American Prisoner

When Corporal Stinson began reading the pages of the notebook, he'd planned to only glance at the first couple of pages, but soon found himself engrossed. It was not what he'd expected:


My wife asked me to keep a journal during my trip to Saudi Arabia. She said that writing things down would help me reconnect to my roots. I've never been the kind of person to dwell on "my roots." I've always considered myself forward thinking, and worrying about "my roots" never seemed very important.

I didn't follow her advice until now, as it seems I'm not going to make it back from this trip at all. I'm writing this down as an attempt to leave a record of myself: proof that I existed, and that what I've endured actually took place. Maybe whoever finds this will believe my words are true and understand I was an unlucky man who struggled to survive a terrible experience for as long as he was able rather than some mad man who wandered into these mountains or a rogue, exiled terrorist who'd finally gotten what he deserved.

I am an American.

I have an Arab name and Arab parents, but that is the only thing about me that is remotely Arabic. My name is Makin Canaan. But I prefer to be called Macky or Mack in more formal settings. My grandfather was born in Kuwait, but came to the United States with his own family when he was twenty. He became a U.S. citizen when he was twenty-seven, an event he always described as the proudest of his life...although the birth of his first son (me) was a close second. I am his namesake.

I've never been particularly proud of my Middle Eastern descent and did my best to minimize its reality at every opportunity. I abhor violence and detest the politics of the region. I am not a Moslem. I could not tell you the difference between a Shiite and a Suni. I have never read the Koran. I don't speak a word of Farsi, Sanskrit, or any other language of that region. Every word I've ever uttered has been in plain English.

I'm an American through and through. My favorite book was 'On the Road' by Jack Kerouac. I've watched every episode of 'Friends'. I loved sports, especially football, baseball, and basketball, and drove my wife crazy wanting to see every game. I was a huge North Carolina Tarheel fan mostly because that was the school from which I earned a doctorate in chemistry in 1998.

Even after 9/11, I was not persecuted for my Arab background or my appearance except for a few isolated hostile stares from strangers. I liked to think there was something about my presence-- my mannerisms and speech so unmistakably American, it transcended my heritage.

It's true I opposed the war in Iraq and voted for the most liberal candidate in every election, but being an American was something I took the utmost pride in. That's why I agreed to come to the region of my ancestors with San Vesco Paper in 2009 to discuss alternative ways of manufacturing paper with our Saudi Arabian counterparts. I was the chief scientist in charge of the project. My company and I had perfected a revolutionary technique of creating paper from sand: paper with a texture even smoother than wood-based paper and much kinder to our environment. And who had more sand to offer than the Middle East? We wanted to form a partnership that we hoped, in our idealism, to translate to better diplomatic relations between our two regions. My colleagues naively reasoned my own heritage would be an asset in the negotiations.

We held three days of meetings in a palace in Riyadh with a group of executive sheiks who spoke flawless English and held surprisingly progressive ideas. Sand might be the new oil for Saudi Arabia, they agreed. Talks went well until the country received news of Saudi Arabian citizens tortured to death in Guantanomo Bay by American soldiers. This news was also accompanied by the revelation that the men who were killed were not involved in terrorism in any form. They had simply been unfortunate enough to be caught at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The news caused the country to be seized by an anti-American fever, and although our hosts assured us we were in no immediate danger, the tension around us begged us to believe otherwise. When we arrived at the palace on the fourth day of talks to discover it surrounded by citizens protesting our presence, we hastily determined it was in our best interests to leave the country, perhaps to return when hostilities had died down. We drove to the airport and booked a flight.

I was on my way to the gate, ticket in hand, when Saudi Arabian police detained me. They checked my passport and made a show of questioning me in front of the travelers at the crowded airport. I was frightened, but more annoyed, feeling it was a misunderstanding, and that my American citizenship made me bulletproof. The police were rude and hostile, but I answered their questions as honestly and pleasantly as I could. But they were not satisfied. I only recognized the seriousness of my situation when they began screaming at me in Arabic. I was forced to the ground, handcuffed, and arrested. I vaguely understood that I was being charged with espionage.

They dragged me to a car and drove me to a bleak jailhouse in the slums of the city. There they tossed me into a cell with a ragged collection of beggars and thieves who did not mistake me as one of their own for a moment. In an hour's time, they had beaten me bloody and stolen all my possessions. Outside the cell, the police laughed as they watched.

I expected to die that night. At some point, I lost consciousness. When I woke sometime the next day, my eyes were swollen shut. My mouth tasted of dried blood. The slightest movement brought excruciating pain. I recalled the events of the previous day, and a deep despair filled me. I thought of my wife and two children, and felt that I would never see them again. In a single day, I had been reduced from a position of prominence to a desperate prisoner.

I groaned as a wave of pain shot thought my body. My cry apparently alerted someone outside my cell. Men spoke in Arabic and footsteps approached. With a monumental effort, I forced my eyes open to small slits and watched a burly man with an impossibly bushy beard approach. He wore a dingy white robe, and carried a rifle strapped across his shoulder. He unlocked my cell door and loomed over me.

"The infidel awakes," he said in English. Then he kicked me in the stomach hard enough to knock my breath out. I felt a rib give way as well. Black spots flew in front of my eyes and I nearly lost consciousness again.

A smaller man outside the cell yelled at the bushy bearded one. I comprehended it as a warning not to beat me further. In my pain-wracked state, I wondered why it even mattered. The other man entered with a tin cup of water and forced me to a sitting position. He had beady black eyes and a short beard that came to a sharp point just below his chin. His robe was gray, but cleaner than the other man’s. The water he offered was surprisingly refreshing. I would have gulped it down if he had allowed it. He drew a rag from his robe and wiped the blood from my face.

"Your American friends have ransomed you," he said. "You're infidel scum and I should kill you now as a favor to Allah, but you're worth a lot of money to us. So we're selling you off. Is that good news to you?"

I didn't trust him, and in any case speaking would have been too painful. I only looked into his eyes, trying to discern if his words rang true. He laughed and slapped me across the face. I grunted and felt fresh blood in my mouth. He kept laughing, but at least refrained from striking me again.

"Drag him out of there and throw him in the car," he said. Bushy Beard muttered something in a vicious tone, but did as he was told.

I was handcuffed and tossed in the backseat of a police car. At some point, I realized the airport was not our destination. We turned onto a bumpy dirt road that jostled my broken body. The man turned his radio up and sang happily with the music. Occasionally he would reach back and punch me as he drove, laughing each time he did so.

"You're going to make me a lot of money, infidel," he said each time. "A lot of bread for my family."

When I realized he had no intentions of taking me to my countrymen, terror and hopelessness washed over me as he drove the car further and further from the lights of the city. After at least two hours, he stopped, got out, and opened the passenger door. Three men armed with machine guns appeared. They studied and prodded me for a few minutes as if I were a piece of livestock being sold at auction. Then, for what seemed like at least an hour, the men and Bushy Beard gestured, screamed, and laughed with one another while I lay in the car, helplessly awaiting my fate as sweat poured down my face. At last, one of the armed men threw a bag of money at Bushy Beard. He appeared to be displeased, shaking his fist at them as he returned to the vehicle. But then he smiled as he leaned over, placing his face so close to mine I felt his foul breath against my cheek.

"They paid me three times what I'd thought I'd get for you," he whispered. Then he yanked me out of the seat onto the hard desert road. I screamed as my broken ribs were jarred again. He aimed a final kick at me, but I managed to roll away and was struck with only a glancing blow that still almost caused me to pass out in pain. Then he sped away, the tires screeching against the dirt road, leaving me choking on his exhaust fumes, and at the mercy of the others who stood over me like vultures over carrion.

They were tall, hulking men with thick black beards and scars on their faces. They had the look of men who relished war and famine. Their expressions as they studied me were hard and unpitying. They projected an air of harsh discipline that was lacking entirely in my former captors. I knew they would grant me no mercy.

They spoke Arabic in soft voices amongst themselves, seeming to discuss what should be done with me. I had no illusions of being released now, and wondered if they would kill me on the spot. Not wanting to die like a worm, groveling on the ground, I forced myself to my feet with a monumental effort. I expected to be struck down at any moment, but no blow came. I considered trying to run away, but my body would not allow it. Instead, I stood awkwardly in their midst as they seemed to ignore my existence entirely.

