Flood a True Story

Whats in the box?

A new short story by Jeff Arce about a man who must decide to follow his orders, or to walk straight into the flames to face a demon. Based on a heroic true story.

Warning: this story contains disturbing details about war and barbarism that may be disturbing to some readers. Discretion is advised.

Stroy:

The following is based on true events.

Har Adar

Israel

Saturday

6:24 am

     Nimrod Palmach yawned a yawn so great it threatened to crack his jaw wide open and spill out his soul. When the impulse was out of him, he finished buttoning up his polo in the mirror and tucked in the slack behind his belt. At thirty-nine, he still possessed a rugged handsomeness that had availed him throughout his youth—a sharp, squared jaw, flanked by a neatly trimmed, shadowy stubble, with disarming, cool brown eyes, a perfect hairline, and a modest nose. But his time in service to a military that never slept had taken its toll. He looked tired. He looked weary. He very much was.

When he exited the master bathroom he followed the coaxing voice of his wife into the kitchen. She was reading Genesis to the kids. They gathered on the other side of the table like dutiful pups, eager to learn. Sleep was still lingering there under Nimrod’s groggy eyes. He needed a little help to ameliorate that situation. Miriam wasn’t going to like it. But Nimrod didn’t care. In his opinion, getting all dolled up bright-and-early for a Synagogue already felt too much like work for his liking.

So, sue me, he mused ruefully.

     He came in and went straight for the counter that ran adjacent from the table. Guni and Aluma were far too transfixed on their treats to have even noticed him as he slipped in. But Miriam watched him go with unease as she continued reading the Torah. Though not fully devout herself, she observed the traditions of Shabbat for the sake of their children. Their daughters were still much too young to stray. One day, she would allow them to make up their own minds on all that. But for now, it was time to learn about Noah.

     “God observed how great the wickedness of the human race had become on earth…” she divulged, one eye on the book, the other one on Nimrod's back. He reached into the counter over the sink and withdrew from it a coffee cup and a filter. Nimrod could feel those critical eyes of hers rolling behind him. He grinned.

     PNR, Nimrod thought, thinking of the acronym for Point of No Return.

Sorry, Sweety. But I can’t stop now. He plugged in the coffee maker and his anxious smile widened.

Miriam did not object. She only continued reading. “God believed that the thoughts of the human heart were only filled with evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made Man on Earth.”

     Nimrod grabbed for the bag of grounded coffee. He popped in the filter. He filled it up. He poured in water. He simpered.

     Miriam was not amused. The girls were enjoying their candy, listening, wondering, unaware.

     She said, “So The Lord said, ‘I will wipe from the face of the Earth the human race of which I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground…”

     Nimrod was smiling as he powered on the coffee machine.

     “For I regret that I have made them.” Miriam was now glaring directly at her husband. Their children stopped chewing, staring at their mother with eyes that recognized her ire. Slowly, they turned their heads toward their father.

     As the Coffee machine began steaming up and trickling on the counter, Nimrod spun around to meet their gaze. The coffee mug he picked up at a quaint shop in New York City was clutched in his hand. Emblazoned on the front of it was a witty little quote that had been so amusing to him at the time of his purchase that he continued chuckling even as he brought it up to the counter.

     It read: Diplomacy ends at ‘There’s No More Coffee!’

     Through gnashing teeth, Miriam chided, “For I regret that I have made them.”

     Nimrod nodded toward the churning coffee maker and snarked, “I do not regret making this.”

     “It’s Shabbat, Nimrod!” she rebuked.

     The kids looked again at her, enthralled.

     Nimrod held up his empty cup and said, “I know, Miriam. Why do you think I tucked in my shirt.”

     For a long moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed a word. Miriam’s scowl looked like it might burst into flames at any second.

     Then Guni—Miriam’s stepdaughter, and Nimrod’s oldest—brightened and said, “If Daddy can make coffee, can I play Switch?”

     Aluma then cheered, “Yeah! I wanna play Rocket League!”

     “That game is dumb!” Guni rebuffed.

     Petulantly, Aluma countered, “It is not!”

     “No one is playing Rocket League on Sabbat!” Miriam wasn’t having it. The kids immediately closed their mouths, looking back at their father for encouragement.

     Nimrod only chortled as he grabbed up the jug and poured himself a steaming cup. He said, “Personally, I prefer Mario Kart.”

     The room fell silent once more. After a moment, Guni remarked furtively, “It’s way better.”

     Aluma frowned. “No, it isn’t…”

     “It is.”

     “Enough with the Switch!” Miriam snapped.

     Grinning devilishly, Nimrod quietly strolled out onto the balcony.

     Miriam huffed in his absence.

     Outside, the day was balmy and beautiful. The birds were chirping . The warm breeze was whistling. It was a perfect day in Israel. Nimrod Palmach breathed in deep the earthy smell of pine and fresh autumn air. Then he took a sip from his coffee, admiring the terraced landscape of southern Har Adar. The community was built on the steep slopes of Radar Hill, overlooking the vast sweeping HaHamisha Forest, which bearded the borders of the city. Beyond this, he could see nestling in the depths of the forest the craggy peaks from the small town of Abu Ghosh. The famed statue of Mary was flying high over the prominent Church of the Ark of the Covenant, soaring over the trees like an angel frozen in stone. Nimrod knew that if he could see with the eyes of a hawk, he would eventually find the multi lane Rout 1—Israel’s primary transport artery—linking Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. If he would look even further, there would be more history. Some bright. Some dark. Like all countries about the world, Israel was rich with story. And like most, she had her secrets.

     But that wasn’t for Nimrod Palmach to wrestle with. Not now. It was a day for rest, and he needed it. He was a reserve officer and civilian leader in his community. His art was in the ever-precipitous work of diplomacy and national security. With so many adversaries surrounding his country at all sides, at all times he was a busy man. But he was a firm believer in the promise of peace. The government has just recently brokered a deal with the agencies that have sought to destroy them long before Nimrod himself was ever even born. So far, the unofficial armistice was holding. Money and power had a way of making people forget why they were so mad in the first place. The UN’s Relief and Works Agency provided. Enough so to keep their threats of a Great Flood at bay…at least for now. Even as tenuous as that bridge may be, the fact that it could ever be constructed over such a swampy foundation in the first place gave Nimrod hope.

