by J. W. Vohs
Levi was happy doing these things, but whatever innocence that remained in his heart following the Gulf War had been extinguished by his post 9-11 combat experiences. He no longer believed that the world was a safe place, and he even began to doubt that the United States would be able to avoid economic collapse as world energy sources declined in the face of ever-increasing demand. He moved the family to an isolated house on the shore of Lake Erie, where in his spare time he began to prepare them for an uncertain future. Being an Army chaplain hadn’t exactly turned Levi into a pacifist, and he believed that his children needed to be trained to defend themselves in what he expected would become an increasingly violent world. Gracie and Mickey studied the martial arts, learned to use and care for firearms, and were even taught knife-fighting skills by one of Levi’s old Army friends.
Sophie took all of these developments in stride. Growing up in Ein Gedi she’d been taught all of these skills and more by her parents and grandparents, as well as many other adults of their generations who had lived under the threat of war and terrorism their entire lives. She didn’t necessarily share her husband’s pessimistic view of the world’s future, but as an Israeli Jew she never felt completely safe, and she also wanted her children to know how to defend themselves. In addition, she wanted them to know her parents and their heritage, so at least once a year she returned to Israel where the kids could immerse themselves in the Hebrew language and Jewish culture. Gracie had wiggled herself free of the trip this year, arguing that she simply had to participate in AAU summer basketball if she was to have any hope of starting for her high school team in the coming school year. So this summer Sophie had to be content with just Mickey’s company, determined to make the most out of their time together even while she battled the nagging worry that the children were rapidly growing up and soon wouldn’t be travelling to Israel with her every year.
All thoughts linked to those concerns immediately disappeared, however, when she turned on the television and began to see news coverage of an unknown virus in Washington D.C. that was leading to numerous infections. Even though government officials continued to insist that the outbreak was under control in the metro area, videos from on-the-scene reporters were showing riots and violence in the streets of the American Capitol. Sophie’s mother and father quietly joined her in the family room with coffee mugs in hand, just in time to see graphic footage of three obviously infected individuals pull an elderly woman to the pavement. Once the poor lady was down they began biting her as she screamed for help from the crowd running frantically away from the scene; nobody stopped while the camera was rolling.
Aviel, Sophie’s dad, finally commented, “One of my old friends from Ein Gedi said that Mossad is following dozens of these cases in the Jerusalem area.”
“What do you think it is, Abi?” Sophie respected her father’s opinion more than anyone else’s, with the possible exception of her husband.
The grizzled old veteran shook his head, “They’ve traced the outbreak here to a professor who flew in to Ben Gurion from Istanbul.”
Sophie’s mother, Lina, stood up from her chair and asked nervously, “He picked up the virus in Turkey?”
Aviel frowned as he explained, “My friend believes the victim was exposed while he was in Tajikistan working to convince some Bukharans to emigrate. The professor was also an amateur archaeologist, and might have been down in the Pamir or Hindu Kush Mountains before flying home.”
“That’s where the American Marines were attacked,” Sophie pointed out.
“Yes,” her father agreed, “but something just isn’t right about this situation.”
Lina looked worried. “What are you getting at?”
Aviel just shook his head again, “Sometimes I think most of the people in Mossad have lost all touch with reality.” He was quiet for a long moment, then took a deep breath and continued, “This virus causes something like rabies. People who are bitten by infected individuals become very ill with a high fever and neurological deterioration. But then they only appear to die; somehow they get back on their feet, mindlessly attack others, and bite them. That’s how the virus is spreading, and that’s why people in Washington are running through the streets. They are being chased by the infected.”
Sophie just stared at her father in open-mouthed disbelief for a moment before asking, “And this is happening in Jerusalem?”
“It’s happening in every major city in the world,” Aviel grimly replied. “Infected people and terrified mountain tribes have been pouring into Kabul and Islamabad for several weeks now, and from there some of them have managed to travel by air to other cities. That’s how it’s been spreading, through the airports. Here in Israel, several dozen people have shown up at hospitals with human bite wounds they say came from family and friends. Patient zero, the professor who flew in from Turkey three days ago, has been whisked off to a military base.”