They suddenly seemed to reach a decision and without a word to me, one produced a rope from somewhere, and my legs were bound tightly. The same man pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and crammed it in my mouth. Another one lifted me over his shoulder, walked to a nearby truck, and tossed me in the back as if I were a sack of trash. They climbed into the cab, and in a moment, my body was bouncing painfully along again. For hours, I rode with my face pressed against the backseat, passing in and out of consciousness in a state of misery I had never guessed existed.

It was dusk when the truck came to a stop. I tried to lift my head to see where they had brought me, but was unable. My captors were very businesslike as they pulled me from the truck and removed the ropes. I tried to stand, but collapsed on wooden legs. In another minute, a million pins and needles rushed into my limbs, and it was all I could do not to scream from the pain. Finally, I managed to stand on shaky feet. In a moment, the leanest of my captors with the longest hair returned with a glass of water and a bowl of mushy soup. I gobbled the soup, hardly registering that it was barely edible, and surveyed my surroundings as best I could in the semi-darkness.

A long, narrow, packed dirt path had been constructed in the sand. I recognized it as a makeshift runway. Next to it was a structure I could just make out in the failing light. It looked to be a hangar with at least three small aircraft parked inside. Something in my captors' posture made me think they were waiting for something. Fear ran through me. I knew that whatever they were waiting for could not be good for me. The thought of running passed through my mind, but I knew it would do no good. They would shoot me down like a dog without a thought. I considered attacking one of my captors, but had no weapon to speak of, and even if I had, attacking any of these men would have been nothing but suicide. Instead of taking action, I simply waited for whatever fate held for me.




Chapter 2

Darkness had fallen in earnest by the time a plane landed on the makeshift runway. As it descended, I was seized and bound again by my captors. I struggled against them in a state of panic and fear. They cursed at me in Arabic, but seemed almost bored as they accomplished their task with expert efficiency in spite of my futile resistance.

Trussed up and helpless again, I came to grips with the likelihood I would not survive this ordeal for the first time since it had begun. How had I offended karma, I wondered, to deserve such a fate? I recalled the various sins of my life, and could not comprehend that any were so heinous to deserve such treatment as I had endured over the last two days. For a moment, I thought it would be better to die to end the pain and terror of it all.

I wondered why they delayed killing me as I was passed from one group of thugs to another. For a moment, it was a relief to embrace death rather than to fear it, but then remembered my wife and children who must surely know of my disappearance by now, and were likely beside themselves with worry. In that instant, I resolved to live. I would return to them. I would kiss my wife, hug my daughters, and never leave their side again. I pictured their faces and held them there. Their images in my mind would be the life preservers I would cling to until I could hold them in my arms again.


The plane sent blinding sand in every direction as it came to a stop only a few feet away. At last, its propellers ceased turning and the desert became silent and still once more.

Two Arab men holding flashlights stepped from the plane and greeted my captors. They were obviously familiar with one another, embracing with brotherly affection, and speaking in animated tones. The two newcomers soon spotted me. Shining the flashlight in my eyes, they studied me as they jabbered in Arabic with my captors. One said something that prompted laughter all around. Someone passed out cigarettes and another pulled a flask from his robe. They talked loudly, laughing often, seeming to be very comfortable in each other's company.

I blocked out their revelry and stared at the sky. The night was clear and cool night lit by a three-quarter moon. In its dim light, the foreign desert seemed to stretch to a distant horizon of mountains. In different circumstances, I would have appreciated the stark beauty of this landscape, but on this night, it seemed that even nature itself conspired against me. I was bound too tightly to make any attempt to escape even if I had been foolhardy enough to do so.

Half the night passed as they drank and smoked, seemingly unmindful of my existence. I needed to urinate, but preferred not to request that they untie me. It seemed best not to attract their attention for any reason. Eventually, I did the deed in my pants, and soon began to shiver as the liquid cooled in the chilly night. I lay on my back and stared at the moon, trying to empty my mind of all anxiety and fear in order to imagine a way out of this predicament.

I thought of finding a stone or some other sharp object to saw through my ropes, and wondered if my captors would even notice in their distracted state. If I cut through my ropes, perhaps I could slink away into the desert under the cover of darkness and find somewhere to hide. I wondered how important I was to them. How hard would they search for me if I disappeared? What did I really have to lose by trying to escape? It seemed likely that more torture and eventual death awaited me if I didn't. My chances of escaping were very slim, but the idea of active resistance appealed to me much more than awaiting my fate passively.

My captors spoke in loud, drunken voices. I had always been led to believe that alcohol was forbidden to Moslems, especially supposed zealots such as my captors, but apparently I had been misled. I didn't want to let such an opportunity pass. In the pale moonlight, I spotted a rock jutting from the sand only a short distance away. With great caution, I crawled towards it, trying not to cry out as my movements brought fresh pain to my injured ribs and bruised body.

I reached the rock unimpeded and felt for a jagged edge that would suit my purpose. The rock had been worn mostly smooth, but I turned my back to it nonetheless, scraping my ropes against it briskly.

"What do you think you're doing?" said a voice behind me. He spoke in clear English with only the slightest tinge of an Arabic accent.

I froze at the sound, silently cursing my foolishness to imagine I could escape from men like these so easily. He walked around to stand in front of me. He was a bulky man with the usual long, dark beard and a sly smile. But the smile didn't touch his eyes.

"Enjoying the evening," I answered, faking nonchalance.

"Not likely," he replied.

"What are your plans for me?" I asked.

"To put you in that airplane," he said.

"Where is it going?"

He seemed to debate telling me for a moment. "Pakistan," he said with a shrug.

"Why Pakistan?"

He shrugged again and took a puff on a cigarette followed by a sip from his flask. In the moonlight, I noticed his eyes were without a hint of drunkenness in spite of the whiskey smell on his breath.

"Is it Al-Qaeda?" I asked.

"Al-Qaeda," he repeated, mocking me. "You Americans are so obsessed with Al Qaeda. Don't you know that Al-Qaeda is just a name. Like calling all evil-doers devils?"

"What do you think they'll do with me there?"

"Kill you eventually. First they'll see how much money and attention you're worth. Maybe hold you for collateral for a time."

"I'm just a scientist. I came here on a business trip. I have a wife and two children at home. What is there to gain in killing me?"

"You're a traitor, of course," he answered. "An Arab man who's turned his back on his god and his people. I hope you die screaming and shriek in pain for all eternity while Satan tortures you."

His words caused my blood to run cold for a moment. But then I realized he spoke without passion. His speech sounded scripted.

"Do you really believe that?"

He flipped away his cigarette and regarded me with contempt. "I don't believe anything I can't touch," he said. "But I do believe you will never see your wife or children or step foot on your precious American soil ever again."

"What if you're wrong?"

He snorted and shrugged. "What if I am It makes no difference to me as long as I get paid."

Surprised at his apathy, I decided to press my luck. The worst he could do was kill me after all. "Could you untie me for a moment? My arms and legs are numb. I'm starving and thirsty and my clothes are wet with piss."

"Americans are always whining," he answered. But he pulled a sharp bowie knife from his robe and cut my ropes. Then he offered me a hunk of bread from his pack and a swallow of water from his canteen. I ate and drank gratefully, not caring what had brought on this sudden act of kindness. When I'd eaten the bread and taken a final swig of the water, he took the canteen away. Apparently, the moment had passed.

"Get up," he said. "You've got a plane to catch."

I walked in front of him to where the plane waited for me. The other men watched me with hard, beady eyes. All signs of their former carousing were absent now. They held their rifles with the ready ease of professional soldiers. My legs felt heavy as they walked up the steps into the plane. I felt my fate was as sealed as any condemned man who ever climbed the gallows.

When I entered the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot, two more hard-eyed, bearded men attended to me. The co-pilot produced a pair of handcuffs and signaled for me to turn around. I did so, and he clasped them on my wrists and indicated for me to sit behind the co-pilot. The seat was equipped with three straps that he fastened tightly across my chest and lap. He showed me a gag and shook his head. I understood he would use it if I ran my mouth, but I had no plans to speak. The pilot started the engine, and steered the aircraft down the runway. Ten minutes later, the plane was airborne, flying low over the mountains.

I watched the sparse desert stretching to distant mountains from which the new day’s son peaked through and felt a moment of wonder in spite of my dire circumstances. The beauty of the country struck me in spite of myself, and gave me a feeling of irrational hope. But as the sun grew larger in the sky, I wondered if it would be the last sunrise I would ever see.

