Fifth Monday Fiction

Rwandan refugee camp in east Zaire

Chapter 1. A Killer Is Born, from the novel The Killer

By Jackie Sims

Sarah Goodly of Northern California came to Africa in order to help those that could not help themselves. The year was 1994, the country was Rwanda. The Hutu President had been murdered, and she and her friends were making plans to leave the country. They had got word at 9:00 pm the 6th of April that the plane carrying President Juvénal Habyarimana had been shot down by a surface-to-air missile over Rwanda's capital city of Kigali. The next day they heard reports of killings, which had began in the capital, and they knew it was time to leave the country.
    They were packed and ready to go by April 8th. There was a van, with driver, rented and on the way to pick them up at daybreak. At last they felt safe The five Peace Corp Volunteers gathered around the table on the porch one last time to share a bottle of wine and discuss the upcoming trip. The night had been calm, there was no breeze, and even the birds were quiet. The five felt comfortable and relaxed sitting around the porch drinking wine with old friends. They had even managed a laugh or two.
    Then the demons came out of the dark night. Madmen, with their machetes waving in the air charging from the jungle. The screams alerted the village, but it gave a few only time to say a short prayer before their bodies were hacked to pieces. The Hutu killers were like a swarm of locusts—a killing wall that devoured all in its path. The huts were set afire and as the families ran from the flames, their legs were hacked off, then their arms, then their head. Men, woman, children and babies, nothing was spared, even the animals were butchered. As quickly as they came they were gone. They left only flames, whose refections flickered in the pools of blood. Not a sound was left, no babies crying, no dogs barking, only the sound of death.
    Sarah awoke and screamed as though she was in the burning fire of hell. Hurried feet came and someone raised her head. The wooden bowl’s contents of foul smelling and tasting brew were forced into her mouth and a very short time later she was asleep. She hung between life and death for fourteen days, and most of those days she was out of her mind. The camp moved a number of times, but she knew nothing about the moves, or the mass killings. Only later would the fate of her friends and the horror of the murder of a race of people be told to her.
    On the fifteenth day she awoke on a mat in a hut deep inside Tutsi land. The war for the soul of Rwanda had begun. Before it would be over 800,000 people would die.
    That night, as the men ran from the jungle, at first Sarah and her friends thought it was a joke. Then four men ran up on the porch. The oldest of the five, Thomas Berry of Toad Suck, Arkansas, stood and tried to shout, “we’re Americ...'. Then his head was gone and they began killing her other friends. Sarah was on the far side of the table and tried to jump over the rail. A Hutu machete missed her head and struck her shoulder blade. The force of the blow opened a large gash and knocked her off the porch. She lay unconscious in the shadows. Only luck and the darkness had saved her life—the Hutu had missed her.
    A small force of armed Tutsi arrived at daybreak. They had found Sarah and one other person alive. They were running themselves, so very little care was taken to ID the dead.
    Days later, she fought through the pain as she forced her arm to bend to her will. Each morning and at noon, then again at night, she would stretch her sore muscles. Each day she was stronger and more determined. Sarah went in search of a weapon. After days of looking, she found one, but it wasn't free. She jacked off one of the solders as the price for a pistol he had taken from a dead Hutu. As disgusting as it was, she had a weapon. With her left arm still in a sling, she practiced with the little snub-nosed thirty-eight until it felt like part of her hand. The next Hutu she saw was going to be a dead Hutu.

It didn't happen that way, however. In fact, the war was over before she had a chance to kill anyone. All but a few had returned to their villages. The group she was with wanted more Hutu blood, but they were alone. There were fights among the rebels as to what to do next. Sarah stayed out of it and kept to herself. There was a German mercenary with them. He had been wounded and was laying low until he healed. Along with him came his M21 sniper rifle with the Leatherwood scope. Sarah spent weeks in the jungle learning some of the tricks of being a sniper. The M21 was built for Vietnam. At the start of the war snipers were in short supply, and they made the M21 to be easy, so anyone could be used as a sniper. It wasn't the top of the line as far as sniper rifles went, but it got the job done, and they were easy to come by.
    The day before the German mercenary left they went out one last time. But, instead of practice, he grabbed her and threw her to ground, torn her pants off, and raped her. He left her in the jungle like a piece of rotten meat he had thrown up. By the time she returned to the camp, he was gone. But he had fucked up. He should never have taught her to shoot a gun if he had planned to rape her.
    A year later was her nineteenth birthday. If she were at home there would be a large party, with all her friends in attendance. But the last time they gathered in her honor had been at her graveside. Back in the States the five empty coffins had been buried with the proper fanfare. The killing of the five Volunteers stayed on the front page for the first week of the report of their death, but after the coffins were put in the ground, the media moved on to the next story. By the time Sarah heard about her death, it was all over with, so she picked up a rifle and went looking for a war and a German mercenary.
    It was Africa, so she didn't have to look long or far. She had been with a group of rebels in Kenya for six weeks when she heard about the German sniper/security specialist who was employed by the government. It was said he and his team of killers had taken out a large number of rebels. She knew it was the same asshole and by then she had her own M21 with the Leatherwood scope and was a damn good shot—at targets; she had no kills yet.
    She saw her chance and knew it might be her only one. Hurriedly she threw together a plan. She needed help, so she turned to her friend Afshan, who had also been raped by soldiers.
    “Afshan, I need your help. I know you can't kill the bastards that raped you, but help me and in some small way it will be like killing them.”
    Afshan worshiped Sarah, they had formed a bond the first day they met and over the weeks it had grown stronger. “What can I do to help? I don't know how to use a rifle.”
    “I'll do the shooting, but I need a spotter. I have it all planned and the commander has approved the operation. All I need now is a yes from you.”
    “Yes, Sarah. I'll help you. When do we go?”
    “At eight tonight there is a big get together with some arms dealers and government people. The Germany bastard is providing security for the event. He'll be on the lookout for somebody trying to kill his clients, he'll never see us coming.”
    That night a jeep driver let them out at a clearing a few miles from the meeting. “I be back in one hour. You not here I leave!” He drove off, but Sarah and Afshan understood quite well. If they weren't back in one hour, and if they weren't dead they would be wishing they were.
    The two picked a spot on a rooftop with a view of the street below. The entrance where the cars would be emptying was one-hundred and ten yards away, north and across from them. They couldn't get any closer, there were police everywhere. It wouldn't be a straight-on shot, but it was one she knew she could make.
    The black sedan stopped in front of the Colonial Club. The German stepped out and began to look around. At one point he turned and looked right at her. A moment later red spray shot from the back of his head. Sarah smiled and thought, Nothing can prepare you for that first kill.
    She jumped up and shouted, “Let’s go, let's go!”
    They ran to the backside of the building and climbed down. Then paused long enough to make sure nobody was coming down the alley. Sarah heard the screams, the hollering, and the policeman's whistle blow over and over. It was music to her ears. Out of the alley and across a two-lane street and they charged into the brush. They caught their breath and ran the other fifty yards to the safety of the thick jungle.
    They walked two miles and waited in the clearing for the jeep. The calm she had fought to maintain left her and her hands shook. It wasn't fear or remorse. She had killed the son of a bitch that had raped her and she was energized and fully charged. It was the high of highs.
    In a flash she knew what she was, she had a calling.
    I'm a born killer. I love this shit.
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Copyright © 2013 by Jackie Sims
The author lives outside Little Rock, Arkansas, is unmarried, and loves cats and writing.

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