the bed and nuzzled her head underneath his arm, snuggling up close to him. I’m glad this one is kid friendly.
She fell asleep under his arm before the movie was over. He carefully set the laptop on the table and changed into his pajamas while she shifted around on his pillow. Is it weird that I’m going to sleep with a little dead girl? It isn’t like that, though. Fuck, man. This is so fucked.
He scooted her close to the wall and slid in behind her, tossing his arm over her small body.
She grabbed his hand in hers and pulled it to her chest. She felt warm against him. He always assumed ghosts would be cold, but she felt feverish under his arm.
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The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.
If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.
Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF
Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.
