My Name Is Tristan by B. R. Miller

Author:B. R. Miller
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Publisher: B. R. Miller Media
Published: 2017-08-24T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

We land with a loud thud, a dust cloud shooting high into the sky. When the dust settles, we see the curious town come out from their homes to see what just landed in the middle of their village. One by one people stopped what they’re doing and slowly and cautiously approached us. One man approached with his gun drawn.

“Does anyone speak Arabic?” Jones asks.

Skinner and I both shake our heads. The man approaches closer with his gun now aimed at Jones probably because he is the only one with a weapon. Lowering his weapon, the man kneels down in front of Jones and slowly brings a hand up and places it on Jones’ shoulder, rubbing his American flag patch.

“American?” The man asks, probably the only English he knows.

“Yes,” Jones says nodding, “American.”

Gun fire erupts from the mountain side and draws the man’s attention. He then stands up and shouts to the others in the town standing by, watching curiously. A group of three men run over to us and pick Jones up, carrying him away and into a nearby adobe style home. Skinner and I quickly follow them in and find that they set Jones down on a bed in front of a fire. I sat down on the ground and buried my head in my hands wishing that Amille and the others would come soon. I’m not sure if I have enough in me to fight another battle let alone protect an entire village. The Arabic man who shouted orders walks into the room and kneels down right in front of me and places a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him, shamefully a tear finds its way down my cheek.

I wish I could tell you what he said to me right then but all I know is that it was encouraging, hopeful. He then places his hand on his chest and says, “Amir.” I look at him confused at first so he says it again. I then place a hand on my chest and say, “Tristan.” Amir repeats it then smiles. He then went over to Skinner and did the same thing followed by Jones. Jones hesitates at first, I can tell, because he’s Arabic. But then he gives in and they exchange friendly smiles.

Gun fire echoes through the clay walls. Amir walks over to the door and shouts something to the other men standing in the hallway just outside of our room. The men scatter and soon come back with all sorts of weaponry. One of the men begins shouting frantically and running into our room followed by the rest. They line themselves up in a line in front of us, guns drawn. A blue spark shoots out from the fire. The men begin talking to each other in a harsh whisper. You can tell they’re scared. Do they really fear the Taliban this much? Another blue spark, this time bigger, erupts from the fire. What is going on?

A cold, pale hand appears, grasping the door way.

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