As the day dawned and the sun warmed the cockpit, fatigue overcame me. I fell into a deep, troubled sleep and dreamed of my youngest daughter. Olivia was her name, but we called her Olive. Her face appeared before me and I reached out and touched it. She was seven years old now with the dark Persian features she'd inherited from her father. She was a happy child, always smiling and very active. She got into mischief easily and often, but when her mother referred her to me for discipline, she easily swayed me into lenience. All it took was a smile and a hug to make me putty in her hands. My tolerance exasperated her mother, who insisted I was spoiling her for life. But I felt helpless to do anything but love her to distraction. Sometimes I watched her sleep, and was so filled with love, I wondered how she could possibly be real. I loved my wife and oldest child as well, but she was my favorite. I spoke to her in my dream.

"They won't steal me from you," I told her. "I will return to you." My words seemed to have only just left my mouth when I was jarred awake with a jolt of pain as the small plane touched down on another makeshift airport set in the midst of a different set of mountains.


Chapter 3

Something about the men's manner here told me they were more zealots than mercenaries. Perhaps their eyes held a shine that my former captors had lacked. I assumed we had landed somewhere in Pakistan, if what my former captor had told me was true, but I knew better than to ask. They led me out of the plane into what appeared on the outside to be the entrance of a cave. But once inside, I found myself in a gigantic open space. It must have been a hundred feet wide and stretched at least twice that far back into the mountain. The floor was paved with concrete and the compound appeared to be still under construction judging from the dozens of scaffolding lining the walls under windows and doorways. It appeared to be a giant combination industrial and training complex ingeniously hidden beneath a mountain.

Around me, at least two dozen men engaged in apparent training exercises-- young Arab men in their twenties or late teens without beards and sporting military haircuts in uniforms of black fatigue pants and tight-fitting white t-shirts. Judging from their lean, muscular physiques, they were in peak physical condition. When they spotted us, the men immediately ceased their activities and gathered around me. Apparently, I was expected. They spoke excitedly amongst themselves, making jokes and clapping each other on the back. Their manner reminded me of a sports team after winning a big game, and I suspected that I was the trophy.

My captors paraded me around the throng, and one man punched me in the mouth, inspiring another to take a shot at my gut. I doubled over, trying not to show any pain. I perceived that all I had left was my pride, and was loathe to give it up. It seemed they might choose to beat me to death just for the sport of it when a sudden silence fell as they straightened into a posture of rigid military discipline.

I forced myself to stand up straight, wiping the blood from my mouth, and saw a man approaching. It was easy to discern that he was their leader. He approached from far down the vast hallway wearing the ubiquitous white robe and a long, black pointed beard. I first believed it to be Osama bin Laden himself, but as he grew closer, I realized that this man was much younger. Whoever he was, he obviously inspired fear and great respect from the men around me.

My escorts stood at attention and saluted as he approached, saying something to him in a very formal tone.

"We bring you the infidel," I imagined their words to be.

The man returned their salute and said something equally formal in return. Then he eyed me, squinting as if seeing me caused him pain. To my surprise, he spoke in English.

"Are you a man of God?" he said.

The truth was that I wasn’t sure I believed God existed at all, but it seemed a poor time to engage in a philosophical discussion.

"I am," I said, attempting to speak with conviction.

"What God do you worship?"

"The one true God."

"What is your God's name?"

"Allah!"

"And who is Allah's great prophet?"

"Mohammed!" I answered, daring to hope that my answers would prove I might not be such an infidel as they had all assumed.

"What is the verse of the Koran that speaks to you most truly?" he asked.

I was stumped. I had never opened the book in my life.

"All of them," I said, suddenly inspired. "Every verse of the Koran is music to my heart."

"Would you kill those infidels from your country who blaspheme our God by their very existence? Would you shed their blood to bring glory to Allah even at the cost of your own life?"

I hesitated for an instant, wondering what the repercussions of my lies would bring, but I was certain the truth would only bring me death.

"Yes!" I said, throwing my pride aside. "For the glory of Allah, I would kill without reservation."

He snorted in disgust, and I suspected that my words rang less than true in spite of my attempt at conviction.

"Liar!" he said. "You believe in nothing. You are hardly worth the effort of killing. You are a coward disguised in the skin of Allah's chosen people. Still...I am certain you know secrets that will aid our purpose."

"Sir," I implored. "I am only a businessman. I do not know any secrets. I will do whatever you ask if you will only allow me to return to my family."

"Silence!" the man exclaimed. His anger was apoplectic but controlled as he glared at me. His brown, weathered face turned crimson and the veins of his neck pulsed with rage. He drew a thin, sharp knife from his robe and placed it against my cheek with just enough force to draw blood.

"Speak another word and I'll cut out your tongue."

I believed him and obeyed.

He barked an order at my escort who escorted me to an adjoining room. It was a small space, barely larger than a closet, and lit by a single light bulb. I was seated in a bare metal chair, and strapped to it too tightly. I sat there alone for hours. For a moment, I wondered if the waiting was designed to be part of the torture, but was too exhausted and pain-wracked to care. I used the time to rest and to think instead. I could not imagine a plausible way to escape this ordeal, but also felt that not to try would be giving up entirely. In spite of this, fatigue and boredom eventually overcame discomfort and pain, and I fell into a troubled sleep before water splashed in my face rudely awakened me.

I had not realized how thirsty I was before the water struck me. I licked it from my lips and opened my eyes to see a scrawny man with shining, excited eyes standing over me. 'So this was the face of a torturer,' I thought. He was the least intimidating looking fellow I had met today, but if the look in his eyes were any indication, he was quite enthusiastic about his job. I thought of him as Weasel.

"Who do you think I am?" he asked in English.

"I don't know," I said.

"Do you think I'm here to cause you pain?"

"Yes."

He sighed, feigning pity. "Not necessarily, my friend. I'm only here to gather information. All you have to do is answer my questions, and no harm will come to you. Do you trust me?"

"No."

"That is unfortunate," he said. "It would be better for you if you did."

He studied me, seeming to expect me to speak, but I kept my silence.

He sighed, pulled an ancient tape recorder from his pocket and barked to someone outside the door. A boy came in, probably no older than seventeen. He appeared to be nervous and unsure of himself. I sensed that he was in training.

”Let's get started," Weasel said. "How long have you been a spy for your government, Mr. Makin Canaan? And what secrets of our organization have you learned since you came to Saudi Arabia?"

"I've never been a spy for any government," I responded. "And I have no knowledge about any secrets of your organization."

Weasel snorted. "Of course you don't, Makin Canaan. We know all about you. We know you have two children and a wife named Sabrina who you've been married to for ten years. We know you hold a Doctorate degree in Chemistry from the University of North Carolina. We know you've never been a believer in the one true God: Allah. We know you're an infidel through and through."

"So why are you interrogating me?" I dared to ask. "If you know all of these things, then why do you ask me if I am a spy and if I know your secrets. You know very well that I don't. Why not prove your humanity by returning me to my family? What can you possibly hope to gain from all of this?"

Weasel snorted again. "We don't know any such things. Just because we know who you are doesn't mean we know all of your secrets, but today you're going to share them. You may tell them voluntarily or I may drag them out of you one by one. It's your choice."

"I will tell you anything you want to know. But I doubt anything I could tell you would be of any use to you."

"Your naivete is amusing, Makin Canaan. So let me ask you once again: How long have you been a spy for your government? What secrets do you know of our organization?"

"None," I answered. "I will not respond to this question again."

"Yes, you will. Bring me a large bowl of water and a stretcher for Mr. Canaan," he instructed the trainee next to him.

The boy left and returned a few minutes later with the items Weasel had requested. He set up the stretcher and a few moments later I lay prone and strapped to it. Weasel turned a lever on the stretcher that placed me at a slightly inverted angle. He wrapped a rag tightly around my face and before I had time to wonder what the purpose of the bowl of water was, he was pouring it over my face. I tried to turn my head, but the straps prevented me. I choked and believed I would die. My heart pounded desperately and I tried to scream even as the water ran into my nose and down my throat. After a moment, to my infinite relief, he quit pouring.

"You might know this procedure as water-boarding," Weasel told me. "Your government has declared it isn't torture. What do you think?"

I only stared at Weasel, unable to respond even if I had wanted to.

"So let's try this again. How long have you been a spy for your government? What secrets do you know of our organization?"

I said nothing and after a moment, the water came again. A dozen more times, he demanded an answer to his questions, and a dozen more times I failed to respond. Each time, I was water-boarded until most of the bowl must have been poured onto me. At last, they left me in the dark with my face covered and still strapped to the board. I expected them to return at any moment, but time passed and no one came. I wept involuntarily and wished to be dead rather than questioned further.