     “Where there's hope there's respite." he reflected. "The spoils of corruption.” he pondered over his cup. “Sometimes it can destroy. Other times, it’s your only salvation.”

     Nimrod was never much for gambling. But he has lived in Israel his entire life. The promised land with no promise for tomorrow. His very existence there was a game of chance.

     “Guess I am a gambling man after all,” he decided. “But look at this place. Why would anybody want to destroy something so beautiful.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, long, and foreboding sound howling plaintively over the tranquil mountain-side village. The Air Raid Sirens.

Nimrod stiffened. Alarm immediately supplanted his serenity.

Inside, Miriam looked up toward the open balcony, terror swirling in her startled gaze. Their children gasped. They knew exactly what that sound had meant.

Nimrod stood there rigid, staring off in the distance. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary he set his coffee mug down on the banister and clamored for his phone. He found it in his side pocket. He had not turned it on yet. Besides it being Sabbat, he just didn’t have the appetite to entertain all the endless dire of the world that came with unbridled access to the internet. But now it was time to dive in.

He powered up his iPhone. He watched with bated breath as the Apple logo materialized and then dissolved. After a pause he had a signal again. Then the messages that he had been avoiding all morning began pinging. His phone sounded like a doorbell possessed by an incessant demon. He navigated to his web browser. He went to the news. And there it was—chaos!

The videos he saw streaming on his screen stilled his heart. In his thirty-nine years of life, he had never seen anything so heinous—so vile. It was all happening in the very direction that he was facing now—some one hundred and one kilometers out.

As he gazed up from his phone he heard a distant thunder, and then another. But there were no clouds in the sky. Not yet, and not any that were made from God’s hand. In the faraway firmament he saw it at last. Missiles were flying to intercept other missiles, like seeds eager to grow weeds of pain. They were bursting into plumes of ugly, ragged smoke as they kissed. It was everywhere, like a relentless scourge. Like a plague. The sky became sick with blisters swelling on the heavens.

Nimrod Palmach shuddered. And in that shudder, he prayed.

***

October 7, 2023

6:33 am

     “Miri!” Guni was on her feet, jittery like a nervous kitten rousted into attention by a threat. She was following her stepmother like she was her shadow, and she was then followed by a very worried, very distraught Aluma. They were all following Nimrod, desperately seeking solace.

     As Nimrod doubled back to the bedroom to fetch his nine-millimeter from the safe beside their bed Miriam was on him, pressing him with importunate questions that he had no answers for. Distressed, Aluma began to cry, clawing anxiously at the collar of her blouse. Miriam sighed, muttering a curse under her breath as she picked up the little one to coddle her.

     “Miri!” Guni called again.

     “What are you doing, Nimrod?” Miriam demanded. “What’s going on?”

     Nimrod stood up, bringing the weapon into full view. That stopped them all in their tracks. Miriam stared at it, wide-eyed and trepidatious. Guni let out a feeble gasp beside her.

     Nimrod stole a moment to give them a reassuring nod. Then he popped in the only clip he owned. Nine rounds for his nine-millimeter—nine lives to spend...or save. He used to tell himself, if nine wasn’t enough, start praying. He wasn’t sure if it would ever be enough now, but it was all he had.

     Somberly, Miriam asked, “Is it bad?”

     Nimrod holstered his weapon to his belt, then he turned to pull them all into his embrace. He said, “Just take the kids to the saferoom…and don’t turn on the tv.”

     A tear began to emerge from under Miriam’s right eyes. In a tremulous voice she replied, “Where are you going?”

     He lifted her chin. He kissed her on the lips. Then he leaned down to peck both of his frightened children upon their scalps.

     He said, “Don’t worry.”

     Then he snatched his car keys from the kitchen table and he was gone.

     “Daddy, wait!” Guni cried out after him. But it was too late. The door had closed, leaving them alone to ponder their unwritten future.

Before too long, they could hear the tires from his car squealing as he darted out of the driveway.

Guni turned toward Miriam and complained, “He didn’t say he’ll be back. He always says he’ll come back.”

Miriam had no words of comfort to offer her. So, she said nothing.

After a pause, Miriam glanced at the flatscreen in their capacious family room. She spat, “Kus-emek!” A vulgar curse word borrowed from Arabic that has since become a common expression of frustration.

Then she put down Aluma and she marched toward the tv. Curious, her children followed her to watch as she knelt down beside the living room table to collect the remote. She pointed it at the screen.

“Mom, Its Shabbat!” Guni warned.

Miriam raised a stern hand to silence her as she turned the flat screen on. She deftly navigated to Channel 12. There, streaming before her eyes was nothing short of a nightmare.

Grainy Go-Pro video footage of armed, sloven Hamas militants was suddenly streaming in a small box over the shoulder of the anxious reporter on screen. They wore black masks to conceal their identities, and green headbands across their foreheads with the Shahada scrawled over them like sinuous scars. The undulate, Arabic script read, There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah. They were smashing in doors. They were dragging helpless civilians, kicking and screaming from their homes. The reporter appeared genuinely somber as he divulged the devastating story in Hebrew. Israel was under attack by an enemy with no rules, no morals, and no restraints to rein them in. A pestilence come with saber and spear, fueled by hatred and dogmatic resolve.

When the twisted, battered remains of a teenage boy appeared as he was being dragged from behind a dusty truck, Guni shrieked. Miriam put her hands over her mouth and wept. She then reflexively grabbed for Aluma to cover her eyes and shield her from the horror.

“My God!” She murmured.

***

Smoke streaked the sky ahead like jagged lacerations—like the firmament was being torn to shreds. Counter missiles immediately responded. Meeting the threat with a POP and BANG that rocked the earth. But there were so many coming in all at once. Nimrod knew that the Iron Dome batteries arranged at the border could only endure so much concentrated punishment before succumbing to inevitable failure. Eventually, something will break through. It was a mathematical certainty. The scourge appeared to be situated over the southernmost edge of the region for the moment. Hanging over Be’eri—where his parents lived.

The bulky tires on his Hyundai Tuscan howled as he banked hard onto the exit ramp for Highway 1, Westbound. A frantic voice was pleading over his speakers in Hebrew. Nimrod answered her call as soon as he had gotten in gear behind the wheel. Apple Car Play connected the call via Bluetooth wireless, and all so suddenly Nimrod felt as though he was there with her, hiding in his mother’s Safe room.