“He’s still alive?” Sophie wondered.
Aviel nodded, “That’s what I was told. And he managed to bite four people in the hospital before he was subdued. Nobody knew that he was anything more than a dangerous lunatic, so they cleaned his victims’ wounds and sent those newly infected people home to rest.”
Lina was skeptical. “And just how reliable is this ‘friend’ of yours in Mossad?”
“You know him,” Aviel made eye contact with his wife as he answered. “He pulled me from the Temple Mount in ’67 after I took a Jordanian bullet in the gut. In ’73 we crossed the Suez with Sharon, and I saved him during the fight at the Chinese Farm.”
“Ephrem,” Lina whispered. “He’s not a crazy person.”
“No,” Aviel agreed.
“What should we do? Are we in danger here?” Sophie’s voice was trembling.
“Calm down, Sophie, the IDF can handle anything, and you know that’s the truth,” Lina soothingly promised.
Aviel was staring at the floor, deep in thought, until he added, “I’m sure the IDF will take care of this outbreak. But since we were planning a trip to Ein Gedi at some point I suggest we begin to prepare now, just in case . . .”
* * *
By the next evening, Jerusalem was in an uproar. Brazen attacks on the city’s streets had been reported throughout the day, and footage showing soldiers and police shooting the infected were frightening the citizens even further as bullets didn’t stop most of the rabid biters. Other reports showed Washington D.C. in a state of anarchy, with the president evacuating the White House by helicopter just before a mob of thousands broke through a perimeter fence in a panicked frenzy. Lina had turned the television off before dinner, and following the meal Aviel announced that they would leave for Ein Gedi as soon as they could pack the trailer that would be pulled by the family’s Jeep.
The seriousness of the situation couldn’t be kept from his grandson, who asked, “Are you worried that we could be in danger, Grandpa?”
Aviel gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “Well, Mickey, I mean Mick, as I told your mother and grandma, since we were going down to Ein Gedi at some point we might as well head out of town now. The police and IDF will get this situation under control eventually, but there’s no reason for us to be here while they do their thing.”
Mick studied his grandfather for a moment before announcing, “You’re worried, Grandpa. I know you better than you think. You’re worried.”
Lina stepped next to her husband and put her arm across his shoulder as she tried her own smile on her obviously perceptive adolescent grandson. “Mickey, this grouchy old man has fought in three wars and lived through two intifadas. He doesn’t worry easily.”
Mick nodded, “I know that, Grandma, that’s why I’m so concerned. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Aviel finally just sighed and shook his head, “Listen, son, something is very wrong out there. Nobody seems to know what we’re dealing with, and I can sense the confusion and panic coming from the authorities and the news reporters. This is Israel, we expect to be att
acked on a regular basis by everything from stones to rockets carrying poison gas. If our people are worried, then I’m worried too.”
Mick gave his own reassuring smile, “Dad’s been preparing us for something like this since I was a little kid. I’ll help you.”
Aviel chuckled, “You’re still a kid, and I’ll get us to Ein Gedi just fine.”
“Hey,” Mick protested, “I’m fourteen now, and I know how to fight with everything from my fists to an AK.”
Aviel looked serious again, “You’re right, of course. Come with me and help me bring our weapons out to the table; everyone needs to be armed before we leave the house tonight.”
Possession of firearms by Israelis not engaged in active military duty or employed in security was very restricted, in spite of many American reports to the contrary. Civilians living in the West Bank and some border regions could obtain a permit to carry a gun, but most applications were denied by the government. Mick’s grandparents both had permits to carry since they technically lived in the West Bank, but Aviel had brought home weapons from the Six-Day and Yom Kippur Wars that nobody knew about. After repeated trips to a hidden cache behind a fake wall in the bedroom closet, Mick and his grandpa stood with Sophie and Lina and looked over their arsenal. Two Jericho nine-millimeter pistols legally purchased with the gun permit, were already strapped to Aviel and Lina’s hips, but the rest of the collection was what really surprised Mick and his mother as they scanned the weapons.
