No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  At first I was so mesmerized by the realness of the video that I didn’t comprehend all the words. I hit replay. Salma the clone was ranting—about the West, the treatment of Muslims, the politics of disbelievers, and then she was pledging allegiance to Al-Qaeda North Africa and ISIS.

  And then she was boasting. Salma the clone was confessing not only to the attacks of May 3 but to the “great blackout” of May 19.

  I paused the video and stared at the clock. May 19 was tomorrow.

  I glanced over my computer for the umpteenth time. No SWAT. The family who sat across from me earlier had long ago left, and another family had replaced them. A nearby worker was emptying the trash can. When he reached for his belt, my heart froze. Was this it? He was undercover; he had to be. My eyes flitted across the room: every small movement, a random person checking their phone, another their purse, suddenly felt circumspect.

  The worker…he’s…bumming a cigarette from a co-worker?

  My shoulders dropped.

  I returned to the video. My confession was ending. “Good luck trying to fix the Arlington IXP. Or finding me. By the time you get this, I’ll be gone. Or gloriously blown to bits and living in Jannah. Doesn’t matter. Our mission will continue.”

  A cascade of apocalyptic shivers coursed through my body. Maybe I should have purchased the Doomer kit. Because if they succeeded in blowing up the Arlington IXP—the one Dad always stupidly joked about—then the DC area could suffer a massive blackout. I thought of Puerto Rico, the months it took to rebuild after Hurricane Maria, work that remains unfinished, on a land forever scarred. It would be a lot like that. No internet, no phone, likely no backup electricity for weeks. And the hospitals: the danger to Titi and Mrs. Turner and anyone else dependent on power and technology to keep them alive.

  Even with backup generators, there would be dire consequences, for them and others. Kyle Sr. and his group were right: All the jewels of our society would be at risk. People would flip. They’d probably be willing to accept just about anything to regain some semblance of normalcy. Which explained why Kyle Sr. had all those files on natural disasters. He wanted to turn Arlington into Aleppo, to create chaos, to divide, to blame, and ultimately to conquer. Next step: take over DC and institute their plans for a white fundamentalist Christian theocracy. Hence the painting.

  I stood up in my little corner of the airport. Raw energy coursed through my veins like hot lava. My mind was on fire. My soul was alert. I had to figure the rest of this out. The doctored fake confession said that the mission would continue. What else were the Sovereigns planning on? A full coup d’état? Destroy or alter the Constitution?

  I paced.

  The photos…those aerial images I’d stumbled upon just a few hours ago. Or was it minutes? Whatever, it didn’t matter. It had to be the IXP joint.

  I sat back down, searching….

  Bingo. I studied the images. Typed in small font in the bottom right-hand corner was a message—something I hadn’t noticed earlier. Something that seemed insignificant. “0000 19 05 2020.” It was a time and date. It all fit.

  I pulled my hand away from the keyboard. Holy shit. Tonight…I glanced at the clock: seven p.m. Checked my surroundings: nothing. In just five hours, the “great blackout” would commence. I returned to my screen, dripping in sweat.

  I had to go to the internet hub, catch them in the act. No, before the act. Stop them. Get proof that Salma the clone wasn’t behind this. Because if I didn’t, that was it. The confession alone would be enough proof for the world to make up its mind. People see what they want to see. Salma the RWM, Amir the immigrant—we were a twofer. The perfect couple to convince the world that no Muslim can be trusted—heritage or convert, practicing or not. Hippie or cripple. It didn’t matter. If Islam was inherently evil, then all Muslims were potentially terrorists. Plus Kyle Jr. had evidence on me—joking about dosing Franklin, texts admitting anger, yearning for revenge. Real but not real. Joking, actually. But out of context?

  You are so screwed, Salma B.

  “Miss?”

  Part of me didn’t want to respond. Was this it? No, no, no, no, no—

  “Miss!”

  Standing in front of my table was an annoyed barista. “Sorry, but you’ve been sitting here for hours. We’re getting busy and other customers would like to sit.”

  I swallowed. Thank God. Bitchy baristas are way better than SWAT teams. “Of course, sorry. On my way.”