“They are burning homes!” the woman on the line explained in her native tongue. She was doing the best she could to try and rein in her anxiety, but she was afraid, and her voice came elevated and frantic.

Nimrod Palmach replied as calmly as he could manage, “Ma’Ma, stay calm. Stay quiet. I’m on my way.”

“Please hurry!” she implored. “I love you.”

“I Love you too, Ma…”

Suddenly there was another call. The dashboard read the Caller ID:

Incoming call from

Tamar

Answer?

     Shit! He thought.

     “Whatever you do, don’t open that door. Not for anyone. Not even me.” Nimrod demanded, as he swung the steering wheel hard left, then hard right, weaving around a trailing SUV, obviously distracted by the air raid. “I must go, Ma. But I’m coming!”

     She started to say something in response to this, but Nimrod had already ended the call to accept Tamar. He cursed himself for being so terse with her, but his nerves were hot. Tamar was his ex-wife, and the biological mother of Guni. He had to take the call.

     When she was on the line she immediately asked in sharp, confident, and concise English, “Where’s Guni?”

     “She’s safe,” Nimrod answered promptly. “She’s with Miriam in our saferoom.”

     “Oh, thank God!” The woman’s voice on the line wavered. She appeared one part relieved and one part frenzied. Then she asked, “What are you doing?”

     “Driving!”

     “Driving, where!” Tamar said accusingly.

     Nimrod shook his head. “Where do you think?”

     Tamar huffed. “Nimrod, its too dangerous.”

     “I don’t care. I’m going.”

     She sighed, then tenderly she said, “Listen, Isaac is at his home in Nir Oz.” Isaac was her new boyfriend. He was a father of two wonderful children that Nimrod’s daughters have grown exceptionally fond of. They saw each other as family. They were family, as far as Nimrod was concerned. “I am dreadfully worried about him and his kids. Could you please…”

     “It’s on the way, I will!” Nimrod agreed.

     Suddenly, another call came in:

Incoming call from

Commander Gabay

Answer?

     Lior Gabay was Nimrod’s superior at his base in Jerusalem.

     “I have to go, Tamar.” He hung up before she could protest.

     “Sir!” he answered the incoming caller.

     A gruff, demanding voice then replied, “Major Palmach, where are you?”

     Nimrod could feel the gears of his automatic engine shifting aggressively as he put the petal to the floor, driving as fast as he could down the surprisingly vacant highway. With the rising gas prices, and the lag in acceleration performance, he was starting to regret his decision to invest in a standard, compact suv over the far superior Tesla Model Y.

     “I’m heading south, sir.” Nimrod said. “Hamas has infiltrated Kibbutz Be’eri. They are setting the place on fire.”

     “You need to report to your station in Jerusalem, ASAP!”

     This order left Nimrod flabbergasted. He leaned forward to gaze out into the distant sky over the mountains barbing the southern region. Missiles were still bursting into plumes of suspended smoke everywhere he could see, like a fireworks show that was made from dust and hate. In the rearview mirror he found only unmolested sky. There was no danger currently hanging over Jerusalem. The danger was in Be’eri, Re’im, Alumim, and Nir Oz.

     Reluctantly, Nimrod said, “I believe we are needed in the South, Sir.”

     “You are an IDF Special Forces Officer!” his Commander admonished him through the speakers of his car. “And I am giving you a direct order. Report to your station at once and await further instructions. Do you understand me?”

     Nimrod pulled off onto the shoulder of the highway. His tires screeched in protest when he brought the vehicle to a sudden halt. He sat there for a long moment weighing his options in the silence. The gentle ticking from the idling engine’s fuel injectors felt as though they were beating along with the rhythm of his heart as he decided. Then there was another sound—a horrible one, rising in the south. Booming. Relentless booming.

     “Yes, sir,” said Nimrod. “I’m on my way.”

     “Good. I will be gathering intel…”

     Nimrod terminated the call. He continued south.

***

Har Adar

Twelve mile West of Jerusalem

8:15 am

     Miriam stared uneasily at the gray steel door that was meant to keep them secure inside their isolated saferoom. Everything else in the room felt normal. A sofa, toys, boardgames. Shelves stacked with books. Shelves packed with unperishable goods and bottles of water. There were family pictures mounted on the walls. A computer desk in the far corner. Nimrod often used it as his private office when he needed a quiet place to study. The power station was charged daily by the solar panels on the roof of their home. It was sufficient. It was cozy. It was a lie. That cold door, however, screamed the truth. While everything else was made to appear inconspicuous, like a cozy family room or a loft, the door was forged from hard, rugged steel, equipped with a multipoint latch and a peep hole. Miriam literally felt as though she was hiding in a safe, like a gun, or precious treasure. Her children were huddling in close beside her on the sofa. They were her only treasures. They wanted her to keep them safe. She wasn’t sure if that was even possible anymore, not even with an imposing fortress-like door to guard them.

     The air raid sirens whooped and whooped a haunting chorus in the distance. Then there was more thunder.

     BOOM!...BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

     Hamas had begun shelling Jerusalem. The Iron Dome was answering the threat. Yet still, it all sounded so close, like someone was setting off bombs in the kitchen upstairs. Miriam hugged her girls. She promised them that everything was going to be alright. They’ve heard her say this a thousand times. Miriam wasn’t sure if they believed her anymore. Their faith in security had gone out along with their belief in the tooth fairy some time ago.

     When the place at last stopped quaking, Aluma looked up at Miriam with her big, brown, doleful eyes and asked, “Mommy, why do they keep shooting at us?”

     It was a hard question to answer, but Miriam tried. “They want what they can’t have.”

     “What?” the girl wondered.”

     Miriam paused a moment to ponder her thoughts. Then she decided, “Everything.”

     That answer seemed to satisfy her curiosity, though Miriam could tell that the little one did not understand.

     “I’m worried about dad.” Guni confessed glumly.

     BOOM!...BOOM!...BOOM!

     Miriam was too. But she said nothing. She only pulled them in tighter, doing her best to mask her dejection.

     Later after the kids had drifted to sleep beside her, she grabbed her cellphone and called her husband. The line rang and rang.

