Chapter 1: Rebirth in the Wasteland (Part 2)
Adrian blinked. A figure stood framed in a reinforced doorway halfway down the alley. A young woman, clad in a simple, faded blue dirac dress, her head covered by a dusty hijab. Only her eyes were visible – large, dark, and blazing with defiance. She held a rusty machete in a white-knuckled grip.
Hassan sneered. "Little Amina, playing doctor and warrior now? This is none of your business. The puppy's mine."
"He's hurt! He needs help!" Amina took a step forward, the machete held steady despite the tremor in her voice. "Go back to Farah. Tell him stealing from the sick won't fill his coffers today."
Hassan hesitated. He glanced between Adrian and the surprisingly resolute girl. His companions shuffled nervously. "Farah won't like you interfering, girl. That clinic's barely standing as it is."
"We manage," Amina shot back, her gaze unwavering. "Now go."
Hassan spat on the ground near Adrian's head. "Lucky day, puppy. But Amina? Your charity will get you killed." With a final glare, he jerked his head, and the three thugs melted back into the ruins.
Amina lowered the machete, her shoulders slumping slightly. She hurried over to Adrian, kneeling beside him. "Can you stand? We need to get inside."
Her eyes, up close, were intelligent, kind despite the hardness the world had imposed. Her hands, as she helped him up, were small but strong. He leaned heavily on her, surprised by her strength as she guided him through the reinforced doorway into the relative cool and gloom of the building.
The air inside smelled sharply of antiseptic, blood, and underlying sickness. Makeshift cots lined the walls of a large room, most occupied by gaunt figures – children with hollow eyes, men with bandaged limbs, women coughing weakly. A frail, elderly man with a neatly trimmed white beard and a worn stethoscope around his neck hurried over. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, scanned Adrian with practiced efficiency.
"Amina! What happened? Who is this?" His voice was calm, authoritative.
"Found him outside, Dr. Hassan," Amina explained, easing Adrian onto an empty cot. "Hassan's thugs were after him. Head wound. Looks bad."
"Dr. Hassan?" Adrian managed to croak, glancing between the girl and the doctor.
The doctor chuckled softly, beginning to clean Adrian's head wound with practiced, gentle hands. "A coincidence, and a common name. I am Dr. Abdi Hassan. This fierce guardian is Amina Yusuf, my nurse, apprentice, and sometimes, as you saw, our security detail. And you?"
"Adrian," he replied, the name feeling foreign yet familiar. "Adrian Ismail." It was the name tied to this body, this life. Adrian Vance was a ghost, for now.
Dr. Hassan probed the wound, his touch clinical. "Hmm. Deep laceration. Contaminated. You have a concussion, Adrian Ismail. You are fortunate Amina found you. Another hour in the sun, or in Hassan the Thug's tender care, and..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Rest. We will clean this, stitch it. You need fluids."
Over the next few hours, as Dr. Hassan meticulously cleaned and sutured the wound, Adrian observed. The clinic was a testament to desperate ingenuity. Sterilized instruments were boiled in a dented pot over a charcoal brazier. Medicines were scarce, carefully rationed. Bandages were washed and reused. Amina moved tirelessly between patients – changing dressings, spoon-feeding broth to a child, her voice a low, soothing murmur. She possessed an innate competence, a resilience that shone brighter than the weak sunlight filtering through high, barred windows.
Adrian learned snippets through conversation and observation. Mogadishu was carved into fiefdoms controlled by warlords like Farah Aidid, a brutal ex-militia leader who ruled their district. His enforcers, like Scarface Hassan, demanded "taxes" – protection money extorted from everyone, including the clinic. The nominal Transitional National Government (TNG) existed only in name, confined to a few heavily guarded buildings near the port, propped up by fleeting international goodwill that rarely translated into tangible aid. Foreign aid workers were scarce, often targeted. The city was a pressure cooker of hunger, disease, and violence.
Dr. Hassan, Adrian learned, was a relic of a better time – a university-trained physician who'd refused to flee, dedicating his life to alleviating suffering in the heart of the darkness. Amina, orphaned by clan violence at twelve, had been taken in by the doctor eight years ago. She was his hands, his eyes, his courage.
"Farah," Adrian rasped as Dr. Hassan finished bandaging his head. "He threatens you often?"
Dr. Hassan sighed, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "Often enough. He sees our medicines as his property. Our generator fuel. Even the food donated by that brave Italian NGO worker who comes sometimes. We are a resource to be plundered. Like everything else in this cursed city." He looked at Adrian, his gaze weary but sharp. "You have the look of a fighter. Mercenary? Which warlord's payroll did you fall off?"
"None," Adrian said, meeting the doctor's gaze. "Just a survivor who got caught in the wrong crossfire." It wasn't entirely a lie. "But survival... it requires more than just hiding."
Dr. Hassan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What does it require, young man?"
"Strength," Adrian stated, his voice gaining a subtle edge, the ghost of command seeping through. "Order. Control. The ability to defend what's yours." He gestured vaguely around the clinic. "This place. These people. They shouldn't live under Farah's boot."
Amina, who had been listening while sorting bandages nearby, paused. Her dark eyes studied him intently, a flicker of something unreadable within them. "Easy words," she said softly. "Defending requires weapons. Men. Power. We have bandages and penicillin."
"Power starts with a choice," Adrian countered, locking eyes with her. "The choice not to be a victim. The choice to fight back." He saw a spark ignite in her gaze – not hope, not yet, but a fierce recognition. She understood fighting back. She'd done it with a machete.
Before Dr. Hassan could respond, the heavy clinic door crashed open. Scarface Hassan stood framed in the doorway, flanked by four more armed men. Their expressions were ugly, vindictive.
"Doctor!" Hassan barked, striding inside. His men fanned out, rifles held loosely but menacingly. Patients cowered on their cots. "Seems you and your little nurse cost me face today. Letting this stray get away." He pointed a dirty finger at Adrian. "That requires compensation. Double the usual donation. Medicine. Fuel. And that new crate of antibiotics the Italians brought yesterday. Now."
Dr. Hassan stepped forward, his frail body radiating defiance. "We have nothing extra, Hassan. You know the sick need these supplies. Take what little food we have, but leave the medicine."
Hassan backhanded the old man savagely. Dr. Hassan crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Amina cried out, rushing to his side.