  Smiling big, I gathered my stuff and headed down the terminal looking for an empty gate where I could finish my work uninterrupted. Along the way, I scanned TVs, fearful that at any moment I’d see my face plastered on the news: RWM WANTED.

  But nothing happened. Maybe Mom’s last words were having an effect. Maybe God really was my wakeel. His protection right now would be awesome. But what I really needed was the location of the IXP center. All I had was the time-stamped photograph.

  Once I found a quiet gate, with only a janitor sweeping the floors, I sat down and opened my laptop. How was I going to narrow down a location based on a generic photo? Tired of staring at my laptop, my eyes roamed the gate, burning with rage and jealousy over Pulaski88’s evil genius. He’d know the answer to my question. He was one clever son of a—

  Wait. That janitor. His name tag. The company’s name was stitched in white letters over the breast pocket: GeoServices. “Oh my God, that’s it.” Wait, did I say that out loud? He shot me a perplexed look but moved on to the next aisle.

  I quickly returned to the aerial photos. Most people have never heard of EXIF data, unless they’re photography nerds looking to understand what kind of camera took a certain picture and what the settings were. But even most aperture nerds don’t realize that EXIF data can also be mined for where a picture was shot. If I was lucky—God, please let it be so—then I could tap into the geotags of that building Kyle Sr. had so many pictures of. I just had to…a little bit of…There!

  He forgot to remove the embedded coordinates.

  Bingo. I know your plan.

  I feverishly typed up a summary of everything I knew or thought I knew and composed an email to Detective Tim. He did hand me his card, after all. And ironically it was also the only email address I had, as there aren’t exactly public directories for security agencies. And even though it was a deluded leap of faith, I compressed all of Kyle Sr.’s files and attached them—geotags included—to a hastily written email, said “Bismillah,” and hit Send. It was nearly eight p.m.

  For the next few minutes, I sat there staring at my inbox, hitting refresh. Then, curious about what was developing outside the airport, I opened a new window and Googled my name.

  Holy motherfucking shit. There was a BOLO (“be on the lookout”) on me. I, Salma Dihya Bakkioui, was wanted for questioning. My photo, age, race, weight, and height were plastered all over the internet. Every atom of my body trembled in panic. I had to get out. I had to get in front of this colossal train wreck.

  I closed my laptop, tucked my hair into my cheesy patriotic hat, and ran to the exit, where I flagged a taxi. I handed the driver one of the $100 bills and told him I needed his cell, explaining that I was on my way to my best friend’s party (puke) and that I couldn’t be late but that my phone was dead. It was all lies, pathetic ones, too, but my cheap-ass FIGO didn’t have Google Maps on it and my real phone was still with victim X, the man from the Metro. Yeah, Astaghfirullah, I still felt bad about that one. But no time for regrets. The clock was ticking. Besides, my life as I knew it was already over.

  The cabbie looked at me dubiously.

  He glanced at the $100 bill and shrugged, handing me his phone.

  I typed the IXP coordinates; he was connected by Bluetooth to his dashboard. The screen on his dashboard mirrored the phone’s. According to Google, the site was twenty-three minutes away, zero traffic.

  “Hey, Yusuf, is it?”
I said, leaning forward.

  He nodded.

  “Mind if I hold on to this for the ride? I see you have Abdul Basit ‘Abd us-Samad on your playlist.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. I saw a tentative smile cross his face. “So you’re Muslim?” he asked.

  Usually it annoyed me just as much when my co-religionists were surprised by my religion as when non-Muslims were, but whatever. The poor guy was aiding and abetting a fugitive.

  “Moroccan dad,” I said.

  He nodded, eyes back on the road. “Sure, sis. Play what you’d like.”

  I thanked him, then blasted Quran for the rest of the ride, to earn his trust and distract him. I needed his phone. It had everything I wanted—anonymity, the internet, Facebook, no screen lock. I embraced the luck and formed a plan.

  * * *

  —

  When we finally made our last turn down a dark road, my pulse picked up a notch. The map indicated a three-minute ETA. It was nearly nine p.m. Would they be here? Was I early? Whatever, I’d wait. This was it. I asked Yusuf to drop the headlights.