***

One mile North of Netivot

Rout 232

9:00 am

     From Highway 1 to Highway 6 there seemed to be no traffic heading the way that Nimrod Palmach was going. Everyone was on the other side, fleeing. Like a foreboding scene from a disaster movie, the beleaguered denizens of the rural south were all trying to get out of the affected areas as quickly as possible. But then suddenly there were red lights in front of him—taillights from a dozen cars. They were all waiting impatiently behind a closed barrier arm at a Special Forces checkpoint. The station was being heavily guarded by several IDF officers, armed with M4A1 Carbine tactical rifles and clad in sandy Maron Dolphin Vests. They were equipped with modular plate carriers, ballistic helmets, and other hardy accessories. They looked ready for a war. Nimrod looked like he was ready for dinner with his family.

He parked and clamored out of his car. The moment he had locked the door behind him his mounted cell phone began to chirp from the dash. The caller ID on the LCD monitor read:

Call from

Miriam

Answer?

Several anxious drivers honked their horns at the gate as Nimrod jogged past them. Some of them were peering out their windows, scanning the gridlock ahead with weary eyes. They were the eyes of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters that wanted to reach their loved ones ensnared on the other side of that gate. Nimrod was one of them.

When he reached the barrier arm a young IDF officer seized him. One hand on his rifle, the other firmly set on Nimrod’s shoulder, pressing him back toward the traffic.

“Return to your vehicle, sir!” he demanded.

Nimrod raised his hands with surrender as he pleaded, “Major Palmach with Search and Rescue!”

That gave the young soldier pause. He then noticed a pistol holstered at his belt and said, “Special Forces?”

“Yes, sir.” He tentatively reached for his pocket. The officer remained circumspect until Nimrod presented his open wallet showing his official IDF ID tucked into the billfold. “I’m here to help.”

The soldier cooled his temperament and took his hand away from Nimrod’s chest. Gravely, he shook his head, “I’m sorry, Major, but we cannot allow anyone through. It’s too dangerous.”

Nimrod could see smoke rising in the distant horizon behind the officer’s shoulder and he asked, “How bad is it?”

The soldier frowned. He glanced back at the smoldering city and shuddered. “The Christians believe in a Hell…” when he returned his attention back to Nimrod, he wasn’t the same as before. He wasn’t a soldier following orders at a combat zone. He was only a remorseful human being with a heavy heart. A human that has seen enough pain in the past two hours to occupy a lifetime of trauma. “Well, we found it.”

“Major Palmach!” a deep, baritone voice called out from a dirt path that ran adjacent to rout 232. “Is that you?”

The dust that his rugged, Sinai Gray 2015 Toyota Hilux had just kicked up as it skidded to a halt was only now pluming around them when Nimrod turned to answer the caller.

A grizzled Israeli with a receding, salt and pepper, hairline, broad chin, and bright blue eyes was hanging his elbow out the driver side window. The robust man was wearing his olive green IDF uniform, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Sweat stains were beginning to spread beneath his pits. He greeted Nimrod with a stoic yet, mildly affectionate smirk.

Though pleased to see his old friend, it was hard to produce a genuine smile for the man in such dire circumstances. Nevertheless, Nimrod humored him with a tentative grin as he answered, “Colonel Eitan Barak!”

He approached the truck and shook the man’s big, calloused hand.

The fifty-five-year-old soldier observed the handsome young Major critically for a moment. Then he pointed at his civilian cloths and remarked, “Your over dressed, Major…even for a funeral.”

Nimrod shrugged. “It’s Shabbat. I wasn’t expecting to work today.”

The Colonel glanced over at the soldier who stopped Nimrod at the gate and nodded to send him off. Then he said, “Nobody was. I’ve been training my whole life for this day…still it came like a thief in the night. Where are you headed?”

“Tamar’s boyfriend and his kids are stranded in Nir Oz.” Nimrod explained. “My mother is in Be’eri.”

The old Colonel replied, “My niece is in Be’eri!” His face darkened. “Her neighbor was dragged out of her home by those jackals. An eighty-year-old woman. They used her own phone to broadcast her execution live on Facebook. My niece was friends with her…she saw it all.” He paused a moment. Reflecting gravely on the atrocity. “Bastards.”

Nimrod remained silent.

“If you’re coming, get in!” The Colonel demanded. “We don’t have all day.”

Nimrod opened the rear passenger door on his side and got in. Then the truck was kicking up dirt again as it swung around the checkpoint gate and accelerated toward the city on the horizon.

Upon entering, Nimrod was surprised to meet another passenger beside him. He was a tall, lithe, and wiry young man, with dark brown skin, thick black eyebrows, curly hair, and an unkempt beard. His eyes were gentle and kind, but scared. Very scared. He had a Jericho 941 holstered at his belt. The grip of the weapon appeared old and riddled with rust. The saturnine stranger forced a poignant smile to greet him.

“Major Palmach, this is Tarek!” Colonel Barak introduced curtly, his attention laser-focused on the road ahead.

The man offered his hand. Nimrod took it hesitantly.

“You’re an Arab?” Nimrod asked.

Tarek shrugged. “Muslim.”

Nimrod shot a look of dismay into the rearview mirror.

Colonel Eitan Barak sighed. “He was born in Israel, Major.”

Tarek said, “This is my country, sir. I am always Israeli first.”

Then the colonel explained, “Hamas employs agents to hunt, kill, and kidnap people like Tarek. They don’t care if he's Muslim. He was born on the wrong side.”

Nimrod looked at Tarek and asked, “Are you a soldier?”

This question brought an embarrassed frown to his lips. “A doctor.”

“We need all the help we can get.” The Colonel reasoned.

They continued west on 232, the forlorn silhouette of Netivot falling back in the east.

Curious, Nimrod asked, “We’re not going to the city?”

The Colonel shook his head, “The bulk of our forces are already there. The monsters have retreated. We are going after them.”

Nimrod shot a weary glance at Terek. The taciturn Arab seated beside him set a gentle hand on his new friend's shoulder and said, “Have faith.”

Nimrod nodded at him before looking again out the window at all the smoke clinging to the heavens in the west—the way toward the Gaza strip.

***

The Road to Alumim

9:15 am

They soon came upon another roadblock. Cars everywhere. They first appeared stacked along the shoulder of the vacant highway. Then there were more, and more. They were turned this way and that. Black streaks from skidding tire tracks scarred the road. Various sedans, SUVs, and jeeps were strewn about. Some of them were burning, polluting the air with the skunky stink of expiring fuel, and melting rubber. Almost all of them were riddled with bullet holes.

