🇬🇧 Anecdote 3 — “Death…”

Wardak Mountains, Afghanistan — May 2009

Lying on his back, his head turned toward the doorway, he stared into the silence.
He felt nothing now — only a vast hollow inside him, as if every emotion had drained away.

A shadow moved above him.
A silhouette — a man dressed entirely in black — crossed the room with measured steps.
The figure positioned itself on the right side of the door.
A gloved hand gripped the handle, turned it, and opened the door with slow precision.

The man shifted left, scanning the adjacent room, then slipped inside like a ghost.

From where he lay, the dying man saw only the outline of the intruder — weapon raised — shots snapping in short, distant bursts.

His vision dimmed.
The edges dissolved into black mist.
Sound faded.
Cold spread through his limbs, draining what warmth remained.

He felt himself leaving.

His story ending…

*****

He opens his eyes.

Dawn approaches.
Somewhere behind him, he hears Khaled preparing breakfast — the clatter of pans, the clang of metal.
Yesterday, Wali and he went to the market to buy foreign rations on the black market.

He likes French coffee.
Allah forgive him.

The group is already gathered.

Azim speaks with Wali and Farid.
The leader looks calm today, but his eyes are weary.
Another night spent planning, analysing, preparing.

Azim… first-born son of Hassan al-Khorasani.
At the thought of Hassan — killed by the Devil himself — Haroon feels a cold shiver.
A demon on earth, allied with the foreigners.
May Allah protect them.

Azim had a brother — Latif — murdered by Americans.
Azim carries that grief like a brand burned into the soul.
He works relentlessly. He leads because he must.

Beside him sits Wali Ahmad, a Pakistani doctor — distantly related to Azim.
Like many others, he joined Harakat al-Jihad al-Islami fi Khorasan to avenge Latif.
Vengeance — may Allah forgive them — is the fire that keeps their rifles loaded.

Latif was a good man.
Hassan had said so many times, tears in his eyes.

Wali arrived months earlier with his neighbour Khaled Durrani, a strong, broad-shouldered shepherd.
Their first encounter had been violent — Rashid mistook them for informants —
and Khaled flattened him like a sack of grain before Azim could intervene.

Farid, the imam — Azim’s lifelong friend — hovers near the leader.
He brings him food, pours his tea, ensures he eats, ensures he drinks.
He calls himself Mullah Farid Gul.
He likes to control everything.
He bends religion as he pleases, but his advice is always sharp.

Two young fighters approach Haroon:

— “Haroon! We saw vehicles down in the valley. Four American Humvees. We’re going to tell the chief!”
— “Go. Good boys.”

Haroon collects his kit.
A battle is coming.

*****

The Convoy

Haroon watches from behind a rock outcrop.

Azim and the group hide, packed behind stones.
Zahir Qadir holds a phone, waiting for Azim’s signal to detonate the IED.

The first vehicle appears.
Azim gestures.
Zahir presses the button —

The explosion erupts behind the Humvee.
The American jamming must have diverted the signal.

Further down the road, Nasir Ahmad Barakzai opens fire with his PKM.
Shadows leap from the Humvee as the turret gunner answers with heavy bursts.

Khaled steps out with his RPG.
His rocket fishtails wildly, exploding ten metres past the vehicle.

Rahmatullah Sadiqi, inspired, aims and fires.
His rocket detonates twenty metres before the Humvee… then Rahmatullah collapses.
Shoaib drags him to safety, grabs the RPG.

Khaled shouts orders.
Together, they fire again.
The rockets strike earth three metres from the soldiers.

Three more Humvees arrive.
The Americans dismount.
Weapons roar across the valley.

Haroon feels shards of stone ripping around him.
He returns fire when he can — everyone does.

Afghan RPGs against American AT4s.
Explosions trade places.
Death bargained on both sides.

To the right, Fazal Haidari flanks the convoy with his PKM.
Beside him, Omaid Latifi and Samiullah Darwish protect his position.

A US soldier drops. Another rushes to pull him away.

Rashid Noorzai, once ANA, guides their Dragunov sniper Nematullah Safi.

A second American falls.

The foreigners panic — briefly — then answer with precision drills.

A cry in Arabic rings out.
Haroon turns —
Omaid kneels over Samiullah… then collapses himself.

Fazal abandons the PKM to pull the wounded to cover.
Wali sprints across the rocks to treat them.

The shooting tapers.
Vehicles reverse, maneuvering for withdrawal.
The valley quiets.