I was left there for a very long time without food or water, and unable to move. Besides being hungry and thirsty, my muscles ached and my arms and legs went numb. I could think of no reason why I would not be left here until I died. The truth was that I would have welcomed death at this point rather than enduring further torture and neglect.

After some unknown time, I was wakened from a stupor that could hardly qualify as sleep by a blinding light above my eyes.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Weasel asked.

I didn't answer. With the bright light hanging inches over me, he slapped me over and over. "I'll stop when you're ready to talk," he said.

I did not respond and fell into a sort of trance, tasting my own blood in my mouth as the blows pounded against my face over and over. They had stopped for several minutes before I realized it. Weasel was gone, but he'd left the light glaring above me. I thought about ways to murder Weasel if I could ever get free. But I had to admit to myself that this seemed unlikely to happen. Hours passed before he returned again. His assistant carried a glass of ice water and a plate of cooked meat which he sat down against the wall a few feet from me, being careful to be sure it was in my line of sight.

"Answer my question and I'll give you food and water, Mr. Canaan," Weasel said. "How long have you been a spy for your country? What secrets have you learned of our organization?"

In spite of my pain, hunger, and thirst, I couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of this ploy. I looked away from the meal and kept my silence.

"Do you think I care if you lay here until you die?" Weasel said. "It makes no difference to me, but my superiors are not so patient. If you're not ready to talk by the time I return again, I will torture you to death. Are you ready for that?"

I stared at the stone ceiling and said nothing.

He left again, leaving the food and water just beyond my reach. I hardly had an appetite anyway, and I shut my eyes, picturing my daughter's face in my mind and trying to face the fact that I would never see her again. In spite of the apparent inevitability of my situation, I could not quite accept this. Somehow, a spark of hope remained alive within me. I could tell him I was a spy easily enough. I could pretend I knew all the secrets of his pathetic organization, but I doubted it would make any difference, and my pride rejected the notion.

Weasel and whomever his superiors were probably knew full well that I was nothing more than I claimed to be. They were simply sadistic people who didn't want to pass up an opportunity to torture an American. As I lay there, immobile, and starving and thirsting to death with a bright light glaring in my eyes, I tried to imagine a way out of my predicament. But when Weasel and his young, nervous but eager assistant returned, no workable plan had occurred to me.

"Are you ready to die or to talk?" he asked.

I stared at him defiantly. I would have spit in his face if I could have summoned the saliva.

"Good," he said. "We're going to change locations for this operation. Wheel him out, Abid," he said to his assistant.

Still strapped to the stretcher, Abid rolled me out of the room into the giant hall. I could hear the sounds of the recruits training, but could not turn my head enough to see them. Abid pushed me into the corridor and down the hall for about a hundred yards before turning into another room. Weasel waited for him there.

He looked down on me, eyes shining like a madman's. "Last chance, infidel," he said. "Do you have anything you wish to say to me?"

I kept my silence.

"Very well. Today, you're going to have the pleasure of experiencing what few modern men do. I'm going to place you on the special device I keep stored here, and we'll have some fun. It will be interesting to see how long you last."

He and Abid unstrapped me from the stretcher and laid me on a flat platform at Weasel's feet. They chained my arms above my head and secured my feet with a separate chain as well. It took a moment for my exhausted mind to realize I had been secured to a medieval rack.

Chapter 4

“Do you know what kind of device this is?” Weasel asked me. Accepting my non-response, he turned a handle at the foot of the platform. The board on which I lay lengthened as he turned the lever until my limbs were stretched to their limit.

“I’m going to turn this lever very slowly until you tell me what I want to know,” he said. “If your torso is pulled apart before then, so much the better. I’ll have a chance to see how strong my young assistant’s stomach is while he cleans up your guts. So let me repeat my questions in case you forgot. How long have you been a spy for your government? What secrets have you learned about our organization?”

I muttered beneath my breath.

“What’s that?” he said. He leaned over so that his face was so close to mine, I could smell his fetid breath. I sucked in a mouthful of snot and spit in his face, not caring in that moment what he did in retaliation. He yelped and jerked away, my spittle dripping in gobs from his chin.

“God damn you!” he shrieked. He turned the rack’s lever several times until I anticipated being pulled apart just as he had threatened. With an act of will, I resisted the urge to scream. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. His assistant brought him a rag that he used to wipe his face

“I should kill you now,” Weasel said. I caught Abid give him a reproachful glance that made me wonder if they were keeping me alive for a purpose, or perhaps the boy only wanted to see me suffer a bit longer before delivering the coup de grace.

“But it suits me to bide my time,” he added, gaining his composure with an act of will. He stood over my head, unzipped his pants and urinated on my head. The piss burnt my eyes and stung my nose. It tasted like hot sulfur, and infuriated me more than the pain of torture. If fate or God delivered me, I would kill this man. I had never believed that feelings of such hatred for another human being could have existed in my soul, but I had never been subjected to such abject abuse in my life either. Something told me my torture was only now beginning in earnest.

When he was done pissing, he zipped up his pants and slapped my face with all the force he could muster. My face went numb, and I tasted blood in my mouth along with his urine. Full of rage, I stared at him, imagining the day when our positions were reversed.

“Unless you begin to talk very soon, you nasty, stinking infidel, I’m afraid you’re going to die a most painful death my friend. Is that what you want?”

I said nothing.

Weasel shrugged. “Have it your way, then.” He reached for the rack’s lever and tightened it two more clicks. My shoulders popped from their sockets with a sickening click, and I screamed for the first time. Weasel laughed. “You shouldn’t scream yet,” he said. “This is only the beginning.” He nodded to Abid who left the room and returned shortly, holding what I recognized as a branding iron. The end of it glowed red with heat. I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming. Weasel took the iron, and placed it against my stretched stomach.

I screamed again, and felt my consciousness ebb. The stench of my own cooking flesh sickened me, and in that moment, I would have confessed to being a spy and of all the secrets I knew of al Qaeda or whatever organization Weasel belonged to if it would stop this madness. But my hate for him fueled my silence, and I preferred death over giving him the satisfaction he craved.

“I don’t care if you speak any longer, infidel,” Weasel said. “I’m having too much fun to stop now.” He charred me with the branding iron again and three more times afterward. I heard myself scream from the pain as if I were somewhere far away. Then he handed the iron back to his assistant, who left and returned with a walking cane. For a moment, I had the absurd notion that my torture was done, that I had passed some sort of test, and the cane was being offered as a sort of gift. But then, Weasel swung the cane with all of his strength, and struck the tops of my feet. Again and again, he swung the cane, until I was sure my feet were reduced to a bloody mass of broken bones and tendons. My screams were reduced to hopeless moans as my consciousness faded away.


I became a giant, and burst from my chains, roaring at my torturer like a Herculean lion. I smashed my captor and his assistant together, crushing their bones as if they were brittle as china. I knocked down the barred door before me and stepped into the hall beyond where a dozen shocked terrorists turned to me with eyes of fear and opened fire on me with automatic weapons. But the bullets only bounced harmlessly against my skin, and I laughed at them as they scampered away in terror. I stomped through the mountains seeming to grow larger with each step until I was no longer of human proportions and taller than the mountains themselves. I walked beyond the mountains and across the desert beyond it. Filled with rage, hunger, and thirst, my steps smashed a crater in the sand below me, kicking up a blinding dust storm in my wake. Still the terrorists pursued me, dropping bombs on my body from airplanes that sometimes dipped too low, allowing me to swat them from the air as I were King Kong. But the terrorists’ pursuit was a minor annoyance as I moved towards my goal. I would return to America. I would hold my wife and children in my arms. Nothing would deter me.

At last I passed the desert and entered the ocean beyond it, I walked on top of the water as if I were Jesus Christ himself, each step carrying me a nautical mile. Soon, I saw the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island rising up to meet me. A crowd of joyous Americans had gathered on the beach to cheer me on, sharing my jubilation of overcoming such impossible odds to return to my family. An armada of U.S. Air Force jets flew out suddenly to meet me, shooting down the terrorists that pursued me as if they were little more than targets at a carnival game. The jets as well as an aircraft carrier battle group escorted me to the shore. As I grew closer, I recognized three faces staring up at me from the beach: my wife--Sarah, my older daughter-- Amanda, and best of all, my youngest-- Olivia.