Everyone in Colonel Eitan Barak’s truck held their breath as they arrived on the scene. The kibbutz was close. They could already see a queue of homes from the outer rim of the village peeking over the cluster of ruined cars off on the right. They were burning as well.

The old Colonel looked back at his passenger. He held a grim cast upon his weary face. Nevertheless, the man drew his weapon. A Glock 19. He performed a quick press check. It was ready. Then he nodded at his friends and exited the truck. Grudgingly, Nimrod and Tarek followed his lead.

They remained crouched low as they flanked between the smoldering cars surrounding them. Nimrod trailed behind Tarek, his gun at the ready, searching with a thousand eyes darting this way and that. Scanning vigilantly for possible threats. But all he found there was ruin and despair. All he found there was death.

The vans and compact cars that were still on fire were not empty. He saw a human skull leaning against the steering wheel of one such vehicle on his right. Its jaw was still hanging on—lolling as if to scream for all eternity. Fire swam through its bones like eager fingers trying to dig out its soul. Nimrod shuddered.

The passing corpse was enough to tilt his equilibrium as his foot got caught by something below his line of sight. He fell. His friends did not notice. They carried on, disappearing beyond the maze of smoking cars.

Nimrod landed on his stomach, but he held firm onto his gun. He scrambled and quickly got himself back to his knees before he turned to see what obstacle had sent him over. Out of reflex, he pointed his nine-millimeter in the direction that he was looking. When he at last found the culprit, he froze. He took his supporting hand away from the grip of his weapon to smother the involuntary gasp that was about to erupt from his lips. He trembled as he fell back on his hide. That’s when the tears came, flooding his vision. Even with all that, he could still make out the spectral shape of the young woman that he had tripped over. She was lying face down in the street, alone, naked, and despoiled. She was maybe seventeen years young, but no older. Her wrists had been left zip-tied to her back. Her empty eyes were still hanging wide open and distant—terrified. Her face was covered in weeping lacerations, soot, blood and smeared face paint. Her exposed arms were covered up to her elbows in elegant floral patterns from the ornate stains of brown henna dye. There were stab wounds all over her naked back, dozens of them. Her underwear was left in a tangled heap at her ankles.

Suddenly, Nimrod found himself reflecting on his daughters, knowing that they were presently hiding in their saferoom with Miriam back home. He became overwhelmed with dismay. He thought he might never see them again. He knew that he would die fighting these beasts.

With shaking hands, Nimrod set his gun down on the street and fished out his cellphone from his pocket.

He engaged the face cam. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He pressed record.

“Guni, Aluma…” His voice cracked with emotion, forcing him to stop and pull away so that he may recollect himself. Somberly, he continued, “my beautiful girls, I love you. Daddy thinks about you. I know that you are the most amazing kids in the world. My love…I must go and fight now. I will do everything in my power to make it back to you. But Israel needs me right now. These kids…my god,” he whimpered, “they need me right now. Miriam, take care of our babies. I’ll see you soon.” He ended the recording and secured his phone back in his pocket again.

As he went to retrieve his gun he paused, looking contritely at the body sprawled out before him. He crawled over to her. He hoisted her hips up off the gravel and pulled her underwear back up where they belonged. As he was doing this, he remembered a time that he was changing Aluma’s diaper when she was still only an infant. The unexpected memory haunted him and filled him with dread.

He then set his trembling hand on the back of the stranger’s head and prayed, “Yikom Dama.”

After reclaiming his firearm, he discovered another body lying in the street beside the ashen remains of a burning van not too far from the girl. A fallen IDF soldier. He had been shot in the head. But this grueling detail wasn’t what caught his interest. It was his gear. He was wearing an armored flak jacket, and laying in his grave there on the asphalt beside him was an M4 carbine assault rifle. Standard IDF issued weaponry, but an upgrade for Nimrod.

Sudden, rapid blasts from a distant machine gun startled him. He crouched down looking in the direction of the reports. The sound had come from the desolated kibbutz. It came where his friends had gone.

Nimrod ran toward the dead IDF troop and began removing the vest from his body, panting with urgency.

***

Inside

9:20 am

Colonel Eitan Barak led the way. Though, green to combat, Tarek was not without some martial experience. As an Israeli citizen, and the son of a very patriotic father, he was enlisted into the reserves like all his peers the moment he came of age. He served five years, where he sharpened his skills as a medic. He hardly touched a gun in this time. Beyond boot camp training, it was all pressure dressings, and tourniquets…and a whole lot of coffee. But he knew how to use a gun, and he knew how to follow orders. It was good enough for Colonel Barak for the now.

Together, they travailed a long curving road into the complex. Single-story stucco houses stood on either side, lined up like silent sentries. Every home had its own driveway, and a small rectangular yard. Their cars were still parked. Plastic toys, and small bicycles were still languishing in the grass. But the red tiled roofs that had once crowned these modest structures were either blackened by ash or they were still burning.

The grizzled old Colonel remained quiet, aiming his Glock as he went. The heat from a burning home beating on one side of their faces. The crackle taunting them in their advance. Tarek stayed close, but he was sweating, and he was afraid. The overwhelming odor of cooked pork pervaded his senses. But he knew what it really was. That daunting revelation drew an icy chill down his back as they took cover behind a blue sedan parked along the road. They stole a moment to scan the perimeter. Tarek shuddered. The seasoned Colonel only answered this with a stern look that stiffened Tarek’s chin.

Doors had been kicked in. Windows were smashed. A German Shepherd was left lying on her side in one of the driveways ahead. A pool of blood had formed around its neck where a bullet had put her down. It formed ragged fingers that sluiced in long, winding runnels down the sloping driveway. Then they saw the bodies. Men, women, and children. No one was spared. Their mutilated remains were left rotting face down in front of their burning homes. Some of the victims had been stripped of their clothing before they were killed.

Tarek had to fight the urge to wretch, swallowing strenuously to keep it down.

The old Colonel looked back at him and whispered, “Stay frosty.”

Tarek reluctantly nodded as he followed him forward into the heart of the village.

They soon came upon a man and a woman struggling to drag out a heavy chest from one of the homes up ahead. They were dressed in civilian clothes. The woman was clad in a billowing, black abaya and hijab. The man in blue jeans and a threadbare Adidas t-shirt. He had black, curly hair, and a dark beard. They were Arab but could pass as innocuously as anyone in line for a coffee at Starbucks.