*****

The Dead

Later, before two fresh stone graves, Farid stands with hands raised.
Behind him, the men pray in silence.

In the cave that serves as headquarters, Azim gathers his fighters.

— “The infidels came. They will return. This was only reconnaissance. A larger force will follow. May Allah help us.”

A pause.

— “Gather ammunition and food. Stay alert. Prepare for the next battle.”

The men answer as one:

“Allāhu Akbar.”

They disperse.

*****

Tales in the Night

Later, Tariq Gulzad, the troupe’s storyteller and clown, entertains young Fazil Rahman, seventeen:

A commander tells his men to be silent during prayer.
Outside, a donkey brays endlessly.
The commander storms out shouting:
— “Silence, miserable beast! I am praying!”

The donkey stops.
The men laugh — even Azim smiles.

Tariq continues with his famous tale about the shepherd and the giant wolf.
Fazil listens, captivated.

At the end, Tariq concludes:
— “And the man gave one sheep a month to the beast… just to keep his herd alive.”

The night in the mountains grows cold.
Their laughter fades.

*****

Rumours of War

Two days later, Haroon overhears Hamidullah, Mirwais, and Shoaib return from resupply.
A shepherd told them ANA soldiers spoke of an upcoming “clean-up operation” in the mountains — exactly here.

Azim says nothing.

But Haroon sees the truth in his eyes:
After years hunting his brother’s killers, Azim himself has become a priority target.

And the foreigners are coming.

*****

The Clearing Operation

It took four full days for two ANA teams and their OMLT advisers to reach the valley.
When Haroon sees them, he can read Azim’s disappointment.

Around fifty men.
Barely a dozen foreigners among them.
Too few.
Too late.

Farid senses the chief’s mood:
— “Don’t worry. We’ll drive them back, and they’ll send more.”

Azim nods once, then gives the order.

Haroon climbs behind a line of rocks overlooking the valley.
Dust rises — eight pickup trucks and one Humvee for the Americans.
Another four pickups and a VAB for the French.

The foreign soldiers dismount with clinical precision.
Haroon watches, impressed.
Cold, silent, fast.
Nothing like the disorganised herds of the ANA.

The enemy begins climbing the slope.

Two thundering blasts shake the mountains.
Zahir’s IEDs.
Seven soldiers thrown to the ground.

Azim fires.
Everyone fires.

The valley erupts.

*****

The Devil’s Bird

A deep mechanical growl rises above them.
From behind the ridge, an Apache helicopter sweeps into view — a dark silhouette against the bright sky.

Its cannon thunders.

Haroon watches three of his comrades die in an instant —
Hamidullah Wardaki,
Mirwais Qasemi,
Ghulam Nabi Tokhi.

Torn apart.

The machine passes overhead.
Nematullah fires at it.
Nasir joins him with the PKM.
The helicopter smokes, veers away — wounded, but not dead.
Still, it bought enough time for the ground forces to advance.

Haroon fires, hits one ANA soldier.
Reloads.
Fires again.
Unsure of what he strikes through the dust.

He doesn’t see Omaid Latifi collapse behind him.

The battle drags on for over an hour.
The air is thick with dust and cordite.
Smoke drifts along the mountainside like mist.

Eventually, the ANA and their foreign mentors withdraw.
Retreating. Not routed — but forced back.

Victory?

At a cost no one wants to count.

*****

The Dead and the Leftovers

Six stone graves now line the earth.

Haroon hears how Shoaib Amini died, shielding Nasir from return fire.
Fazal Haidari was killed shortly after, his PKM silenced mid-burst.

Azim walks among the graves, shoulders heavy.
The helicopter — that iron beast — had done too much damage.
The foreigners had nearly wiped them out.

From twenty-one fighters, only thirteen remain.

One more battle like this, and everything ends.

Rumours say half of the foreign force was killed or wounded.
Two French.
Three Americans.

Haroon looks at the graves.
The wind blows over the stones.
Where one life ends, others continue to fall.

He knows this is not over.

Someone, somewhere, is already planning the next move.

*****

A Choice for the Future

At dawn, after ablutions and bread, Haroon joins a small council.
Azim has summoned only a few: Farid, Rashid, Zahir… and Haroon himself.

He wonders why he has been included.

Azim speaks first:
— “Our situation is dire. We’ve lost nearly half our men. When the foreigners return — and they will return — we’ll be destroyed.”

