Ryan glanced over at Patrick as he lifted himself above the makeshift barrier. Rifle tucked into his arms, Patrick let it slam into him as it's bullets slammed harder into a dusty house at the end of the street.
A booming echo, touched every small hill and mountain surrounding the valley town in it's upward climb to release in the sky. Patrick swore fitfully as though chasing M-16 echoes without legs.
“Osama's dead!” called our platoon captain from his jeep on the other side of our infantry's tank.
A roar of celebration erupted from the Americans. Assault rifles blazed heavenward, as Patrick stood straight up and confronted the supposed Al-Queda safe-house in patriotic glee.
Ryan stayed sitting, his back against the barrier, his head now spinning with bits of information that seemed to swirl him into episodes of contrition and release. He saw one man, lying dead from bullets, as a joyful party raged around him. The bloody man wore a long beard, turban and piercing eyes and a t-shirt with the American flag on it thoroughly drenched with blood. Ryan's mind blinked and then was filled with the sight of the bearded man experiencing an ascending ecstasy as the crowd no longer celebrated his murder but instead celebrated his death as though they all longed for the same release.
It was hot in Fullujah that day, like most days in Al Anbar. Searing sunlight surrounded one with wavy mirages wherever one went. Orientation tended to evaporate in a visitor's mind, so that a sign for Baghdad might seem like a road sign for an abstract concept like: ostentation.
In the house at the end of the street, three women huddled in a corner humming rounds of verses in Arabic. Two of their husbands and one of their sons, merely fifteen, had rifles, faced the women and took long, deep breaths. Patrick had just sent bullets into the house, some of which planted inside a husband and now seemed to pin him to the dirt floor for an eternity. Suddenly an orchestra of gunfire was heard from across the street and the household were stunned to not be riddled with ammo. They felt encouraged that their prayers had somehow created a force-field around them.
“Allah akbar.” God is great, spoke one of the husbands.
Patrick, grinning insanely, ejaculated, “Osama's dead, and there's at least three more Osama's in there. And I'm the one to take those three Osama's out!”
Ryan's head was still floating in a series of flurries. He saw his great aunt who raised him, then his parents before they were killed in a car accident when he was three. Everything was the same except his aunt and mother wore Hijab without their faces being covered. Three previous girlfriends came to mind in a quick succession, one after another as Patricks' words infaltrated his daydream. “..one to take those three..one to take three...one take three...”
One moment later one handgun raised one dead soldier shot in the back.
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