Colonel Barak took cover behind another vehicle. This one had a wider build. Tarek did the same. They both pointed their firearms at the unsuspecting strangers.

“Gazans,” The Colonel seethed, “taking what they can from the dead.”

“Drop the chest and surrender!” The Colonel’s demanding voice boomed in Arabic, catching the two by surprise.

They dropped the chest, but they did not surrender. They scrambled behind the house they were looting from and began shouting at the top of their lungs in Arabic, “The Jews are Here!”

Then shots rang, but they did not come from neither Colonel Barak’s gun nor Tarek’s. They came from the AK-47 that was being wielded by a black clad, green headband wearing Hamas terrorist that had flanked them from across the street. He was hiding inside one of the homes, with an advantage view of his adversaries from the blown-out kitchen window. He popped out and stitched a line of bullet spray across the car where the Colonel and his friend were hiding. The Colonel hit the ground and rolled away for a better source of cover from their assailant. But Tarek caught a bullet in the chest and he fell. His gun went skittering across the street, far from his reach. As the blasts continued to inundate him, he saw no other option but to shimmy his way underneath the car. The bullet struck him just an inch south of his shoulder. It hurt, but his adrenaline numbed the pain. He could still breathe. So, he knew that his vital organs were still intact. But his fighting arm was limp, and he was trapped.

The Colonel then rose again behind the hood of an abandoned SUV and opened fire at the window. But the black clad agent was no longer there, presumably to reload, or to reposition himself. That’s when he realized all the obstacles standing in his way. Urban warfare, even in such a small space was a tricky endeavor. Availed by a labyrinth of structures, Hamas transformed a simple Jewish farming community into a treacherous maze of death. What had been built with love and prosperity, was so suddenly stripped down bare and sharpened into a deadly weapon to kill its makers.

The Colonel set his back against the fender of the SUV and tucked his legs behind the front wheel of the car. He looked contritely at Tarek. He could see him applying pressure to his wound with his good hand and looking longingly at the weapon that he could no longer reach. The Colonel could not get to it either, not without stumbling into the sniper’s line of sight. They were pinned down.

***

     Nimrod Palmach crept tentatively around the back yard of a vacant home. With his new rifle prepared in his hands he aimed at every virgin corner he happened upon, ready to shoot. He followed the sounds of a man talking exultantly on a phone. He soon found the black clad militant pacing from side to side in front of a children’s gaily colored sliding board and swing set in the well-kept yard of the dormant suburban home. He was still hoisting his AK-47 across his shoulder, but his guard was down. He was relaxed. Tears of joy flooded his eyes as he spoke on an iPhone that Nimrod had to suspect did not belonged to him. It belonged to whomever had lived in that house behind the man. Nevertheless, the young militant was there, with his mask, and bandana peeled back over his crown. Naked and exposed. A boy of sixteen or seventeen years—no older than the girl Nimrod had found lying in the road. His fleshy jowls were shadowed only by the slightest bit of a beard, budding here and there like infant shoots from a growing bush. It was as new to the world as he was.

     Nimrod crouched behind a wooden fence that parceled off the yard from its neighbors. Shots had been fired. Bombs were popping in the sky. Yet, this man was standing outside in broad daylight with his mask off talking to his mother on an unsecure line. He was boasting to her about his vile deeds in grueling detail. Nimrod was astounded by the brazen hubris. Still, he waited, and he listened. He knew enough Arabic to translate what the kid was saying.

     “I killed them with my bare hands!” he extolled. “Ten of them, Mother. I killed them all. Your son has killed Jews!”

     When the haughty militant turned his back on the fence to go another round across the yard, Nimrod tossed the riffle to his back, allowing it to hang from his shoulder by its strap. Then he bolted after the Hamas soldier and grabbed him. He snaked his arm under the soldier’s chin and sunk in a deep choke hold. He spun on his heel and ripped him to the ground. There, he held on until the boy stopped squirming. Then he held on until he stopped breathing and stopped moving entirely. Panting, panting, he finally let him go. Nimrod ended the call in the stranger’s hands and broke the phone over his knee. Then he regarded the boy with a look of pity before stealing his rifle and advancing toward the home where the gunshots had rang.

     Just a kid, he anguished. What kind of monsters hide behind an army of kids?

     Inside the house he was soon surrounded by pictures of a family he did not know. Precious artifacts and ornaments were preserved on shelves and end tables like shards of memories from a life that no longer lived. Nimrod was certain of this. The signs of death were everywhere. He saw a woman’s hand with broken fingernails lying there on the floor, spilling out from a room that he passed as he pressed onward. There were scratch marks left in the varnish where she had tried to crawl away from her abusers before she fell. He did not need to see any more than that. He knew she was dead, and whoever killed her was scuffling about in the next space up ahead. He could hear the intruder, muttering disdainfully, their frantic movements crunching on shattered glass and scattered debris.

Nimrod came in low, the barrel of his rifle peering around the corner along with his eyes. The menacing figure in the family room was wearing an IDF plate carrier. Its tan colors did not match well with his black ski mask, green bandana, and his bedraggled, discount-brand cargo pants. His attention appeared to be preoccupied with the shattered window that he was huddling under. Its tattered curtains were fluttering over his head like wispy ghosts as he prepared to heave his long rifle up for another try for his target out on the street.

     Nimrod raised his weapon, but the barrel clipped a vase that had been resting on a small table on the other side of the corner where he could not see. It wobbled precariously on the surface before it tumbled off the edge and crashed into the floorboards. The resounding splash of broken ceramic skittering across the floor pulled the terrorist away from the window. He reflexively turned his AK-47 onto the hallway where the sound sprang. He opened an unbridled, rapid barrage of gunfire into the space until the clip went dry.

     Nimrod hit the floor and retreated back the way he came, away from danger, letting the bullets devour plaster and wood in the wall between them. The militant's unguided fire ravished a good chunk of the foundation before his weapon ran out of ammunition. Picture frames fell from the walls and smashed around Nimrod as he fled. One such picture was of a man embracing two young girls at his hips. A smiling, elegant young woman was standing behind them. The owner of the house and his family, no doubt. The picture was now perforated by smoldering bullet holes.