The air is stale.
The room too small for so much fear.

Farid rises:
— “We will not surrender. These dogs must pay. They invaded us — we shall fight until the end.”

Rashid and Zahir echo him:
— “Yes. He’s right.”

Azim lowers his eyes.
His voice breaks slightly:
— “Then we will die.”

Silence.
Thick as smoke.

Haroon surprises even himself:
— “Or… we choose someone to survive. Someone to tell our story.”

Azim looks up, startled.
— “Continue, Haroon.”

— “Send one of us away. Someone who will go from village to village, speak of our sacrifice, gather new fighters. Rebuild the battalion after our deaths. Tariq could do it — he’s a storyteller. People listen to him.”

Farid smiles faintly:
— “A good idea. We will be martyrs in the name of Allah. Call Tariq.”

Rashid leaves, returns with Tariq Gulzad — the troupe’s joker, the man who makes everyone laugh.

Azim speaks:
— “We need you. Tell our story. Spread the call to arms. Carry our legacy.”

Tariq thinks.
Haroon watches the man’s eyes dance as if he’s doing mental arithmetic to appear brilliant.

Finally:
— “No. If we die, I want to die with you.
Send someone young. Someone who still has a future. Someone who dreams of being a leader.
Send Fazil.”

Azim, stunned, asks:
— “Why him?”

— “He’s seventeen. Not married. Clever. Brave. It will break his heart, but he’s the only one young enough to carry the flame.”

The council votes.
Unanimous.

Fazil will live.

*****

The Farewell

Haroon and Tariq approach Fazil in the gallery.
The boy looks up, puzzled.

Tariq kneels and tells him the entire history of their movement —
Hassan, Latif, the early battles, the martyrs, the victories.
Haroon listens in silence.

At one moment, Tariq adds a flamboyant passage where he supposedly danced between bullets like a Bollywood hero.
Fazil smiles… then begins to cry.

— “Why me? I want to fight! I’m no coward!”

Haroon places a hand on his shoulder:
— “A coward? You? Never. You’re on a mission. You will save us all.”

Fazil bursts into sobs.
He clutches Tariq’s hand like a child.

— “I want to stay. Don’t make me go!”

Tariq places his left hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Haroon places his right.
— “If you stay, you die. If you go, you live for us. And I swear… we will meet again.”

Fazil nods — broken.

Tariq hands him a small notebook.
On the cover, a single handwritten word:

Brothers.

— “Take your things. This book carries our story. Be worthy of it.”

Azim appears:
— “Go. Allah protect you. Go now.”

The sun has not reached its zenith when Fazil begins his descent down the mountain, following a goat trail.
He holds the notebook against his chest.

The men watch him leave.
Tears burn in their eyes.
Their hearts feel hollow.

The future has just walked away from them.

*****

Night Falls

That night, a bitter wind sweeps across the mountains.
Haroon looks up at the moon and whispers a prayer to protect young Fazil.

He tries to imagine him walking through valleys, speaking to villagers, carrying their legacy.

The laughter of youth is gone.
The cold silence of death fills the mountain.

Haroon stands guard with Nasir, Habib, Yama, and Rashid.

Nasir points:
A shadow shifts between the rocks.

A sharp crack.
Nasir collapses — shot clean through the head.

Rashid shouts:
— “Run inside and warn them! Don’t look back!”

Another crack.
Yama falls.

Haroon runs.

Gunshots echo behind him.

Silence follows.

He turns.
A dark shape detaches itself from the wall — lit faintly by a single torch.

Fear seizes him.
The Devil has come.

He rushes inside, closes the curtain behind him.
The men overturn tables and benches, forming a barricade.

Azim asks:
— “What is happening?”

Haroon stammers:
— “Shaytān! The Shaytān!”

The men freeze.
Their blood turns cold.

The heavy curtain bulges — something punches through it.
Panic erupts.
They fire blindly.
The fabric tears apart.

The shadow steps through.

Aim.
Fire.

Khaled, manning the PKM, drops instantly.

Azim orders retreat.

Farid backs away, firing toward the torn curtain.
Wali, Tariq, and Zahir escape into the next room.

A shot.
Farid falls.

Azim kneels beside him — sees the hole in his skull.
Tears fill his eyes.

Another shot.
Azim collapses.

Nematullah and Haroon retreat.
The shadow raises its weapon.

Nematullah falls lifeless.

Haroon stands alone.
Alone before the demon.

