You have the clocks, but we have the time

You have the clocks, but we have the time

August 24, 2024

Evelyn waited longer than she was ordered to do so. She could have departed before sunrise. Now, she would wait until sunset. At least, that was the insurgency thought.

Evelyn was never going to leave.

In a God-forsaken country, only those with nothing left to lose, call it home.

Evelyn watched her husband (a native) and her two children die in the streets. The men responsible wanted to make an example of the three. In broad daylight, they skinned all three of them. She heard her smallest scream during the process.

Then the men beheaded the remains and fed it to the wild dogs.

That was nearly six years ago.

Since then, if she kept records, 216 paid for this. Their blood ran into the gallons. Their voices dwindled with each bullet, each knife thrust, each spear, and with each torch. Evelyn breathed their burning flesh as she stood motionless over the charred remains of the deceased and two of the living.

For them, death was a blessing denied.

But now, Evelyn stood her ground. She had come full circle in the village where it all began. Her friends warned her of the dangers. Her husband laughed at the warnings. They placed his head on a stake in the market square. Still laughing as it rotted in the sun. Still laughing as the insect devoured its flesh.

Fifty six times (almost four kills per event), Evelyn returned the favor. Fifty six times, the insurgents increased the bounty on her head. Today was to be number fifty seven. Someone thought the 5000 in local currency ($26 USD) was enough to stop counting and cash in.

Thirty pieces of silver goes a long way in this neck of the woods.

Taking inventory, she had three magazines for her AK and two mags for her Makarov. Add a grenade and a khyber knife prominently displaying the encrusted blood of yesterday’s work, and she was ready to meet her maker.

The conversation would only include a short, “I love you”, to her family before being cast into the pits of Hell.

Evelyn could accept such a fate. She had a six year guided tour of what was yet to come.

“How much worse could it be?”

The attack began with mortar fire from an old Soviet 82mm. The first two rounds were paint. Purple to be exact. The third round was still working.

The roof of the shelter and two walls were no longer.

Evelyn expected as much. She waited for the next attack. Most likely from a few not-so-bright AK bearers with more testosterone than common sense. These “brave souls” could not see her in the rubble.

But she could see them.

Four insurgents. Four 9x18mm bullets from a single chrome lined barrel and the deed was done. The first three fell inside the doorway. The last fell just outside.

Finally, came the barrage from all sides. Evelyn would have done the same had the positions been reversed. She rolled under a fallen steel door to shield her from much, but not all. Too many 7.62x39mm rounds to count flew past her. The two that hit her left foot left their unmistakable numerical identity.

Then came the flood of people. She never heard their voices. Perhaps her eardrums were shattered earlier. Perhaps it no longer mattered. All she heard were the screams of her children.

With her grenade in hand, pin pulled, she extended her arm and let it fly.

Few people lived to positively identify Evelyn during her in-country stay. With each telling of her story, her hair became more red, her viciousness became more extreme, and her body count inched higher and higher.

Few still remember the name of her children or the manner in which she lived prior to her change. The locals only remember the details that scare them.

Without a body to ID, many people will be scared for a long time to come.