Free Moral Imperative by C. G. Cooper

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    ISIS lived off the land, obtaining supplies as they went. Unlike a conventional army, they had no supply train. But they were not pillaging. Their leaders knew that if they were to build the caliphate, they must have a land to rule. They were careful with what they took and only destroyed infrastructure in rare cases, usually to instill fear in a noncompliant populace.
    The bells of his goats tinkled as he approached the well-lit guard post, crudely erected with large trucks serving as barriers. A high-powered light clicked on and shone right in his face. He’d been expecting it, and covered his eyes.
    “Who is that?” asked a guard, his weapon undoubtedly pointed directly at the blinded supplier.
    “It’s Ali, you fool. Put that light down,” said one of the guards.
    The light was extinguished and Ali led his mule-drawn cart to the entrance.
    “Good evening, Ammar. How is your duty this night?” asked Ali. One of the things that had amazed the Islamists was Ali’s ability to remember names. He never had to be told twice, even remembering family members mentioned in passing.
    “You come at a good time. We have more men coming every day. What did you bring us?” The guard moved around Ali to get a better look, knowing he would have first pick of the choicest supply. It was one of the few perks of standing watch.
    “The usual. Lamb, beef, chicken and a barrel of fresh fish.”
    “Anything else?” asked the guard. Ali could imagine the man’s mouth salivating.
    “My cooler is filled with cheeses. Wheels and blocks. The kind I have not found in many months. Would you like a sample?”
    The guard nodded and Ali moved to the large cooler, surplus he’d purchased from an American supply sergeant four years before. It took up most of the cart, but kept his wares cold even under the relentless desert sun. He opened one of the side hatches and found the best of the bunch. Ali cut off two oversized hunks, each the size of a man’s fist and handed one to each of the guards. They both bit into them hungrily. Ali smiled.
    “And I have something else. Chocolate stolen from a Dutch freighter.” He pulled out two aluminum-wrapped bars and handed them out. The men’s eyes went wide. Too consumed with their meal, they waved Ali through, pointing to where the supply tent was.
    He knew the way. Even though he hadn’t been at this particular location, they always arranged things the same way. It wasn’t five minutes before he’d found the kitchen tent nestled next to a much larger tent. Along the way he passed out treats from his seemingly never-ending supply, the men grateful when he thanked the ones he’d met by name. The new names he stored away.
    “Ali! I was wondering if you would get here in time,” said the fat supply chief who also doubled as one of the cooks. He was standing just outside the flap of the kitchen tent, hands on his hips, wearing a blood stained white apron.
    “My apologies. It was slow going today. My mules were not happy with their cargo. Too much to pull.”
    The supply chief smiled. “Quickly. Tell me what you have. We have more guests coming tonight.”
    Ali’s ears perked up at the comment. The whispers had been true.
    Ali gave the man a rundown of what he’d brought, saving the cheeses for last. He knew the overweight Syrian had a special love for good baladi.
    Although his eyes betrayed his desire, the man knew how to negotiate. “I don’t know if I have the money to pay for the extra items, Ali. Perhaps you could make me a deal?”
    Ali smiled, having already prepared for the conversation. “Since you have been such a loyal customer, and friend, I wanted to give you the cheeses as a gift. A small thanks.”
    The man’s eyes went wide. “That is very generous, I—”
    Ali waved off the coming reply. “It is nothing. I got a good deal on the best meats, and I can only hope that when the glorious caliphate is born, I will continue to be one of your loyal servants.”
    The