There is a Place We All Go After Death

There is a Place We All Go After Death

Rashad checks, then double checks, his weapons. He is feeling nervous about the upcoming battle tomorrow. “It’d be one thing if it were a crew formed of 4 of me. Then I’d be confident about winning. I just don’t think that Petra, Arjuna, or Malik are up to par. Petra is so young and inexperienced, she’s green and wet behind the ears. Malik smokes so much I doubt he will be too effective in blitz strikes. He has absolutely no lung capacity. Yeah, his breathing is shot. And Arjuna- well, Arjuna is crazy, absolutely insane. I wouldn’t put it past him to start attacking us!” Rashad was mumbling all of this to himself while wiping the sweat from his face and brow with a camouflage bandana. It was becoming useless and ineffective. The bandana was soaked in his sweat already, so it wasn’t really helping at all. Rashad looks up and observes the rest of his comrades going about their business and, he supposes, preparing for the skirmish in their own ways.

Petra is sharpening her collection of knives, with earphones in, listening to music and scribbling something down in some sort of journal or diary. She resembles a tween doing their homework. “What is she? 12?” Rashad thinks to himself. Petra, too, is nervous about tomorrow. She’s listening to a playlist of songs she used to listen to while at the gym to motivate her. However, she knows tomorrow’s mission is a far cry from working out. Even though a good, hard workout can feel like getting whooped, her life is not at risk running on the treadmill or doing deadlifts. “There’s the real possibility of dying out there. Or worse, having to take another’s life. Before the great drought, before food and water were rendered scarce, the government collapsed and people banded together in clans or packs, I was never in a situation where my life was on the line. I never once contemplated hurting someone, let alone killing them. I know that I have no choice if I wish to survive at least another week,” Petra was writing in her diary. “It’s glaringly obvious that Rashad, Arjuna, and Malik have no faith in me. Heck, I may be petite but I am quicker than lightening and I know how to use my knives. I can’t help but sense a bit of misogyny from the men. Well, I’ll show them,” she’s still writing but she says this last part out loud in addition to composing it in cursive on the pale purple pages of her diary.

“What’s that, youngster?” Arjuna asks Petra. Not realizing she was talking audibly, Petra, surprised replies “Oh nothing. Just reciting a poem.”

Arjuna, who had been praying for a distraction from his morose and dark thoughts, is intrigued. “Oh yeah, what poem is that little lady?”

Petra, heart racing, trying to recall suitable poetry to be reciting in a moment like this, stutters before saying ‘The Hurt Locker,’ by Brian Turner. Regrettably, I don’t know it by heart. It’s a famous war poem. There’s a movie by the same name that came out before I was born. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

Arjuna laughs, “We’re the same age, girl. I doubt I’ve seen it. But I’ll tell you what: after we win tomorrow I’ll see if I can find a copy, that way we’ll both be able to watch it.” Petra smiles.

Arjuna is thinking to himself, “How she can smile in a time like this is beyond me. I’ve never been so anxious in my life.” Arjuna returns to his dark and morose thoughts. He’s certain that he will die tomorrow. The only artillery he has is 6 grenades he collected a week ago. He’s doubtful that they’ll even detonate. He doesn’t fully understand or comprehend why it is so important to attack Malcom’s clan. It is his belief that their clan, the Rashad’s, should join forces with the Malcom’s in order to survive, not kill them. “As if our Motley crew could even accomplish such a feat,” he says quietly. “Besides I’m not vacuous or obtuse, I know Rashad thinks I’m a nut job just because I’m gay,” he continues, more quietly than before. Arjuna was a pacifist at his core, he didn’t believe in violence. His top three heroes were Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King Jr, and Rosa Parks. He was an artist before this whole mess. He painted dreamscapes, as he called them, using vibrant colors and thick brushstrokes. Part of him isn’t that frightened of dying. He believes that he and his husband, Ashur, will be reunited in death. He doesn’t exactly believe in Heaven but he knows there is a place we all go after death and he hopes he will meet Ashur in that place. Arjuna is torn from these peaceful thoughts by the loud, terrifying coughing fit Malik is currently having.

All three of them, Rashad, Petra, and Arjuna cease what they’d previously been doing and look in Malik’s direction. He is holding a cigar in one hand and his other hand is gripping his chest. His usually handsome face is twisted and distorted as he continues coughing. It’s Petra who speaks first, “You okay Malik?” As she wonders how food is so difficult to find, water even more difficult to come across, yet Malik seems to be in possession of a constant supply of tobacco products.

Malik, coughs one more time, then spits up god know what, before regaining his composure and retorting, “Yeah, I’m okay. What, you’ve never seen a man cough before or something?” This hostility is a direct extension and manifestation of his fears and misgivings about tomorrow’s events. “I’m useless to them. It’s futile. I’ll only hold them back. They’d all be better off without me. Sure, I’ve got a plethora of automatic weapons and ammunition but what good will that do if I can’t even run for 15 seconds without having to catch my breath. I guess being a hedonist in times of peace is easy, but now all that debauchery is catching up to me.” It is right then, directly after this thought, that Malik makes a decision. He decides that he will furtively, surreptitiously part ways with his pack prior to the battle. He convinces himself that this is not a cowardly act but that he’ll be doing everyone a favor. With this decision made, with this resolution, he feels at peace as he joins the group for their nightly supplication.

The four of them gather in a circle, sitting cross-legged on the cold, wet, cement floor. Rashad is leading the prayer. In a grave and serious tone he is asking Allah for strength, courage, resolve, protection, and to watch over him and his clan as they fight tomorrow. Petra, Arjuna, Malik, and Rashad all proclaim, in unison, “Amen!”

“Now, brothers and sister, let us retire to our sleeping quarters. We have a big day ahead of us, we will need all the sleep and rest we can get. We will reign triumphant! We will be victorious! It is Allah’s will,” declares Rashad, trying to keep his apprehensions and worries to himself. For what type of leader would he be if he were to promulgate his true thoughts? He’s well aware that confidence is, and always has been, the key to success. If one believes one can conquer the world, then one is already halfway there. As a man of faith, he prays that his comrades too possess faith. Immediately after that secret prayer he clandestinely prays for a miracle.