ZOMBIES
IN SAUDI ARABIA
ANDY IBRAHIM
Zombies in Saudi Arabia
Copyright © 2020 Andy Ibrahim
Published: 07, January 2020
ISBN: 978-1-9992222-1-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Edward Sandoval
Edited by Kerry Genova
For my sister Ambegy.
Who always supported me and made everything seem possible.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank God always and forever.
To my sister, Ambegy. Thank you for being there every step of the way, this book would have never existed if it wasn’t for you. You might not remember this but when we were kids you read me a story that you wrote about a man in a wheelchair that lived in the attic. It was at that very moment that a seed was planted in my head that we were capable of creating stories and bringing them to life. Not only were you an inspiration and a source of encouragement., but you helped edit this book for things that did not make sense, which were a lot! Thanks sistU!
To Daddy. The person who believed in me from the very start. Back in 2014 when the story was only an idea and I told you about it and your reply was “when do you wanna publish?”
To my husband and my support, Hamaad Alanazi. You’re the one who stayed up late nights with me at coffee shops trying not to fall asleep because I couldn’t write at home. You gave me so much of your time discussing and educating me on topics I did not know. You are the inspiration for everything authentically Saudi and the inspiration for my favorite character ‘Plumpy’.
To my friend of over 17 years, Reem Alsubai. You encouraged me and were genuinely excited whenever we discussed the book. I have never heard so many “yays” in my life like I did when I told you “I think I’m ready to publish”.
Thank you to everyone else in my life, Dully, my amazing loving cousins and all my friends. I know I kept this book on the down low for years but when I was ready and shared the news you all were supportive.
To my editor, Kerry Genova, thank you for making this process so smooth.
To my graphic designer, Edward Sandoval thank you for bringing my cover to life.
I would also like to thank Awadh Alhamzani for providing high quality photographs for my cover design.
And thank YOU for buying this book and reading this page (that I thought no one read). None of this would have been possible without readers like you. My heartfelt thanks.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
The perfect tone of black transformed into a creamy rich brown as I poured steaming skim milk in my drip coffee. I didn’t mix it, mesmerized by how it naturally blended, obtaining the perfect consistency and color. I extended my hand to pick up the cup of freshly brewed coffee, the rim touching my lower lip. The warm ceramic tingled my mouth as the toasty aroma floated through the air, and I inhaled the roasted scent before taking my first sip, savoring the fullness and boldness as it trickled down my throat.
On my left stood a glass wall which overlooked a two-way multiple lane street, cars bumper to bumper—busy as usual at this time of day. Prince Turkey Street could be one of the busiest streets in Al-khobar, a city on the east coast of the country located in the Eastern Province known for its progressive attitude and oil production. Wealthy in more ways than one, the street was home to dozens of coffeehouse chains and more restaurants on either side of the palm tree-decorated strip. It was a place where all the world’s cuisines met in harmony, far from conflict. Tall buildings rose beside one another, shadowing the sun. If one looked close—behind all the buildings, the mirages, and the noises—in the distance, one could see a glimpse of the Persian Gulf with the sun glittering an alluring shade of blue on its soft, wavy surface.
Visible condensation on the glass drew my attention as the city faded to a blurry background. The drops became my prime focus, subtle prints left by humidity. I reached over with my finger, and using the tip, I wrote S-A-R-A, the glass gently tickling my skin. The busy outside world was muted behind the thick walls, and I only heard parts of conversations around me; laugher, utensils, and chairs being shuffled with the smell of coffee, freshly baked pastries, and spices like cardamom swirling with a mixture of perfumes floating through the air vents.
This was our favorite place along the waterfront: a small local coffee shop, and the only one that served all-day breakfast. It was one of the coffee shops in town that didn’t have partitions dividing each table from the other, creating an isolated atmosphere and a false sense of privacy. “If I wanted to eat in a box, I would have stayed home, thank you very much,” I always protested, but more restaurants ditched this box layout. It was a custom that had slowly changed and was perhaps on the verge of disappearing—in some parts of the country at least. We loved hanging out here. We stayed for hours until our coffees went flat, but our conversations never did. On this summer afternoon, there was not a cloud visible over the land where rainy days were perceived as ideal weather. Like most people here, I liked the sun, but too much of a good thing could be bad. The temperature outside sat at 47 °C with a humidity of 83%, but despite that, everyone around me was enjoying their steaming hot beverages. Ah, just another day in Saudi Arabia.
"Sara, pass the milk," a voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Oh sorry, May. It’s all gone." I lightly shook the empty ceramic milk jug.