She was the one who saw me first, and broke away from her mom to meet me.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she exclaimed. Her cries prompted the others to see me as well and a moment later all three were wading into the ocean to meet me. I found myself shrinking to normal size and gathering them up in my arms as I neared the beach. As I walked up the shores of New York City, an impromptu parade in my honor had erupted, complete with tickertape falling from the sky. I collapsed to my knees and kissed the ground, overcome with patriotic elation just as an unseen band performed God Bless America.


“Wake up, infidel,” an odious voice demanded, destroying the ecstasy of my dream. A committee has met to determine your fate while you slept, and they have reached a decision. Weasel held a freshly sharpened machete and ran his fingers along the blade suggestively. “We’re going to send a message to your corrupt and evil nation,” he said. Abid is going to film it all and mail it to your President. Nothing gets a government’s attention faster than seeing one of their citizens beheaded. Are you ready to be a star?”

The truth was I no longer cared. I was ready to die just to bring an end to the whole sorry episode. Abid released a lever, which slackened the rack’s chains. I moaned as they pushed my body off the rack onto a stretcher they placed beside it. They rolled me out of the room far down the hall and around a corner. I could feel my captors’ excitement in their body language, and in the anticipatory tone of their voices as they spoke to one another. Apparently, chopping off my head was to be a highly anticipated event. I looked forward to it as well. I only wanted the pain to end, and no longer harbored even the faintest fantasy of escape. At least, since my execution was to be filmed, perhaps I would have an opportunity to tell my wife and daughters that I loved them a final time.

I was wheeled into a large, bare, open room. A group of five dignified looking Arabs dressed in flowing robes and headdresses sat at a long table at the far end of it. Abid and Weasel rolled me towards them, stopping ten feet in front of them.

“What have you to say for yourself, infidel?” asked the man with the longest, darkest beard who sat at the center of the table.

I had to concentrate to speak through the pain. I knew my words were pointless, but I still felt compelled to say them.

“I am ashamed to share your blood,” I told them. “You have proven as cruel and fanatical as we Americans have stereotyped you to be. You are killing an innocent man today, and the only point you will prove is what a barbarous bunch of thugs you really are.”

He laughed at me as the others half smiled.

“You are wrong, infidel,” he said. “Your execution today will show your weak-stomached people what we think of the oppression and misery Americans such as you spread throughout this world. Your death will avenge the pointless murder of one of the many of Allah’s sons you Americans have put to death in your quest to destroy our way of life. But you should face your death with pride, for few deaths serve Allah as gloriously as yours shall.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but the man at the table nodded to Weasel before I could speak. He produced a gag, and bound it tightly around my mouth. Then he twisted me onto my back. The forced movement almost caused me to scream aloud in pain, but my pride prevented it. A tall, muscular man with a machete entered the room through a door on the far wall in front of me. With a slow stride of ceremony, he approached. He wore a sheath of plastic around his upper body whose purpose I surmised was to prevent his victims’ blood from staining his clothing. In a moment, he stood over me. He wore a solemn expression. His bearing told me he took the position of executioner very seriously. Behind me, I could hear the faint whirr of a video camera. I imagined it was Abid who held it. The man who had spoken to me before rose from his place at the center of the table and came to stand beside the executioner. He spoke into the camera.

“Today, we execute a traitor, a spy, and an infidel who conspired to murder his own people. He has spied on Allah’s chosen people for the purpose of telling our secrets to godless Americans who would in turn attempt to destroy us. When he is dead, he shall receive no mercy, for he has confessed that he has no god to receive it from. Our enemies shall learn from the execution of this swine that we shall destroy our enemies, and Allah’s people shall always be victorious. Now…let the sentence be carried out.” He nodded towards the executioner and stepped away. Abid moved closer with the camera.

I braced myself for death, too full of pain to fear it, but regretting I could not tell my wife and children that I loved them one final time. But before the machete could sever my neck, my execution was interrupted by a deafening boom that seemed to rock the building to its very foundation. I screamed in pain as my stretcher tumbled over, trapping me beneath it. The men around me also were knocked off their feet. A second of cursing and expressions of dismay followed as my tormentors tried to absorb what had happened. Then came another burst of thunder even louder than the first. This time the walls of the building crumbled like paper and collapsed around us. Men screamed in pain as they were trapped beneath rock and concrete. A moment later, the roof collapsed, burying us all beneath tons of rubble. I could see nothing and could barely breathe as the terrorists’ compound crumbled around me. I braced myself for death once more as concrete, stone, fire, and smoke erupted around me, suspecting the unbearable heat and the sheer cacophony of the event might kill me before I was struck by something. This thought had only left my mind when a falling object struck me in the head, and blackness descended.


When I regained consciousness, silence surrounded me. The stretcher that had flipped over on top of me must have been made of sturdy stuff. I guessed that it had somehow shielded me from being crushed. As it was, I lay immobile and in agonizing pain. The idea that I could still be alive struck me as absurd. I wondered if God Himself held a grudge against me, wanting to see how much agony an infidel might endure before granting him the mercy of death. I could feel wetness against my face, and taste the metallic flavor of my own blood. My right eye was swollen shut, and my body lay pinned in a position that would have found painful even if I had not been previously debilitated by torture. I tried to will death’s coming. I longed for it now. The idea of salvation at this point seemed ludicrous. My best hope was to die without enduring further misery. But time moved forward, and I remained alive.

I must have slept or passed out again because when awareness returned. Night had fallen and I could hear raindrops. It must have been the rain that woke me. It created a musical cacophony that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The rain reminded me of my thirst. A single drop would have tasted heavenly. Determined to feel the water against my tongue, I attempted to push the stretcher that had saved my life away from me. For a moment, it seemed a hopeless cause, but then it gave ever so slightly. I took a moment to gather my strength again, and shoved once more. This time it moved right away, and I almost succeeded in pushing it away before my strength failed me again. Breathing heavily, I took another moment to gather myself, afraid the rain that served as my motivation would stop before I could succeed, and I would simply lay here and wait for death which would probably not be long in coming. One more push was all that was left in me.

I summoned the faces of my wife and daughters for inspiration, and pushed against the stretcher with all my diminished might. It gave until I had pushed it nearly to the tipping point. My shoulders trembled and the weight of the stretcher began to settle back upon me. I bellowed a guttural roar that would have sounded pathetic to anyone who heard it, and it moved again to the tipping point, and this time I did not fail. It fell away, clattering against the stone and steel around me.

Exposed to the elements now, the rain fell against my body. I opened my mouth and drank the drops in large gulps finding it to be as sweet as I’d imagined. It refreshed me as nothing in my life ever had. I laughed and exulted in it, wishing it would never stop. Soaked to the bone, I attempted to stand, but my feet were too swollen and damaged to hold my weight. I smelled acrid smoke and saw the night was partially lit by flames of the portion of the building that was still burning. Thankfully, the flames were too far away to affect me, and dwindling as the rain slowly extinguished them. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I spotted what looked like a swath of rags and towels only a few feet away. If I could reach them, perhaps I could wrap my feet well enough to allow me to walk away from this place. I might not make it far, but trying to save myself suited me better than giving up. I forced myself to crawl across the wreckage, scraping my hands and knees in the process. The rain washed away the blood as fast as it flowed. By the time I reached the rags, the rain had chilled me to the bone. Shivering, I tied them around my feet, legs, and body as thickly as I could. I had wrapped myself as thickly as a mummy when I was done, but at least they warmed me, and offered the myriad injuries of my body some minimal protection.

With the aid of the rags, I managed to drag myself beyond the boundary of the wreckage. The rain had slackened to only a slight pitter-patter against the hard mountain soil, and I collapsed in a state of exquisite pain and exhaustion, against it. It occurred to me that although my thirst was mostly quenched, I was still starving with no idea how to find food. I sat up for a moment and surveyed the landscape around me as best I could in the darkness. In the light of the dying flames, I could vaguely make out the outline of mountains in the distance and wondered if this would be one of the last sights my eyes ever saw. A moment later, overcome with pain and exhaustion, I passed out with my head resting in a mud puddle.

The sun was bright in my face when I woke with a vicious headache reminiscent of the worst hangover of my life. But the ache in my head was overridden by the hunger pangs in my belly. I forced myself to stand on my cushioned, but broken feet. I was wet, shivering, and surprised to be alive. I racked my brain, thinking of a way to find food. Reluctantly, I considered the burning ruins of the terrorist compound. Surely there would be food to be found somewhere there amid the rubble. The idea of returning there after spending so much energy and going through so much pain to leave the place filled me with dread, but no other options occurred to me. I took a painful step in its direction, and then a second and a third. For what seemed a solid hour, I walked with infinite slowness, stopping every few steps to catch my breath. At last, I reached the former building’s outskirts and surveyed the carnage for something…anything that might be useful. Seeing nothing, I resigned myself, and stepped into the heart of the pile. For an unknown time, I searched in vain, seeing nothing but charred remnants, broken steel, and more than one body along the way.