  “No, sis. I can’t,” he said. “It’s against the law.”

  I handed him another $100 bill from my stack; the money didn’t seem real, anyway.

  “Fi sabillilah?” I asked, which basically means “Do it for God?” but sometimes also means “Do it for me?”

  He shut off his lights and took the bill. In the mirror, I could see that he was no longer smiling.

  “This is for a party?” he asked.

  I swallowed. I needed to sound convincing. “Um, it’s really a rave. We need to keep it quiet, if you know what I mean.”

  A quarter mile later, we approached a lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. At the center was a dilapidated concrete building. It looked as if it had been abandoned years ago. Unbelievable. The butt of my father’s jokes—Arlington’s IXP, one of the nation’s most critical internet hubs.

  Yusuf jerked to a stop. “Where is the party?” he demanded.

  As I squinted across the deserted landscape, I felt a shudder of relief and dread when I found what I was looking for: the Turner truck behind a dumpster. I leaned forward again. “That’s the deejay!” I said in a voice that sounded like a complete stranger’s. “Well, thanks for the ride, ekhi. Time to get this rave started.”

  He glanced at the building and back at me.

  Desperate, I pointed to a bumper sticker on the Turner truck. Odin’s Axe. “Yup,” I said. “See? That’s the company logo. The axe—for breaking in and breaking out. In fact, the rave should be over soon. I’m kind of late as it is. I don’t expect to be that long. Mind waiting?” I said, dangling another bill.

  He shrugged and grabbed the bill. “I’m already here, aren’t I?”

  “Cool. Thanks, brother.” I opened the car door. “Just keep your lights off, okay?”

  I was about to step out and hurry my way toward doom and death when Salma the rational paused. Cool? Did I just say the word cool? Out loud? Nothing about this was cool. Who the hell was I kidding? Nothing felt real, including my own existence. Had I become Durden? Had Durden become me? Doesn’t matter Salma B. Your fate is sealed either way. Put one foot in front of the other, etc., etc. This plan of yours might be batshit crazy, but at least it’s yours. End this. NOW.

  I thanked the cabbie, grabbed my jean jacket, and slipped into the dark of the night, leaving all of my worldly possessions—photos, passport, computer—in the back seat of his taxi.

  I approached the fence.

  Right, so what exactly is the plan of yours, Miss Crazy?

  My inner Durden voice was right. But calling me majnoon wasn’t exactly an insult. We’re a nation of crazies.

  You didn’t answer my question. What’s your plan, hurl rainbows and butterflies at them? Ask them to stop with a pretty please? Get a videotaped confession? You’re more of lunatic than I thought. Might as well dig yourself two graves—one for your plan and one for theirs. You know they will probably kill you. On sight.

  I told the voice in my head to shut the hell up. It was time to implement my plan. Step one: gear up. Step two: call the cops. Step three: catch the Turners—in the act.

  Step one was a pain in the ass, or shoulder, but I had no choice. I needed the sling to keep my jacket close to my body, to stabilize the phone. I was also hoping that of the two Turners I might encounter, it would be Kyle Jr. Maybe my sling would trigger that tiny part of him that wasn’t fully indoctrinated. The part of him that was more his mother’s son than his father’s clone. Step two: done (anonymous call). Now for step three.

  The fence around the grim warehouse had been tampered with. A thick length of chain that kept the door locked had been cut off. The door hung open like my arm had when I first climbed out that basement window, its lock still bolted shut and attached.

  I slipped through and tiptoed over to the dumpster, snapping incriminating photos of the Turner truck—with a clear view of the building behind it, and time stamps added. I uploaded the photos to the local police Facebook page. It wouldn’t allow me to create a new post, so I left the photos under their most recent post: SUSPECT WANTED: SALMA DIHYA BAKKIOUI.

  My story was already trending. Why not make use of it?

  I also made use of the cabbie’s own Facebook page, tagging the Arlington Police Department while I said, “Bismillah,” and hit Facebook Live. I slipped the phone into my breast pocket, camera facing outward, and walked toward the entrance of the dilapidated IXP building, channeling the fear that coursed through my cells. I climbed the front steps and reached for the door, whispering a “Hasbuna’llahu wa ni’ma’l wakil” in case the Turners did indeed “shoot on sight,” when all of a sudden the door swung open. I tumbled backward, down the stairs, hitting my head hard on the pavement.