"Here you go." Deema passed her another jug. "It's cold, though."
"Thanks," May replied, adding it to her hot cup of French pressed.
"Sugar?" I asked, pushing a pot of sugar across the table. She shook her head.
We always got together after work for coffee or sometimes an early dinner, either meeting up in a coffee shop or a restaurant or a mall. That narrowed down all the options.
&
nbsp; With a few extra exceptions, these girls were my family. My circle. My people. With them, I felt like I belonged. Deep inside, I always felt different and didn’t fit into any particular group, but I couldn’t always be around them. Working kept us all busy. I was a management analyst at an oil company. I liked it there, and I was good at my job. I considered myself a hard worker and getting promoted after only six months of getting that job only backed up my theory. May worked as an IT in an all-girl private school. How she was able to graduate and get a job with her bachelor’s GPA score remained a mystery to many. An insider tip: what she lacked in skills she compensated in what we called “the power of wastta”—connections and knowing the right people in the right places at the right time—and that was important, more so than obtaining a degree. Nepotism at its finest, or so they said. Nonetheless, May proved to be worthy. She knew her way around any code, and she could hack anything.
"My new supervisor has been demanding I put in double the overtime," Deema complained. He's driving me crazy."
"He just doesn't like you," May said. She had always been a blunt, in-your-face type of girl.
“Tell us what you really think,” I interjected.
"I mean, stop doing everything he says,” May added, throwing her arms in the air.
"Do we need to go over the definition of a ‘boss’ again?" I asked, raising one eyebrow.
May rolled her eyes. “Saying no every now and then wouldn’t be the end of the world.” May added another priceless piece of advice to her previous golden one.
Deema sighed. "The only thing keeping me sane is Eid vacation is close. I need to get away. Being in the hospital all those hours can get to you."
Eid was a celebration Muslims had twice a year—a time of joy and happiness where we got stuck with our relatives, loved ones, and not so loved ones, for a few hours. Good times. The first Eid was called “Eid Al-fitir,” which followed Ramadan, a month-long fasting. The second was “Eid Al-adha,” which followed the annual pilgrimage. We were between Eids, in that period where everyone was to readjust their biological clocks to pre-Ramadan. In Ramadan, the whole country collectively changed its schedule. The working hours were shortened, the sleeping hours were pushed back, and everything in between adapted to this temporary transition.
Everything flipped upside-down in a matter of one night. People fasted until sundown and stayed up late hours so the stores opened later and stayed that way longer. The restaurants didn't expect customers until a little before sunset, and the streets outside had low activity under the bright sun. At night, that all changed. The smell of food and coffee spread throughout the city where all the streets were decorated with lights, stars, crescent, and lanterns that shone under the shimmering moon. The spirit of giving, loving, and helping was multiplied, and became so strong it had a physical presence, walking among the people to remind them to love one another and give. It had been a month since Eid Al-fitir, and yet many places still had their Ramadan decorations up.
"Eid is not until another month and a half," May pointed out.
"You’re full of joyful support today, aren't you?" I said, looking straight at her.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged, drinking her coffee.
"Any plans for next weekend?" Deema asked while she adjusted her black-framed glasses.
This was the inevitable question we always asked one another when we wanted to do something other than our usual nothing we seemed to do so well.
"Hmmm…nope, not really," May replied.
A child’s sharp scream rose above all the other background noise but failed to slow down any discussions. I glimpsed over at the next table where a five-year-old was having a tantrum then turned back to Deema. "Not that I know of," I said.
"So, let's do something—and soon before I lose it!" Deema said in a higher voice.
She needed a break in the routine from her nurse duties in a public hospital in Dammam. I always knew she would get into medicine. Ever since she was in middle school, she was always the type who loved helping and didn't mind the sight of blood.
"Go away for the weekend?" she asked, but it sounded more like an order.
"I don't know. My budget took a huge hit," I said with an artificial sad tone, giving her a puppy-dog face, "with all the electronics that start with an ‘I’ and a certain fruit we just had to have." I picked up my phone and waved it at her.
Deema took my objection into consideration and came up with a solution. "Somewhere close?"
“Qatar is out of the question,” May murmured under her breath.
"How about Kuwait or Dubai?" Deema asked.
"Kuwait…or…Dubai?” I weighed the two options. We referred to the UAE as Dubai like it was a country on its own, but didn’t everyone? "Dubai sounds like a doable idea," I said, quickly analyzing the expenses and coming up with the answer. Although Kuwait was closer in distance, depending on the season it could be cheaper to fly to the UAE than Kuwait. Plus, we always found better hotel deals in Dubai. It was more convenient all in all, and besides, the flight was only an hour and twenty minutes.