I almost stepped on Weasel before I saw him.

He lay buried in the rubble with only his head exposed. For a moment, I imagined him to be dead, but then his eyes blinked as he saw me.

“Help me,” he whispered.

I stood, frozen in place, half expecting his presumed predicament to be a trap.

“Help me. Please,” he said again.

“Funny how our fates have changed,” I told him.

He did not reply except to close his eyes for so long I thought he had lost consciousness. When he opened them again, he appeared more alert than before. In spite of the superiority of my position, I still felt like an antelope standing before a lion. I could see him summoning the strength to speak more clearly.

“I have a gun in a holster around my waist. If you reach it, I would bless you before Allah if you would finish me. It would be a better death than wasting here.”

This speech seemed to sap him of all his remaining strength. He closed his eyes again, seeming to sleep. Warily, I kneeled to see him more closely. His body was submerged beneath the debris. I pulled as much as I was able away from him, half expecting the man to rise and pounce on me at any moment. But when his legs became visible, I understood this would not happen. They were crushed and misshapen things. His bones jutted through his skin and the torn remnants of his pants in two different places. My stomach heaved, but there was nothing in my gut to vomit.

“Do you see the gun?” he asked.

Forcing my eyes away from his protruding bones, I spotted the gun in a holster at his side. It appeared to have survived the building’s collapse much better than its owner. I took a deep breath and reached for it, still expecting his trap to spring. But then the gun was in my hands. I admired it for a moment, liking its sturdy weight and the way it glinted in the sun.

“Shoot me, infidel,” Weasel said. “Or are you too much of a coward even for that?”

I did not want to do him this favor. It suited my sense of irony better to see him die in slow agony here rather than to grant him the release of an easy death. Besides that, I did not want his blood on my hands. I had never considered killing a man in my life and had only a fired a gun a few times before. I turned my back on him, intending to leave him far behind me.

“Please,” he begged. “I gave you the gift of pain, you coward. Few men are granted such a gift. Don’t you realize that pain is the fuel of life? It’s the thing that makes us realize we’re alive. In return, can’t you grant me this small favor? God loves the strong and hates the weak. That’s why we shall conquer you. That’s why He is on our side.”

Something came over me as he spoke. A wildness. A barbarism I never dreamed existed within me. I turned to face him again. I knew his face would be the one that haunted my dreams for the rest of my life if I made it home alive. It was the personification of this entire hateful ordeal, and now I held in my hands the means to banish it. How could I not take advantage of such an opportunity?

Weasel smiled as he read my expression. I raised the gun and pointed it at the center of his forehead, pulling back the hammer, and flipping the safety off.

“Praise Allah,” Weasel said.

I pulled the trigger.

The bullet missed its intended mark, but struck him in the mouth instead. His head was thrown back and flopped forward again. His body went slack. I stared at him for a moment, sickened by what I had done in spite of the circumstances. The bullet had shattered most of his teeth and reduced his face to a gory maw. My stomach heaved again and I turned away from the sight, vomiting up a string of bile on the wreckage below me. I took a deep breath and stood again, wiping my mouth. I had never expected to kill a man in my life, but if there was a man who deserved to die, it was Weasel, I told myself. Besides, killing him was as an act of mercy. The man had certainly never showed any to me.

I worked for half an hour to pull his body free, feeling like some low sort of scavenger all the while. I had noted that we were of similar size and even shared a slight resemblance although I hoped my features were not quite as sharp and weasel-like as his. When his body finally came free, it appeared to me at first that nothing he wore would be of any use to me. His clothing was ripped and blood-soaked, but then his boots caught my eye. Although the man’s feet had been crushed, his boots remained intact. Thankfully, his feet were slightly larger than mine which provided room to place a few strips of rag inside for cushioning. I also spotted the monster’s hat, crumpled and partially hidden under a nearby beam of steel. I pulled it free, shook the dust away and donned it, thankful I would have it to protect me against the sun.

I left Weasel there and didn’t look back. I desperately needed food and water, and had to admit to myself that killing Weasel had energized me. With a renewed sense of energy, I resumed my search.

My foot struck what I was looking for. I looked down and into midst of the giant pile and saw a nondescript canteen half buried beneath a piece of twisted metal. Almost believing it was wishful thinking, I pulled it free. The top was still screwed tight and half full of water with a sooty, leather strap attached to it. I removed the top and sniffed its contents. Finding nothing amiss, I took a cautious sip. It was slightly warm, but otherwise refreshing. I took a larger swallow then, nearly choking myself in my zest, before coming to my senses, realizing I had to make this canteen of water last for an unknown time. Who knew when or if the opportunity to refill it would arise?

With my thirst partially quenched, I stepped away from the pile, wondering how to find food in this forsaken place. I was weak with hunger, and eager to travel somewhere, anywhere away from this place. But I would not go far without some kind of sustenance very soon.

A movement above me caught my attention. I looked up to see a flock of circling buzzards. I watched them, thinking that if I shared their tastes; hunger would not be a worry for me. One of them spotted what it was looking for and swooped upon it. The body was too immersed in the pile for me to see, but the buzzard’s head submerged into something, and popped up again with bits of guts hanging from the sides of its mouth. Watching it enjoy its morsel, I wondered for the first time in my life what a buzzard would taste like if it were cooked well done over a fire. Would I be able to devour such a thing that had in turn survived on a diet of rotting flesh? The thought repulsed me, but beggars could not always be choosers.

I stalked the bird, holding Weasel’s pistol at my side, trying to approach it from an angle so that it would not be alarmed, and hoping my aim with this unfamiliar weapon would be true. For the better part of an hour I moved toward it. It seemed too engrossed in its meal to notice me. When I had moved within fifteen feet of the thing, I stopped and very slowly raised the pistol and cocked it. Aiming for the fat part of its body, I fired.

The buzzard screamed for a half a second, flapping its wings in a mad frenzy. But in another moment, it fell dead atop the human carrion it fed upon. I went to retrieve it, moving carefully across the rubble. I picked up the carcass by its hind legs. On the way out, my foot struck a green metal object. I paused to investigate, seeing it was the kind of box soldiers used to hold their supplies when they went out into the field. Besides a small dent on one side, it looked to have survived the bombing in good shape. I picked it up, surprised by the weight of it. With the buzzard in one hand and the box in the other, I moved beyond the pile, struggling with the weight of my loot.

Outside the rubble field, I set the supply container on the dirt and unlatched it. It contained enough MREs for at least four meals, a box of matches, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, an ink pen, and blue three-subject notebook, and even a stick of chewing gum, which I quickly popped into my mouth, imagining it to be a decadent luxury as I savored its sweet, juicy, if slightly stale taste. The pack even contained a flashlight that shone dimly in the sun when I switched it on. I laughed aloud at my absurd luck, comparing the buzzard’s carcass against my freeze-dried treasures. Deciding to retain some semblance of civility, I tossed the buzzard away, hardly believing I had considered eating the thing, but also regretting the bullet I wasted to kill it.

My stomach rumbled and I scrambled to gather brush and sticks to make a fire. When I’d gathered a decent pile, I fished a pack of matches from the box, and was relieved to find them dry. In a few moments, my cooking fire was burning, warming the contents of a pack of MREs that tasted finer than I would have believed possible. I ate until the edge of my hunger was sated, and saved the rest for another day. After extinguishing the fire, I took a moment to gaze back at the charred remains of the terrorists’ camp and wondered how many more treasures it contained amidst the ruins. But it held as much potential for my destruction as it did useful tokens. It was time for me to move on. Taking a deep breath, I felt the sun against my face and gazed about me in every direction. The terrain was rugged and mountainous in every direction, but probably more populated than it appeared. If I could find people, perhaps I might survive in spite of everything, assuming they didn’t shoot me first.

A spiritual feeling descended upon me in that moment; a sense of inner peace I could not account for. Perhaps it was the nature of my predicament. Rarely in my life had my purpose been so clear to me. I was simply trying to survive, to live to see another day. I believed it was a rare state for a modern American man to find himself in.

