Markus Mordub

Mount Kanlaon stood tall and proud in the distance. The dry and sticky midsummer air blew on his sweaty face. That he was wearing four layers of clothing didn’t help at all. Markus Mordub had been in the eastward bound bus for the forty-seventh hour now, and he longed so much to ask his seatmate where the next stop would be. “To hell,” was the answer he was anticipating. His seatmate was a shattered human being after a minute of continued contact with three full rounds of stolen military ammunition. His seatmate wasn’t dead yet, though, but was on the brink of death since five hours ago.

“Are you all right?” Markus Mordub found himself asking instead.

He got a smile, and was almost frightened when he heard his seatmate could still speak. “Never better, pal,” he said. “Just peachy! I mean, look at me. Sitting here bathing in my own blood, beside you, watching the scenery. I mean, you don’t even know me personally and everything, but you gave me the window seat. Who wouldn’t be just pure wonder at the thought of that? I mean, no one, man. No one. The window seat. Ahh, you overwhelm me! Thanks for asking.”

“Well,” Markus Mordub laughed as well. “I don’t want my hair all messed up by that wind, you know.”

“Why? What’s wrong with your hair?” His seatmate was curious.

“Many things. For one, it doesn’t behave right.”

His seatmate straightened up a little, and did his best to have a good look. “That isn’t an accurate observation,” he said after some time.

“You really think so?”

“Uh-huh.” And what followed was a coughing fit that ended his life.

Thus, Markus Mordub from that point on had a better appreciation of his hair. He moved to the window seat, even, very careful not to cause the tiniest damage to the remains of his departed bus companion. When the hijackers inquired what he was trying to pull, he said no one was trying to pull anything, he was just trying to feel the breeze.

The hijackers understood. They were full-grown men familiar with the needs of fellow full-grown men like Markus Mordub. If there was anything they understood well, it was that when you are in a bus and have just witnessed a seatmate take in a fusilade and die talking to you five hours later, about the only thing you need is a sniff of fresh air.

“Don’t let the wind mess up you hair too much, though,” the hijackers advised.

“Don’t worry,” Markus Mordub said, “I won’t.”

And Markus Mordub didn’t. In fact, right about the time the hijackers were turning their backs from him to resume overseeing matters regarding the hijacked passenger bus, Markus Mordub climbed onto the window, and like in the movies, jumped off and fell rolling to the ground.

The hijackers saw this, but it was already too late. They opened fire, but not a micron of lead touched the fringes of Markus Mordub’s personal space. What the pounds and pounds of hot lead touched instead was an entire class of city grade school tourists buying souvenir from a roadside shop.

Markus Mordub looked at the casualties with pity and a little guilt, because he knew that at least one of the innumerable bullets that rained on people that day was intended for him.

He shrugged his shoulders, flicked off dust from his clothes, patted his hair, and walked away.

© Jay Santos 2003.