When the Dead Rise Firing`

“She loved a ghost who only lived to kill - and died before he could love her back.”

             The protest in Tral had bled resolve from all sides, but it was only the prelude to something stranger. Protests could be silenced, mobs dispersed. But what do you do when death itself lies? In the shadowed valleys of South Kashmir, just days after the slogans died down, we faced a moment that rewrote every rule of engagement. It wasn’t the volume of bullets that shocked us, but the haunting calm before, and after. The dead, we believed, couldn’t shoot. But that day, in a village wrapped in mist and betrayal, even that certainty was shattered.           

             The morning mist curled around the high mountains like a restless spirit, shrouding the village in an eerie stillness. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, mingled with the faint scent of wood smoke drifting from unseen homes. The silence was deceptive, too quiet, too measured. It was the kind of silence that weighed heavy, a silence that knew something before anyone else did.

             Our crack team moved cautiously, their boots crunching against the loose gravel as they navigated the rugged terrain. Information had come in, two terrorists were spotted in the area, moving through the shadows of the village that nestled like a secret in the valley. Every villager was a potential witness, but also a potential shield for the intruders. Experience had taught us to read faces, to find truth in hesitation and fear.

             A shepherd, his turban pulled low over his forehead, shifted uncomfortably when asked about the strangers. His eyes darted toward the village, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing across his face. That was all the confirmation we needed.

             The village was a cluster of mud-and-stone houses, their rooftops caving inward under the weight of time and hardship. As we reached the outskirts, a sudden movement caught our attention. From the narrow alleys emerged a group of villagers, their voices rising in a familiar chant, "Aadhi roti khayenge, Pakistan jayenge!( We will eat half of the bread and go to Pakistan)." The pattern was one we had seen before, in Tral. Women in the front, men in the background, their faces unreadable, their purpose clear.

            Our officer-in-charge, standing tall amidst the tension, didn’t flinch. The soldiers uarding him moved instinctively, forming a protective barrier between him and the protestors. The air vibrated with a dangerous energy, like the static before a storm.

             Then, it happened.

             One of the women broke formation, stepping forward with quick, precise movements. Her hands lunged for the AK-47 of a nearby guard, her grip strong, her intent unmistakable. But the guard was no ordinary soldier, years of training had forged his reflexes into steel. He held firm, his fingers locked around the weapon. The struggle lasted only seconds, but in those seconds, the impossible happened.

             A sudden crack of gunfire split the air.

             The burst of bullets found their mark, and a man in the crowd staggered, his body convulsing as he crumpled to the ground. The woman gasped, her face twisting in shock as she tried to pull away. The villagers scattered like frightened birds, their chants dying in their throats. But the soldier’s grip was unrelenting. Her wrist remained caught in his iron hold.

             The officer’s gaze locked onto her, cold and unyielding. "Who was he?" His voice carried no emotion, just the weight of command.

              She trembled, her body betraying her. "He... he was a terrorist," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the ringing silence that followed the gunfire.

             A lesser officer might have accepted her answer at face value. But not ours. He had learned from the mistakes of others, from stories that had ended in tragedy. The memory of Lt. Col. S.K. Razdan haunted many - how a terrorist, presumed dead, had risen like a specter and changed everything in a blink.

             He turned to the woman, his expression unreadable. "Check him," he ordered.

             Her eyes widened in terror. She shook her head, taking a small step back, but the soldier holding her did not let go. "Go," the officer repeated, his voice firm.

             With reluctant, trembling legs, she moved toward the fallen man. Each step felt like a journey through fire, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering hesitantly over his chest.

             And then…

            A flash of movement. A glint of metal.

             The ‘dead’ man surged up, his pistol already raised.  The explosion of gunfire was deafening.

             The woman barely had time to scream before the bullets tore through her. She collapsed, her blood staining the dust beneath her, eyes frozen in an expression of betrayal. The terrorist had mistaken her for one of us.

             But the officer had been faster. His rifle spoke, a single shot cracking through the suffocating silence. The terrorist’s body jerked once before falling back, truly lifeless this time.

 

Letter Fragment - Found in a Journal Entry of a Soldier

(Date and Name Withheld)

 

“We are taught to look for the man with a gun. No one tells you how to spot the woman hiding his heart. She didn’t fire a shot, yet the blood on her hands told the loudest story. Maybe she didn’t know what love cost. Or maybe she did, and paid in full.”

            The air settled, thick with smoke and the metallic scent of blood. The villagers, peering cautiously from behind broken walls and half-closed doors, did not move.

            Later, when the village elders finally emerged, their voices were hushed, their eyes cast downward. They confirmed what had already become evident, the woman had been the terrorist’s lover, his safe haven in this labyrinth of deception. For two months, he had moved like a ghost through these streets, hidden in plain sight, protected by her silence.

             Yet, in the end, fate had played its hand. He had been standing among a crowd, shielded by chaos, but the bullets had found him. It was as if destiny itself had chosen that moment to tip the scales in our favor.  No injuries were reported on our side. No soldier had fallen. It was a rare thing, in war, to walk away unscathed.

             That night, as the mist crept back into the valley, I thought of the woman, of the man who had clung to the illusion of invincibility until the very last breath. War was never just about guns and grenades. It was about choices, about the weight of loyalty and the cost of silence. It was about the fog that blurred the lines between friend and foe, making everything uncertain - until, in a single gunshot, the truth was revealed.

 

“No one died on our side that day, but something always does. Trust, maybe. Or the belief that love can save anyone in war. As the mist reclaimed the valley, we left behind no bodies, only ghosts.”

 

            The village was quiet when we left, but we knew the silence wouldn't last. What we thought ended with a single bullet would echo into a chase that defied every protocol we’d been trained to follow. Because sometimes, the dead don’t rest, and their comrades don’t run far. One of ours would soon break formation, driven not by command, but by instinct - a pursuit not just of a fleeing terrorist, but of a fleeting sense of justice. The chapter coming up, wouldn’t be fought from behind a bunker. It would be chased down through mud, breath, and sheer grit -beyond the barrel.