For a moment, he thinks of Tariq’s story — the shepherd and the great wolf.

Something strikes his head.
He collapses.

He sees the doorway to the inner room.
Something passes above him—

A figure.
Moving like death itself.

NightWish.

*****

The Last Stand

Haroon lies stunned on the cold ground.
His head rings.
The world blurs into streaks of torchlight and shadow.

Through the haze, he sees movement — a black silhouette slipping past him, silent as wind over stone.

A figure crosses the room with absolute control.
The man does not rush.
He does not hesitate.
He advances with the stillness of a predator that already knows the outcome.

Haroon tries to rise, collapses.

The gunfire has stopped.
Only the crackling of the torch remains.

He can hear muffled screams from the inner chamber — Wali, Tariq, Zahir…
Their barricade won’t hold.
They know it.
He knows it.

The shadow reaches the far side of the room.
Haroon tries to focus on the shape — the outline of a helmet, a mask, a rifle with a suppressor.
Brown eyes that do not blink.

Eyes without mercy.
Eyes without doubt.
Eyes that have seen too much.

The man moves through the doorway.

Haroon’s vision fades again.

*****

The Inner Room

Wali, Tariq, Zahir and two others huddle behind the barricade of overturned tables.
Dust hangs in the air.
The torch sputters.

Zahir whispers:
— “He’s not human…”

A shot answers him.

Zahir falls backwards, blood blooming across his chest.

Tariq screams.
Wali grabs his arm to pull him away —
another shot.
Wali collapses onto him.

Tariq crawls, hands slipping in blood.
He sobs as he drags himself toward the far wall.
Another shadow moves at the door.

Tariq whimpers:
— “Oh God… oh God…”

A single suppressed shot.

Silence.

*****

Haroon

Consciousness returns in fragments.
Haroon feels warmth trickle down the side of his face.

His vision slowly clears.

He sees bodies on the floor.
Friends, comrades, brothers.
Some still clutching weapons.
Some frozen in the last attempt to run.

He hears footsteps.

Measured.
Controlled.
Unhurried.

Coming toward him.

Haroon doesn’t move.
He barely breathes.

The figure steps into view — backlit by the dying torch — a tall man in desert camouflage over black gear, the fabric broken with strips of cloth and leaves to blend into shadow.

A patch on his shoulder catches the light:
the French flag.

Below it — a small black square marked with two red dots.

Eyes of a demon.

Haroon’s heart pounds.
His throat closes.

He whispers:
— “Shaytān…”

The man kneels.

A gloved hand grips the back of Haroon’s neck.
Not violently — but with absolute control.

A flash.
White.
Cold.

Everything fades.

*****

The End

When Haroon next becomes aware, he is floating — drifting — as if between worlds.
A pressure lifts from his chest.
Sound returns like echoes in a tunnel.

Rotor blades.

Wind.

Voices — French, distant.

For a moment he thinks he is dead.
Maybe this is paradise.
Maybe punishment.
Maybe nothing at all.

But then he feels the cold mountain air.
He feels the ache in his skull.
He feels gravity pulling him back.

He is lying on the ground near the cave entrance.
A helicopter hovers above — a Caracal — dust swirling around its belly.

French soldiers move in the wind, guiding casualties, securing weapons.

The demon stands above him.
Still.
Motionless.
Waiting for something unseen.

Haroon tries to form words.
Only a breath escapes.

The man in black doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t look at him.
Doesn’t acknowledge him.

The helicopter begins to rise.
Dust blinds Haroon.
He lifts an arm weakly — a reflex, nothing more.

Through the wind and chaos, he sees the figure step backward toward the open ramp.
He turns for a brief moment.

For the first time, Haroon sees him clearly.

Helmet.
Mask.
Brown eyes.
Expressionless.
Unreachable.

A patch on his chestplate reads:

NIGHTWISH

And then he is gone.

Lifted into the sky, swallowed by the storm of dust and rotors.

The Caracal rises, banking away into the mountains.
The sound fades.
The night returns.

Haroon lies alone on the cold ground.
Breathing.
Bleeding.
Alive.

Perhaps that is his punishment.

Or perhaps, his story is simply not meant to end today.

The wind whispers through the stones.
The cave behind him is silent.
Everyone else is gone.

Haroon closes his eyes.

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END OF ANECDOTE 3 — “Death…”

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This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel¹ for editing, documentation, and narrative development.

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Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.

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To be continued… Somewhere in the dark :