Aviel had brought home an AK from each war he’d fought in, as well as another he’d picked up from a slain terrorist in Lebanon in the early 1980s. Nine, thirty-round magazines were loaded and ready for each assault rifle, and at least another thousand bullets were stacked in boxes next to the guns. An American Colt .45 automatic pistol scavenged from a battlefield in Egypt was there, along with five magazines and several hundred boxed rounds. A .308 NATO sniper rifle given to Aviel following the funeral of a childhood friend killed on the Golan Heights lay gleaming on the table. It only held four rounds at a time, but twelve boxes of ammo proved that the weapon had great value to anyone looking to stop a long-distance threat. A high quality .22 rifle rounded out the arsenal, with a sixteen-round tube fully loaded, and several bricks of bullets available to make sure it stayed that way.
Guns weren’t the only defense-tools available to the family; plenty of edged weapons were piled on the table with the firearms. A real Gurkha Kukri knife caught Mick’s eye, but Aviel picked it up and looped the sheath through his belt before handing his grandson an old, but still deadly, Gerber combat dagger. The experienced soldier explained, “Kukri’s can be tricky in a fight, and besides, this Gerber is the only blade on the table that’s actually drawn enemy blood.”
Mick accepted the dagger with reverence before explaining, “Gracie and I’ve both trained with Kukris, Grandpa, but thanks for the Gerber. These things are hard to find.”
Aviel looked surprised as he asked Sophie, “Levi teach these kids Kung-fu too?”
Sophie wryly grinned, “Well, they have both been training in mixed martial arts since they were seven-years-old. Their father just didn’t trust the world after going to war.”
Aviel grimly nodded, “I know how he feels.”
* * *
Three hours later the Jeep was packed and the small group was ready to depart. The latest news broadcasts reported that Jerusalem and outlying areas were in the midst of a full-blown epidemic, and the government was ordering people to stay home until the military and police could get the situation under control. World news was terrible, with Washington D.C. in flames and major cities across the globe in chaos. Unverified reports of infection were flooding in from even some rural areas in Israel and the surrounding countries. One of the last stories Mick read from a link on his Facebook page claimed that the infected could only be killed by head-shots, though he had to shut down his laptop and join the adults waiting at the door before he could research the information further.
Sophie had been trying to call Levi and Gracie for hours from both the landline and her cell with no luck since the decision had been made to leave for Ein Gedi. The circuits were all busy, or no networks were available, and she grew increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt to reach her family back in America. Finally she sent out e-mails to her husband and daughter, as well as posts to their Facebook pages, telling them where she was going. She was terrified at the prospect of being separated from her husband during this crisis, but she saw no viable alternative. Ben Gurion Airport was closed until further notice, and all the train and bus lines were shut down. Even if she could reach Haifa or one of the other ports, there was no guarantee she could find a boat heading out of Israel at this time. Besides, she realized that in the growing global confusion her chances of actually traveling all the way through to Cleveland, Ohio, regardless of the means of transportation, were slim to none. No, she was going to have to take care of Mickey here in Israel and trust that Levi could do the same with Gracie in the United States.
In spite of the government order telling people to remain in their homes until the crisis passed, the roads were fairly busy considering the time of night they were travelling. With a squad of soldiers and several military vehicles just pulling up in in front of the main road leading into Ma’aleh Adumim, Sophie realized they were exiting the suburb just before a check point was established to force citizens there to follow the government order. As they drove slowly along Highway 1 leading them deeper into the West Bank, they saw several other roadblocks in the process of being set up. The soldiers constructing the barricades just waved the jeep through until they reached the exit for Highway 90, the only road that led south along the coast of the Dead Sea. Very few people would have a good reason to be on that road after midnight in the middle of the work week, but residents of Ein Gedi were among that select group.