     Outside, Colonel Eitan Barak heard the gunfire and saw the Hamas militant put his back to the window of the house. This reaction prompted him to spring immediately back to his feet. He was distracted. Something else had stolen his attention. The Colonel raised his gun and aimed. It was a long shot. Far too risky. He had to get in closer. Before abandoning his cover, he checked his surroundings, searching for hostiles. Satisfied enough with his inspection he then ran over and kicked Tarek’s gun back to him under the car.

     “Tarek, you hit?” he asked tersely, eyes still trained on the house with all the activity.

     “Aywa!” he answered in a tortured voice. “In the shoulder. My dominant arm.”

     “Well, that’s why God gave you a spare,” said the colonel coldly. “I’m going in. Watch my back if you can. Otherwise, stay down.”

     Tarek clamored for his gun with his left hand and gingerly shimmied out from under the vehicle. The wound burned with white-hot agony that screamed inside his head. But Tarek endured it. The Colonel was already gone, hurrying with his head down low as he raced for the open window into the house.

***

     The man wielding the AK-47 was stalking the smoking hallway on his feet. The ragged stock of his weapon was firmly set against his shoulder as he came. His boots were crunching on broken pieces of glass and debris, slow and methodic. But he was coming, and there was nowhere left for Nimrod to fallback for cover. He could double back out the way he had come in, but he would never make it. The killer would be on him before he could ever step foot on the porch again. He got himself to a knee. He aimed his purloined rifle at the way into the misty family room. He held his breath. Best he could hope at was to shoot him first. Luck of the draw.

     Then Colonel Eitan Barak peered in the window and fired off two rounds at the militant’s back. One grazed him on the side of the neck, drawing a seething, red line there. The other one struck the assailant in the thumb of his supporting hand, causing him to drop his weapon and go careening into the hallway. A trail of blood followed his severed thumb in the air as he went over. He collided hard against the wall of the hallway, crashing into his side. Nimrod Palmach saw the man coming and he reflexively pulled the trigger. He missed, as the terrorist bounced off the wall and slammed into the floor in front of him.

     “Shit!” the Colonel cursed. He hopped over the windowsill to give chase.

     The terrorist was quick—spry and agile. He immediately lunged himself at the rifle in Nimrod’s grasp, catching the long barrel with his left gloved hand, and trapping the stock under his right arm. The impetus of his movement jostled Nimrod off his knees and onto his back, forcing him to make a hard decision: continue holding onto the rifle, or engage in a wrestling match with a trained killer.

     Their bodies crashed on the floorboards that ran across the room where Nimrod had seen a woman’s hand laying limp at the threshold of its entry. Inside the room, the couple from the photograph that Nimrod had found perforated with bullet holes were lying in a tangled heap. Their ragged throats had been left torn open. Their hands still clasped together where they fell. A pool of blood enshrined their threaded bodies. A grimy hacksaw laid there in the crimson lake beside them.

     On the far end of the room there was an ornate afghani rug laying over the floor. It was covering the access to a hidden safe room. Beneath it there was the sound of whimpering. They were frightful voices. They belonged to two young girls.

***

     Tarek was just getting his bearings back, wincing from the sting of agony that burned deep into his shoulder blade when he went to pull the slide of his nine-millimeter. His back was pressed against the bumper of the car he had only moments ago been hiding under. He was sweating profusely. He felt a fever spreading its roots within. But he had to resist it. The fight was only just beginning. And his friends needed him. He closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer.

     “Bismillāh ir-Rahmān ir-Rahīm.” he prayed. In the name of Allah, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. 

     When he opened his eyes again, he found movement in the distance. He ducked down and lifted his weapon out of a species of precaution. A man with curly black hair had emerged. He was wearing a disheveled Iranian football jersey and hard-worn blue jeans. He looked normal. He crept furtively around the house under fire. He had a fraying, black covid mask wrapped around his face, and a dusty, Chinese made Type 56 assault rifle in his grasp. He was not a civilian. He was a threat and he was up to no good. He was going into the house.

     Tarek remained there, hidden from sight, until the man had gone in. Then he picked himself up and sprinted across the street after him.

***

     Nimrod Palmach decided to let go. Having the terrorist’s back on top of him, he wrapped his right leg across his supple abdomen and secured it under the bend of his other knee—a triangle body lock. Then he tried to get his forearm under the fighting man’s wiry neck before the assailant could navigate his hand back down to the trigger of his rifle. But the Hamas militant was adept. He could feel what he was going for. He had no choice but to abandon the weapon and defend himself. He used both hands to seize Nimrod’s exploring arm and neutralize his attempt to choke him. He then adroitly rolled to the opposite side that nimrod had his ankle locked in about his waist. Still holding Nimrod’s arm in place with one tenacious grip, the terrorist tucked his arm that was closest to the floor under Nimrod’s knee, hoisting nimrod’s triangle lock up ever slightly. Then he torqued his hips toward Nimrod, threatening to gain purchase over top of him. Nimrod reacted, bringing his left leg in deeper to try and block the terrorist from getting on his knees. Suddenly the assailant rolled back and kicked his foot around Nimrod’s compromised leg, threatening to trap it with his heel. Again, nimrod responded by bringing his leg up higher. Too high. Nimrod realized it too late. The arm that had been under his knee then came up and caught Nimrod’s fleeing foot. Then, all in one swift motion, the terrorist threw Nimrod’s legs wide open and slipped his hide out over his neutralized legs for a slick escaped from Nimrod’s grasp.

     He took full control of the fight just then, pinning a squirming Nimrod to the ground as he pulled a knife from a hidden sheath around his leg. He then drove his knee into Nimrod’s gut squeezing the life out from his lungs. He bought up the blade. Nimrod saw it’s black point glinting in the sun light. He thought of his mother. He thought of his wife. He thought of his kids. He accepted his fate. The terrorist swung the weapon down in a violent, sweeping motion.

***

     In the room next to them there was movement. The rug in the far corner began to lift from off the floor.

     The anxious voice of a little girl complained in Hebrew, “Lior don’t open it!”

     Then another fraught, breathless voice replied, “I have to see, Hila.”

     Rusty hinges creaked as the hidden door came up. The hatch ensconced underneath the rug lifted just a little bit higher.