May nodded while her eyes went wide. "S-h-o-p-p-i-n-g."
"More like window-shopping for me," I said to May, “but, I can enjoy the leather scenery.”
"So, Dubai is a possibility. I’ll look up the flights, and you check the hotel rates," Deema addressed May.
"And what is she gonna do?" May asked, pointing at me.
"I would love to do all the work while you relax." I displayed my best smirk and took a sip of my coffee. Sarcasm was a second language to everyone around me. If they didn't speak it, they understood it. I should have come with a manual. (Everything you need to know when talking to me. Chapter 1. Listen to everything I say and digest the opposite meaning).
My phone vibrated on the table, sending a ripple effect throughout its surface. I hated leaving the phone on the ringing mode. I found the abrupt sound disruptive. Glancing down at the screen, I saw that it blinked “Raj.”
"Oh, the driver is here," I declared, fishing in my bag for my wallet.
“I can’t wait until we get to drive our own cars,” May said.
I paused and gave her an uncertain look. May came from a conservative family, which translated to it didn’t matter if there was a royal decree lifting the ban. Her family would never accept it. Which brought on the second obstacle: the social ban. I smiled and said nothing.
"Where are you going?" Deema asked. "We just got here. We haven't even eaten yet."
"I know, but I have an appointment at Luscious Hair," I said, referring to the top salon in the city. I needed to get my long, out-of-control, chestnut-brown hair cut or trimmed or something. It hung a little past my shoulders, complementing my olive skin and wide, almond Arabian eyes—at least I thought so.
"That reminds me. I wanna get my hair retouched," May thought out loud. She dyed her straight short hair a light brown, which looked nice with her equally light skin and brown eyes.
"Maybe I'll get mine done in Dubai," Deema said, daydreaming. She had long, wavy dark hair and even darker eyes with a golden tan emphasizing her Bedouin features. I didn't think I’d be able to pull off that length: it seemed like a lot of work.
"Where is that wallet?" I asked my bag.
"I wanted to catch a ride with you," May said.
"Sure. I'll send the driver back to pick you up whenever you’re done, and we'll head back home together," I said. "Sound good?”
"Perfect." May was not only one of my best friends, but she was also a neighbor and we went way back.
I started hitting my bag. Where did things hide in bags?
When I’d dumped out my bag and still hadn’t found it, Deema spoke up, displaying the world-renowned generosity Saudis were known for. "Forget it. It's on me. You'll get us next time."
My gaze flickered to May, who took a sip of her coffee, never offering to pay for anything. It wasn’t worth fighting over.
"Thanks!" I gave both a quick kiss on the cheek. "L
aters."
The second I exited the coffee shop, I was slammed with a flash of Arabian sun, followed by a heatwave carrying a breeze of sea salt and summer. "Oh, God," I muttered, placing my hand over my eyes.
Just when I thought the heat was bearable, I got the reminder that no one could adapt to this. It was too hot. The only reason I could function—at least what I considered functioning—normally and carry on my day-to-day life without self-combusting was mostly staying indoors where there was central air conditioning. Why did we drink hot coffee, again?
I spotted our pearly white-colored SUV idling in the parking lot. Prancing toward the vehicle, I found myself smiling despite the heat. The birds sang in the background and guys danced in their cars with the windows rolled down and the music blasting. Kids raced past me to the restaurant door. It was a good place to be.
I approached the back bumper of the car. On the left side over the lights, there were brown stains with tails. It looked like a spatter of something, caking under the rays. Is that blood? Nah, it’s probably oil. As I climbed into the car, the sun bombarded my vision, splashing dark spots across a figure sitting in the back seat. Sliding myself in and out of the light, the figure came into full color.
"Malak, hey!" I threw my arms around her and hugged her as tight as I could. "I thought you were working late tonight."
"Yeah, I was, but I managed to wrap things up a little earlier than I expected," Malak said.
My heart beat with delight and a bigger smile plastered itself on my face. I left my hands wrapped around her for a few seconds longer, then finally allowed her some space. It felt like I barely ever got the chance to see her since she didn't live in Saudi Arabia anymore. Malak had moved to Sharjah, UAE for work, but she had been relocated to Saudi for six months. It had only been a week since she’d been back, and we were determined to spend as much time as we could together. Being apart from her was one of the hardest things I had to go through. We were inseparable, and for the first time in our lives, we lived in two different time zones. An hour. A full hour’s difference. But she was here now, in my time zone.
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