  I scrambled to my feet.

  There was Kyle Sr., pointing a pistol at me. I’d envisioned this scenario, of course. I’d seen him in his combat fatigues and boots and headband and whatever else he believed made him a warrior like Balian from Kingdom of Heaven. No, not Balian. Balian was actually pretty cool. Someone nasty, like that greedy king. What I hadn’t envisioned was that warm smile. As if he weren’t surprised. As if he’d been expecting me—

  “Apprehend enemy combatant,” he barked.

  All at once, Kyle Jr. appeared, brandishing a rifle.

  “Hands up and behind your head, neighbor,” he commanded.

  I did as I was told. I clasped my hands together behind my head, which was wet with blood. I felt dizzy, spots popping up in my vision. I teetered a bit, stepping backward slowly, away from the building. Something beeped, a timer.

  “We’re on a tight schedule. Son, I need you to go back inside and finish with the wires,” Kyle Sr. said. “Leave her. I can handle it. She’s about to pass out anyway—an advantage, really.”

  Kyle Jr. stepped away from me, smirking. His dark stare penetrated my insides, waking a fear so deep and so overwhelming it jolted me to action. That’s it, girl! There’s no time like the present, and the present is saying set the damn bait or go down in history as the most hated RWM. I glanced down at my jean jacket. The camera was still in place. My breathing slowed down. Irony of ironies, in this moment of maximum danger I felt nothing but calm and fearlessness.

  This. Was. It.

  I opened my mouth and uttered three words: “Don’t do this.”

  Kyle Sr. stared at me. His hazel eyes flashed with unbridled certainty. “The existence of my people depends upon this.”

  “No, it doesn’t. You’ve got it all wrong. Please—”

  “Enough,” he interrupted. “The devices have been set. A new day is on the rise.”

  I took a deep breath. They actually fell for it, like Adam and Eve. Equally blinded with hubris, equally complicit. It felt so good to be the serpent in this scenario.


  Kyle Sr. removed his finger from the trigger, letting his arms fall to his sides. He slid his pistol into a leg holster and turned away from me, confident that I was about to pass out. I thought he might be right.

  I looked down at the ground, thinking maybe I should just curl up now and sleep. My head was throbbing. I’d gotten what I needed at that point—a confession from the Turners about their plan and about their framing me—all live. And then all of a sudden a massive, powerful light shot out from behind me. From everywhere, in fact. I stumbled some more. What the—

  “Police! Drop your weapon at your feet! Hands over your head! Remain where you are!”

  I kept my hands pressed firmly against my head, trying not to make any quick moves, trying to stay steady…even though the tiny black spots had returned to my peripheral vision. They were merging into one big hole.

  I forced my eyes to remain open.

  Kyle Sr. slowly complied with the police orders. A shadow moved inside the IXP building, in and out of the windows. That’s when Kyle Sr. ducked down and pressed a band on his wrist.

  In the blink of an eye, a wave of energy, light, and heat blasted through the air, smashing windows. Smoke billowed. It felt like someone had rammed an ice pick into my eardrums. The world seemed to be moving rapidly away. It dawned on me that it wasn’t the world that was moving, it was me. The blast had lifted me up into the air and I was free-falling back to the ground.

  So this is where it ends. Get ready to reunite with Grandma Thiede in three…two…

  “I’ve got you, Salma.”

  I’d fallen into someone’s arms. A man’s arms, judging from the sound of his voice. Mystery Man X hoisted me over his back and sprinted away from the blast. I watched the ground shift from gravel to grass to pavement, then the world turn upside right again as I was placed gently on top of a gurney. For a brief second, I caught a glimpse of his arm. He wore a glow-in-the-dark watch with a bright blue face. The next thing I knew, two EMTs were strapping me in, their mouths moving with speech, but I couldn’t make out the words, as my hearing was totally shot. An oxygen mask was slipped over my mouth and after that there was a heavy metal click and a beam of light.