I set off to the west simply because it was the direction in which the sun would be against my back, and it seemed the way in which the terrain descended most sharply. If there were people here, I thought they were more likely to be found at lower elevations. The day passed slowly. The sun was hot, and though I was parched with thirst, I drank sparingly. There was no way to know when or if I would find more water once the canteen’s contents were depleted. Drenched with sweat, I walked until dusk. I was tempted to collapse where I stood, but suspected sleeping in the open would not be in my best interest. I moved toward a group of craggy rocks and found a crevasse between them deep enough that it could almost be called a cave. Whimsically wishing for a moment that my kit contained a pillow, I climbed into the crevasse. Gathering dirt and brush to cushion my head against the rocks, I curled myself into a ball, and was asleep faster that I would have thought possible.

It was deep in the night when the sensation of something slithering across my legs woke me. In a flash, I climbed out of the crevasse in the dark, somehow remembering to grab my precious supply case in the process. Reaching the top, I removed the flashlight and shone it inside the pitch-blackness below me. After several minutes of seeing nothing, the light reflected off a scaly back and showed me a pair of beady eyes. I shined the light down its length, seeing the snake must have been at least six feet long. It made me angry. How dare it take away my comfortable sleeping spot? Never mind that it was here first. It was a snake, and I was a man. Then it occurred to me that vengeance would be making a meal of it. A meal of snake struck me as much more palatable than buzzard. It might offer a bit of variety to my diet.

I considered shooting it, but felt the conservation of my ammunition was more important than the snake, and hitting it in the dark was less than a sure thing. I found a rock about the right size to do the job, and returned to the hole. I shone my flashlight about inside, and spotted it again, coiled in the corner. Approaching it, I held the rock above my head, cocked to strike.

But it was the snake that struck first. It hit me in the chest, hanging by its teeth until I jerked it away and tossed it to the ground. I stomped on its head and smashed it with my rock over and over until it was smashed to mush. When I finally stopped, panting and flushed, I realized how stupid I’d been to come after it. This was its domain and I was the trespasser. To come into its lair to kill it had been the height of arrogance. I put a hand to my chest and drew back blood. The bite must have struck me deep judging from the amount of it. Perhaps the snake had succeeded where Weasel and the others had failed: in putting me out of my misery once and for all. I wondered how long it would be before the venom did its work and killed me. I supposed it was a better way to go than starving or thirsting to death, or of being eaten alive by a wild animal. It would be fitting for the relatives of the buzzard I’d killed in vain to get their revenge in the morning when they made a morsel of me.

Not knowing what else to do, I climbed out of the hole with the dead snake in hand. I skinned it sloppily with a sharp rock, gutted it and cooked what remained until the meat was tender enough to eat, all the while waiting to drop dead at any moment. But death didn’t come, and the snake meat tasted better than anything I’d put in my mouth in a very long time. The bite was painful, but seemingly not deadly. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. It seemed that by living I was likely only trading one death for another that waited somewhere for me amongst these mountains. When the last of the snake was gone, I extinguished the fire and as sleep claimed me where I lay in the open covered in my own blood, I wondered if I would see the morning.

To my surprise, the morning came and I still drew breath, actually feeling better than I had in many mornings prior. My chest was tender and sore where the snake had sunk its teeth, and my entire left breast had turned black and blue around the bite. Pus seeped from the wound, and I feared it would become infected. I stood and faced the morning. The sun hung low in the sky. To the east, it glistened in the fading fog, and the temperature was already oppressively warm. I still had all of my MREs, and nearly half a canteen of water, perhaps enough to survive another day although I desperately hoped to find water to refill it soon. Weasel’s pistol was stuffed in my waistband, and I checked to make sure it still contained a full chamber of bullets minus two. I trekked south again at once hoping and fearing to encounter people who might become either my salvation or the instrument to put me out of my misery once and for all.

I trudged steadily over the rocky ground until around midday when I spied a scrubby tree that offered a scant amount of shade. Exhausted and soaked with sweat, I sat under it, propping my back against its trunk, and drank from my canteen. I opened my can of MREs and opened a package labeled BEEF. It tasted good, but not as good as the snake. I washed down a bite with water and surveyed the scene around me again. This was a peaceful, beautiful place in spite of its harshness. The austere, rocky landscape that gave way to ever-taller mountains in the distance filled me with a sense of mysticism. As I soaked it in, my revelry was interrupted by a familiar sound. It lasted for only a second and was gone. I sat very still, straining my ears to hear it again and then it came once more: the unmistakable whir of a motor. I stood and tried to see as far as possible in every direction, but saw nothing but mountains, rocky ground, and a few scrubby trees, and the sound did not come again. Maybe it had been imagination or perhaps there was such a thing as auditory mirages. Imagined or real, the sound infused me with fresh energy. There were people about somewhere, and I had to have faith that they would help me. I finished the rest of my meal and took a last swallow of water. My canteen was now only a quarter full. I dreaded the thirst that would follow once it was gone.

I set out again to the south, walking until almost nightfall and seeing no sign of another living soul along the way. The water in my canteen had dwindled to a single gulp that I was loathe to drink. The sky remained blue as sapphire without a cloud to mar it. I was beginning to believe the rain that had saved my life on the day I climbed from the wreckage had been a rare event. The sun sank steadily below the mountains, and with it the heat of the day dissipated. Shivering in the dark, I searched for shelter, finally finding some semblance of it wedging myself amongst three large stones. I passed the night there, protected from the cold wind that had begun to blow across the landscape, but there was no way to find a comfortable sleeping position in such tight quarters, and the ground was too hard for sleeping in any case. I slept lightly in spite of my utter exhaustion, thirst, and hunger. I did not know how many more nights or days I would have to endure. But there was nothing to do for it except to keep trudging to the south and hoping for the best.

Two more days passed in a similar manner. I sipped sparingly from my final gulp of water until it was gone by the end of the second. All that remained of my MREs was a lone packet labeled MEAT LOAF. Too exhausted to move, I lay shivering in the night, knowing that the next day would likely be my last unless I found water. Twice more during my trek, I thought I’d heard sounds that signaled the presence of people. The night before, the crack of a gunshot had wakened me and the following afternoon, I thought I’d heard a man’s laughter come to me on a stiff breeze. But I saw no one.

The morning found me shivering and weak against the stony ground. With an act of will, I forced myself to my feet, and moved south again, shuffling one foot in front of the other like a zombie. My rags were disintegrating, barely hanging to my body, but Weasel’s pistol was still secured in the waistband against the small of my back. My feet were cracked and blistered, and still not fully healed from being whacked with a cane. Every step was excruciating. My mouth felt as dry as sandpaper, everything seemed to be covered with a haze. I was unsure if I moved in reality or in a dream world as I trudged to the top of a steep grade.

The spectacular view there roused me. It seemed I’d stepped on top of the Earth. The landscape appeared to stretch forever, one line of giant mountains leading to another in an endless chain. It occurred to me that I could have picked a worse place to die. I had expected to lead a typical American suburban life, dedicated to my job, my wife and my children, but it seemed that fate had dealt me a wild card, and it was here in this untamed land of vicious beauty that my life would end. In spite of my non-belief in any god, I could not help but wonder if some unknown deity had played a hand in this for inconceivable reasons, or perhaps in a moment of sheer whimsy. Looking about me, I decided that this was as good a place as any for my struggle to end. I sat Indian style on the ground to wait for death deciding that if my suffering became unbearable, there were enough bullets left in Weasel’s pistol to finish the job.

It was only then that I remember my wife’s suggestion that I keep a journal of my trip. I opened the MRE case and retrieved the notebook and ink pen, still encased in plastic. I opened it, letting the plastic blow away into the breeze, and placed pen to paper, realizing as I did so, that I had never in my adult life gone so many days without writing a single word. The act of writing seemed to energize me, and I write now as fast as I can, knowing my time is short. My hand is cramped, and I fear the pen’s ink is dwindling, but I feel led to record one final memory before laying it down.


Late last Fall on a Sunday morning, I woke up, excited about watching the Carolina Panthers play in a divisional playoff game that afternoon against the Saints. I even pulled my Panthers jersey out of my dresser, and put it on before going downstairs to see what Sarah was cooking. I could smell eggs, bacon, and coffee all the way upstairs.

“Breakfast is ready, Daddy!” Olivia announced to me I reached the bottom of the stairs. “It’s good!”

“I bet it is,” I told her. I fixed a plate, and sat beside her and Sarah on the couch. Amanda was gone to a slumber party or some such thing, and it was just the three of us sitting on the couch, eating breakfast, and watching music videos on the television. I had almost eaten the last of my grits when Olivia had an idea.

“Daddy,” she said. “You should take us to the zoo today!”