***

     Nimrod could no longer see the baleful, black eyes swirling with unfathomable hatred glaring down at him. He only saw Guni. She was small then, her delicate body swaddled in a soft blanket. He remembered the day she was born. He was holding her tiny body in his arms again. Tamar was watching him from the hospital bed, exhausted, but overwhelmed with tearful joy. Guni’s tenuous hand wrapped around Nimrod’s finger. There was so much strength in her tiny grasp. Her small, puffy eyes opened. They were looking right up at him. It was the happiest day of Nimrod’s life.

     As the assailant’s knife continued its journey down toward his face, he suddenly heard his daughter’s voice. She wasn’t an infant anymore. She was a headstrong girl, vast on her way to becoming a teenager. She was a fighter. Nimrod heard her voice as it was now. It came from the room beside them. She screamed, “Daddy!”

     That’s when he knew that he had to live. He had to keep fighting. Even if he was ready to go, he couldn’t. Not while there were still demons on the earth. Demons that would butcher everyone that he has ever known and loved if they could. Demons that would use any heinous stratagem to achieve this goal. He would not let them—not ever.

     Nimrod threw up his left hand and caught the blade of the knife in his palm. He watched it strike all the way through, spraying blood on the side of his face. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t care. His adrenaline would not allow him to. He grabbed the terrorist’s hand and heaved, pressing him back. Then he shoved his face skyward with his other hand and… POP!POP!POP!

     The back of the terrorist's skull erupted into a plume of red mist. His body fell limp on top of him. Nimrod kicked himself out from underneath his attacker, taking the impaled knife with him in his escape.

     Colonel Eitan Barak was standing there at the end of the hall, the barrel of his handgun pointing at the dead man, steaming. He was panting. The muscles in his neck were taut with angst. But he was relieved to see his friend alive and breathing.

     Nimrod clamored off the floor. But as he got to his knee again, he suddenly felt the agony seething in his hand. The knife was still stuck there, lodged between the bones of his middle, and ring fingers. Nonplussed, he gripped his wrist and gasped.

     The Colonel immediately met him there on the floor. He holstered his weapon and began attending to Nimrod’s wound.

     “Did he get you anywhere else?” he inquired.

     “N...no,” Nimrod stammered.

     Then a distraught girl screamed again. This time the words came in Hebrew, “EE-mah! AH-bah!”

     That voice was soon followed by that of another. A girl much younger. Neither of them belonged to Guni.

     Both Nimrod and Colonel Barak turned to peer into the room beside them. They found a somber couple kneeling over the corpses of their butchered parents, weeping. The two young girls hugged each other as they collapsed to their knees in the red puddle. The eldest was trying to hold back her little sister as she clamored to get at them, sobbing, shrieking.

     Nimrod never heard his daughter crying out to him. It had all been in his head. All that he had heard was the anguished wailing of a stranger’s child as she discovered her parents brutalized remains.

     “Allāhu akbar!” a man’s voice suddenly shouted behind them.

     Both Nimrod and Colonel Eitan Barak turned, looking back the way the chaos had all began. A man in casual clothing was standing there with a covid mask and an assault rifle ready to open fire. Nimrod unwittingly stumbled backward onto his side, but it was too late to get away.

     Just before the man could pull the trigger another shot rang from the other side of the hallway. The bullet took the man in his left temple. The blast sent him careening into the wall where he slid and slid until he was down.

     The Colonel then drew his gun and rushed over to examine the dead man. Satisfied he was gone; he reached down and snatched the rifle from his lifeless hands. He spun around and found a spent and weary Tarek leaning against a post in the arching antechamber of the beleaguered family room. His gun was lolling weakly from his left hand as he continued to grasp the gushing wound in his shoulder with the other. The Colonel offered the man a deferential nod. Drained of spirit, Tarek could only frown as his answer.

***

     After Nimrod was patched up, they decided to move onward to Be’eri where they engaged more hostiles invading the area. Tarek remained with the girls until the IDF arrived to evacuate them. But Nimrod and Colonel Eitan Barak pressed on. They fought for nearly fifteen hours before gaining control of the kibbutz. One hundred thirty-two people were butchered by Hamas there. One hundred and one of them were innocent civilians. Nimrod Palmach helped to save approximately eight hundred and seventy people that night.

     When the fighting was over, and the night’s sky was beginning to deepen, Major Palmach found himself alone with the colonel, grabbing a drink of water behind an IDF truck. They were quiet, covered in soot, grime, and blood.

     Solemnly Nimrod decided, “This war will never end.”

     “Not likely…” the old Colonel acknowledged before taking another thirsty gulp from the bottle.

     “So, why do we fight,” Nimrod asked, “why do we stay.”

     Pensively, the colonel pondered this. He took the bottle away from his lips. He looked out onto the harrowing scene that currently surrounded them. There was nothing but ruin. The skeleton of a home was still smoldering there before them, teetering on collapse.

     Gravely he answered, “If Jews cannot live in Israel, then Jews cannot live anywhere.” He let that statement hang on the cold, languid air for a moment before continuing. “If Jews cannot live anywhere, then we cannot live. We must fight. We don’t have a choice.”

     This said the Colonel recollected his bottle, he clasped the major on the shoulder and then he went on his way. Nimrod stood there alone for a time, thinking only of his family.

***

October 8

Har Adar

Sunday

3:10 am

     When Nimrod returned home Miriam rose from their living room sofa, her eyes red and raw from crying. She followed the sound of the door opening and then closing in the kitchen—where that fateful day had started so innocently for them. She froze at the threshold upon seeing him. She gasped. Then, relieved, she threw herself into his arms. She sobbed in his chest. Nimrod kissed her on the head as he embraced her. Not too long thereafter, his groggy children came stumbling in.

     “Dad!” Guni cheered as she ran to him with her little sister at hand.

     Miriam released him so that he could bend down to greet his daughters. They hugged. They cried.

     Aluma said in a wavering, poignant voice, “We thought you weren’t ever coming back.”

     This statement broke Nimrod’s heart. He pulled her in to hold her against his chest.

     “I’ll always come back to you, Aluma.”

     Then Guni moved in close. Tears were streaming down her sullen cheeks as she confessed, “I was scared… I thought…I thought you died.”

    Nimrod set a gentle hand against her face. He shook his head and said, “I almost did…but you saved me.”

***

In Memory of those who fell on the morning of October 7, 2023. And to those who rose up against all odds to face an elusive enemy with a thousand masks to hide behind.

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