The travelers passed several vehicles heading north, mostly military traffic related to the unexpected mobilization of the IDF reserves, but they had the highway mostly to themselves as they drove along the Dead Sea. Aviel was explaining to Mick the type of life he’d experienced when he was the teen’s age when they saw hazard lights blinking on the side of the road several hundred meters past the peak of a hill. They slowly approached what they now could see was a small caravan of three rather decrepit-looking vehicles haphazardly parked just off of the highway. The silhouettes of people moving around in the dusty glare of the headlights captured Aviel’s attention as a wild-eyed boy ran into the middle of the road in an attempt to flag them down.
Sophie could see that the child had tear-stained cheeks and dark stains on his light-colored shirt, and when she realized that her father intended to keep driving south she almost shouted, “Turn the Jeep around, Abi!”
Aviel slowed the vehicle to a crawl but didn’t stop as he tried to explain, “They’re Palestinians.”
“I don’t care who they are; we’re going to help that boy!”
Lina tried to intervene, “Sophie, you’ve been in America a long . . .”
“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been away; I saw his eyes. I’m a mother, and if Mickey or Gracie ever tried to flag someone down with the expression that boy had on his face, I pray that they would be helped.”
Sophie pulled out the Jericho pistol she’d picked up at the house and worked the slide to chamber a nine-millimeter, hollow-point round. “If they try anything crazy I’ll shoot them myself, but that boy is in trouble. Go back.”
Aviel grumbled under his breath as he slowly turned the Jeep around in the middle of the highway while the rest of his passengers chambered rounds in their own weapons. The veteran had been shot by Jordanians in ’67, hit by Egyptian shrapnel and blown off of a tank he was hitching a ride on in the Sinai in ’73, and his vehicle had been struck by numerous Palestinian rocks and one bullet during the first Intifada. Age and experience had tempered his views of the world and its diverse peoples, but when he was honest with himself he knew that he still pref
erred to avoid most Arabs. Now he was leading his wife, daughter, and grandson into a situation that could easily be an ambush during what was already the most unusual and frightening night of his eventful life. The tough old man finally just shook his head, pulled out his gun, and headed back toward the vehicles with a grim fatalism that many Israelis knew so well.
The terrified boy had seen the Jeep turn around, and he was sprinting down the road to meet the vehicle with an expression on his face that might have indicated he was being chased by a pack of lions or some other man-eating beasts. Aviel turned the wheel so the youth would have to approach the driver-side window, and he kept his gun pointed at the door where he knew the round could easily pass through the thin metal and plastic to reach the kid’s mid-section. As the boy closed to within a few meters of the vehicle he cried out in perfect Hebrew, “Please help us!”
Sophie had rolled down her window and called out to the frightened youth, “Calm down, son; tell us what’s happened.”
The boy, whom on closer examination appeared to be a short, early-teen, began to weep as he breathlessly explained, “My father’s cousin, Ratib, he pulled his car over and we got out to see what was wrong. Then his brother attacked my mother. He pulled her to the ground and was biting her everywhere. My father began fighting him and told me to get help; please help us.”
Aviel commanded, “We’ll stay in the vehicle; you lead us to your mother and we’ll shine our headlights on her.”
The boy nodded and immediately began jogging back toward the old cars sitting on the shoulder of the road a hundred meters distant. As they drew closer, Aviel could see that the lead vehicle was empty with both front doors hanging open. In the second car a young man and woman with two car seats behind them sat staring into the glare of the headlights as the Jeep passed. The doors of the last car in the small caravan were all open, and the teen led them around the back of the vehicle and pointed into the darkness of the Judean Hills. Even Mick had his gun lifted and ready as his grandfather swung the lights hard to the left, where they saw a blood-covered man holding a limp woman’s body in his arms as he gently rocked back and forth on his knees. A few meters beyond the couple they could make out the shapes of two more people lying awkwardly still in the murky dust.
