Value

Looking in the mirror, the bruise from Mitch's shotgun had faded to a greenish yellow which I didn't think was too bad. From the window facing outside I smell meat hitting the grill and I can tell it's going to be "chow time" soon. For all the black flies, mosquitos, and bullshit, the food was decent.

After the rapid thaw a few days ago, they'd managed to rig up a propane grill and with a raid of the nearby Burger King ruins, they'd acquired industrial quantities of ketchup, mustard, and about seven or eight pickle buckets, a few of which had been converted to bucket toilets.

My roommate for a few days, Ismail, was an older Muslim guy who they'd picked up a day or two before me from what I could tell. I didn't think about it before then, but the mercs clearly followed the GNACPP as part of their contract, so they had to tell him where Mecca was, what time it was, and give him enough water to wash. He didn't speak English other than like "yes", "no," "left", "right", "stop", and "go", and the only Arabic I knew was "salaam alaykum", and "alaykum salaam", so we didn't have much to talk about when we were together, which was most of the time.

What the American mercs called chow was always what they also called a "cooking out", which I grew up calling "barbecue". They usually grilled hamburgers made up of dehydrated beef that came back to a nice consistency, with the pickles as a nice touch, but I would have killed for a bun.

The mercs set us up in the converted hay loft with a pair of no-frills beds that they chained us to every night, which were attached to pin-pull panic alarms. If we got up and pulled on the chain enough, the pin would pop out, and the whole property could hear the alarm shrieking, telling the mercs someone was up. We were posted up here while they waited for "evac at the LZ" which was either "need to know" or "shut the fuck up", I wasn't sure which.

During the day, they took shifts drinking from a seemingly endless supply of canned Michelob Ultra and sitting in a camp chairs on their phones while "watching" Ismail and I. As for our part, we did nothing for extended periods of time. They kept us penned in on the floor of the barn, always within sight of one of the dozen or so of these boys.

Most of the mercenaries were kids in their 20s, except a few more seasoned guys who were maybe 40, and one older guy, Richard, who was clearly in charge. Most of them walked around unarmed most of the time, but the ones that were walking around with guns toted a mish-mash of equipment and fits. Most of them wore plate carriers all of the time for some reason, and most of them at least had one piece of camo on at all time, even if it were just a hat.

"You know cars? Names of cars? It's a game." I tried to get my point across to Ismail.

"Okay," I point to myself "Ford," and then point to him and say "Acura," then back to me, and I say "Honda," and point to him.

He says, "Dodge". I give a thumbs up.

"Toyota"

"Hyundai"

"Um , Kia"

"Old car, Pontiac."

"I remember Pontiac. You know, Trans Am?"

"Fast."

"Hell yeah," I pause for a sec.

Travis spit a wad of tobacco out on to the barn floor an says, "Chevy."

Ismail and I looked over at him, seeing his eagerness to join in. Looking over at us from behind the Pit Vipers and plate carrier, with his big beard and camo cap, he was just a kid who wanted to play games.

We stopped talking until his shift ended.

Richard was, I guess, required to wear his STATE OPERATIVE laminate on his plate carrier at all times, which is how I learned his full name was Richard Hess, DBA: F. O. Upper Columb– which I assumed was a truncated 'Columbia', like most of these jokers– with a DOB in the year 2001. Time flies.

He was usually aloof and didn't really even look at us except for when we first got here, and I had a chance to read his badge. He spent most of his time in the farmhouse, but when he came up to us after my fourth day, he looked straight at Ismail and said, "Your embassy came through."

Looking at me, "You don't have no embassy, so you need to wait."

About an hour later we heard a minivan approach from the left of the T-intersection up the road.

Once the minivan pulled in without a front plate, I realized we were likely still in Quebec. As the driver got out, Travis shoved the muzzle of this pistol in their face. After a few tense moments, Travis mellowed out and Richard shook hands with the driver.

Once they tapped their phones together to make the fund transfer, Richard looked down to confirm it, then told Jake to grab Ismail, who was still beside me.

The sliding door of the van opened, and a man with a red crescent vest came out to walk Ismail into the van, taking him from Jake. Once the side door closed, the driver got back in, and took off at the T-intersection up the road, heading back to the left.

Richard looked over at me and said, "That could be you. The problem is, pal, you don't have any value."

What the fuck was this about. "Yes I do," I said in a defensive tone.

"Well, let's see, are you a political leader? No. Are you a soldier? Clearly not. Are you a skilled trades person? No. You used to ride a desk, now you don't. You make money in the city, and you think that's great."

Richard pulled out a Camel cigarette pack from his pocket.

"Out here we're doing like, actual shit. We're working towards our light." With the cigarette in his mouth, he pulled out a Bic lighter.

"We're making things work for us and our people." He lit the cigarette.

"Ismail was fine because he believed in something. People like you don't. I have the light in my eyes, Travis, Peter, all of us, even Jake." He blew out a cloud of acrid American tobacco smoke.

"They have the light too. But I can't see it behind your eyes. Nothing. You people think we are stupid, but if we're so stupid, why is God on our side?" I could hear the crackle of the cigarette as he took another pull.

"Like I said, you are of no value."