I looked at Sarah who looked quizzically back at me. “That sounds like a great idea,” I said. “But Daddy wants to watch a football game this afternoon. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“Okay, Daddy. Maybe next Sunday?”

“That sounds good,” I said automatically, but then the disappointment in her voice registered with me, and my resolve faded.

I was halfway through my scrambled eggs before changing my mind as she talked with her mother about how cute her friend, Britney, had said that the monkeys were when she’d gone to the zoo.

“Olive,” I said, “Do you want to go see the monkeys for yourself today?”

Her eyes lit up like she’d been told she’d won the lottery, but then she looked concerned. “But Daddy, what about your football game?” she said.

“There will always be other football games, and besides I can record it on the DVR and watch it when we get home.”

“Oh. Okay….yay! Did you hear that, Mama? We get to go to the zoo today!”

Sarah smiled at me. “I think it will be fun for all of us,” she said.

At that moment, Amanda stepped through the door with her suitcase looking irritable and bleary-eyed. I guessed she hadn’t slept much at her slumber party.

“Guess what, Am?” Olive said to her. “We’re going to the zoo today! Are you coming?”

“The zoo’s for little kids,” Amanda answered. “I’m going to bed for awhile.”

“Oh…okay,” Olive said. “But don’t you want to see the monkeys and lions and elephants and giraffes?”

Something in the earnestness of her voice must have swayed Amanda because she smiled at her little sister and I could tell she’d changed her mind even before she said so.

“Okay,” she said. “Just give me a minute to get ready.”

So the four of us went to the zoo at Olive’s bequest. It turned out to be a wonderful day. The weather was perfect. The air was crisp, but not too cold. The sky was cloudless and sunny. Olive’s enthusiasm was infectious, and we found ourselves oohing and ahing over the animals right along with her. I bought cotton candy for everyone, and we walked until we’d seen every last critter the zoo had to offer. I even got home in time to see the fourth quarter of a thrilling football game, which my Panthers managed to win thirty-four to thirty-one. All in all it was a grand day. I could even go as far to say that it was an all-American day, and it wasn’t an exceptional one for me, but just one of many. My life has been filled with grand, All-American days, and rather than mourn the end of my life now, I would rather celebrate what I once had. I hope whoever finds this will tell Sarah, Olive, and Amanda how much I loved them, and how sorry I am to not be able to come home again.


Oh my God! If I really see what I think I’m seeing, I’ve given up too soon. I wonder if it’s some desperate mirage or if my exhausted mind is hallucinating, but I’m holding my eyes shut tight, and when I open them again, it’s still there:


How could I have been here so long without seeing it? When I first sat here and began to write, the morning fog limited my visibility, but now it has lifted, and I see it there like a beacon of salvation. I’m going to be saved! I must go to it now!


These were the last words in Makin Canaan’s journal, but Corporal Stinson knew what the man had seen from his vantage-point on the hilltop that would qualified as a mountain peak in any other country.

He’d seen an American flag waving in the distance above the tents that made up the small fort where Stinson and the rest of his company had stationed themselves. In his mind’s eye, he saw what must have happened next. Canaan had run towards the flag weeping dehydrated tears, his former shuffling gait becoming a confident stride.

When he’d lost sight of the flag as he descended the hill, he hadn’t lost hope. All he needed to do was to keep moving towards it and it would appear to him once more. The flag was further away than it seemed from the top of the hill, and Canaan must have walked at least three hours more before he saw it again, panting and out of breath, his initial adrenaline spent. In his exhausted, but elated state, he hadn’t considered how closely the camp would be guarded. When he’d reached the perimeter that stretched a hundred yards around the fort, Corporal Stinson had spotted him and commanded him to stop. The soldier was the first living human he’d encountered since the day he’d killed Weasel, and it had taken an act of will for him not to rush the man and hug him. But the soldier’s expression had stilled that impulse. Canaan realized that rushing this man would have been the last act of his life. There was a frantic look in the soldier’s eyes he didn’t like. He seemed anxious and more than a little frightened.

“Stop!” Corporal Stinson commanded.

Canaan did as he was told.

The soldier questioned him in Arabic, and Canaan only stared back, his exhausted mind too fatigued to surmise the Corporal’s meaning.

“I am an American,” he said.

“And I’m a fuckin’ Eskimo,” Stinson replied. “Don’t move a muscle, Haji or I’ll send you to Hell.”

Then Canaan thought of his journal. He’d realized the jumpy soldier would know he was truly American if he only saw its pages. He reached behind him to retrieve it from where he’d tucked into his underwear. Even as he did so, he realized his error, and how the soldier would interpret his movements.

Stinson screamed at him again in Arabic and though Canaan froze, the Corporal was too intent on action on to notice. He shot Canaan three times through his chest. Stinson thought he was either reaching for a firearm or a detonator. From the man’s disheveled appearance and the stoned out, too shiny look in his eyes, he’d been convinced Canaan must have been either a suicide bomber or just a crazy man with a death wish. He’d examined the body with his gun still drawn, but saw no explosive vest lay beneath the rags that passed for the Haji’s shirt. When he flipped the man over with his foot, he saw a nine- millimeter pistol tucked in the waistband there along with a blue three-subject notebook. The glossiness of its cover was in sharp contrast to the tattered and bloody condition of its owner. He opened it and read the first page. Then he turned to the second and the third.

At first Corporal Stinson thought the man’s story must have been a delusional fantasy, but as he read further, he realized the truth of it. The man he’d just killed was no terrorist, but an American citizen seeking protection. The man, whose name he’d learned was Makin Canaan, had thought he’d found salvation when he’d run into Corporal Stinson: his ticket home after enduring unspeakable trials and torture, but instead he’d found his death.

After he’d read the final page, he felt sick to his stomach. He put his hands on his knees and vomited next to the body. He hadn’t had this in mind when he’d joined the damned Army. He realized it could have turned out differently if he’d really taken the time to listen and look at the man before shooting him. His radio crackled.

“State your position, Corporal.” He recognized Sgt. Mason’s voice.

“Six o’clock on the perimeter…I’ve shot someone.”

“Was he the only insurgent?”

“He was alone, Sergeant. You should come take a look.”

“Be right there, Corporal.”

Sergeant Mason arrived a minute later with two Privates: Sanders and Jennings. They all examined the body of the dead Arab man in front of them. He was still lying on his stomach with the pistol in his waistband.

“I thought he was going for his gun,” Stinson said. But I think he was trying to show me this instead. He handed the notebook to Mason who read the first few sentences, and scanned through it quickly. He shrugged and handed the notebook back to Stinson. “Probably just a crazy man,” he said. “In any case, you did the right thing. He went for his gun and you shot him. That’s all there was to it.”

“Didn’t you hear the story on the news about the American Arab man who was kidnapped out of Saudi Arabia a few months ago? I think his name was Makin Canaan. How do we know this isn’t him?”

“Because it’s not. It’s just a crazy man ranting about Mohammed or some shit as far as I’m concerned. Now go somewhere and burn that notebook and come back and help us dispose of him.” He indicated the American’s body.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Stinson replied. But instead he did something he’d never done before since he’d joined the Army. He disobeyed orders. He took the notebook back to his tent and stuffed it into his pack. His gut told him every word of the man’s writing was true, and to destroy the truth of it seemed a sacrilege he was unwilling to commit.


Corporal Stinson, Sergeant Mason, Private Sanders, and Private Jennings put Makin Canaan’s body in an empty container box. They drove the body in an armored hum-vee to the same hill on which Canaan had seen the American flag waving in the distance from the soldiers’ camp. They quickly dug a grave for him there and buried his body. None of them said anything except for Private Sanders, who wondered why they were going to so much trouble for a goddamn terrorist haji. Neither Mason nor Stinson answered him, but Stinson knew his Sergeant must have believed the man was he who he claimed to be, or they would have just deposited the body somewhere where the buzzards would find it. When the box was covered, Corporal Stinson gathered some fist-sized stones and arranged them in the shape of a cross to mark the spot where they buried the man. The Privates stared at him as he did this, but neither said anything. Because Corporal Stinson considered himself a God-fearing man, he said a silent prayer over the makeshift grave.

‘I’m sorry, Lord, for what I have done. I shot a man who was coming to me for salvation out of fear and prejudice. I hope you can forgive me. I hope he’s finally home again with you.’

“Let’s go,” Sergeant Mason said, and the four of them left the site of Makin Canaan’s body where it rested in a harsh and beautiful land far from the country he loved.