The Old Man & the End of the World | Book 1 | Things Fall Apart

by Harrison, William Hale

  Her husband had been unable to find steady work. With barely enough money coming in to feed their children, they had been forced to abandon their apartment and move into the slums in the City of the Dead. A month earlier her husband had been murdered. No one knew who or why, and of course the police didn’t bother to investigate. They didn’t care what happened in the vast slum. Omar winced a bit at that, because he knew it was true.

  They finally hailed a cab and Omar had it drop them off at the end of his street. He pointed out the grocery store and the market across the street, and then led them up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. There was a TV in the living room, a kitchenette, and a separate bedroom. There was even a bathroom with a big tub and a shower. “I have things I need to take care of,” he told her. “There’s food in the fridge. Feed yourselves and the kids.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her all the cash he had. “Go to the market and buy clothes and whatever else you need, and more food. I should be back in a couple hours.” He opened a kitchen cabinet and took out a spare key.

  He reached out and took her hand. He placed the key in her hand and then folded her fingers around it. “Be careful,” he told her, and left.

  His first stop was the mosque a few blocks away. He was not a particularly religious man. He seldom performed his daily prayers and attended services at the mosque infrequently. He walked in and immediately spotted the person he was looking for.

  Imam Moumen was a tall, heavy man with a neatly trimmed black beard. His face lit up in a broad smile when he spotted Omar. “Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Saddaq!” he chuckled. “I must check the weather report to see if pigs are flying! What brings you here today, friend Omar?”

  “Imam, is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Certainly, my friend. Come with me.”

  In the Imam’s office he recounted the day in detail, from the assault by the dead up to where he left Fatima and the children in his apartment.

  “Ah.” The Imam raised an eyebrow at the last part. He leaned forward and asked. “And what are your intentions toward this woman?”

  “I want to protect her, her and the children, Imam. And I want to do it honorably. I assume that means we should marry.”

  “Do you believe she will consent to a marriage?”

  “I think so, Imam. I hope so.”

  The Imam sat back and stroked his beard. “Hmmm. You claimed her as your wife in front of witnesses, did you not?” Saddaq nodded. “Afterwards she called you ‘husband,’ no?”

  “She did, Imam.”

  “And you gave her a sum of money for her use, for her and her children?”

  “It was not a lot of money, Imam, but it was all I had on me.”

  “When one has nothing, even a small amount can be a great deal. So the mahr has been paid.” He thought for a moment, and then smiled. “Then my friend, in the eyes of Allah the most Just and Merciful, I’d say you are already married. But bring the woman here tomorrow. I will have a marriage contract for you to sign, and I will perform the ceremony myself. Does she have a male relative to consent to the marriage?”

  “None that I know of, Imam. She’s pretty much alone in the world, I think, her and the children.”

  “Then I will appoint one of the elders to be a temporary wali, and he shall give consent.”

  They walked together back to the entrance of the mosque. “So, Omar Saddaq, now that you’re a family man, perhaps we shall be seeing you more often at prayers?”

  His next stop was the precinct station. He hopped on a bus and flashed his badge, and fifteen minutes later got off at the corner. Even from a distance he could see officers rushing in and out of the big front doors. He marched into the lobby past the desk sergeant. “Allah be praised, Omar. We thought you were a dead man!”

  “Not yet, Mahmoud, but they tried. Who’s back?”

  The sergeant shook his head sadly. “Just you, Jbahli and Shahin. I’ve heard Bagalo and Zean made it out, and they’re on the barricades somewhere. The captain and the second shift squad are supposed to be manning the Red Lion Gate.”

  “Yeah, I saw him there. Any brass upstairs?”

  “Old Lieutenant Najjir is there, that’s about it.”

  “He’ll do,” Saddaq said.

  The squad room was empty except for a couple civilian employees answering the phones, which all seemed to be ringing at once. He crossed the room and knocked on a door at the back. He heard a muffled reply from within, and opened the door.

  “Saddaq! Praise Allah, we thought you were dead!” Najjir, a heavyset man, a long-time veteran of the force, was well past the retirement age. He was balding, and thick tufts of gray hair grew out of his nose and ears. He spent almost all his time in his office, whether he was on duty or not. His wife was a notorious shrew, and word was he spent as much time here as he could to escape her and her temper. “Sit down Saddaq, and tell me what happened.”

  He did so and narrated the story, leaving out nothing except the woman and her children. The old man shook his head sadly. “This is terrible,” he said. “A terrible thing. There are many thousands of these Infected running rampant around the City of the Dead. Allah alone knows how many have died, or will die soon. The government is trying to round up this Dawn of the Dead group, but they’ve all gone to ground somewhere.”

  Saddaq paused, thinking of Fatima and the children at home. “Lieutenant, I need to take a couple days off. This experience has been pretty tough. I’d like time to get my head together. A long weekend.”

  The old man nodded. “I understand completely. It must have been horrible, watching your comrades go down like that. And having to fight your way out… I can’t imagine. Omar, would you like to see a counselor?”

  Saddaq shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I met with my imam this morning and I’m already set to see him again tomorrow.” He stood and they shook hands.

  “I’ll let the captain know. And Saddaq? Since you will be off active duty and on vacation, you are supposed to turn in your firearm. But under the circumstances, I think you should hang onto it. You have a wife and children to protect now.”

  “How did you…?”

  He smiled. “I spoke to the captain half an hour ago. He commented on the strange phenomenon of your instant family. Take care, Omar, and may Allah be with you.”

  He arrived home to find Fatima and the children all asleep on his bed. The air smelled of soap; clearly she and the children had bathed. In the bathroom he found the clothes they had been wearing, all washed and hung over the shower curtain rod to dry. He nodded to himself; even in her extreme duress, she had found the energy to perform the simple household chore of seeing to it that their clothes were washed. She could easily have thrown them into a corner for later.

  There were four new toothbrushes next to his in the cup on the sink, a sight which gave him a sudden warm glow.

  There was fresh fruit in a bowl on the kitchen table, oranges, mangoes and bananas. The cabinets had canned goods and boxes of rice and beans. A big bowl sat on the counter, draped with a damp cloth. When he lifted the corner, he saw it contained a large lump of bread dough, left to rise. On the stove, a soup pot of lentils simmered at low heat. On a couple of the kitchen chairs there were bags with articles of clothing. He noticed that the clothes were all used but in good shape. She had obviously found the resale shop in the next block. Industrious and thrifty, he thought, smiling to himself. A man could do a lot worse.

  He peeked back into the bedroom and made sure they were all still asleep. Then he went to the corner of the living room, where a large potted plant sat in front of the window. He pulled down the shade, tipped the pot and rolled it a few feet to one side, and pulled his jackknife out of his pocket. He used the blade to pry up a small section of floorboard where the plant had sat. Under the floor lay a small canvas bag.

  He pulled out the bag and un
zipped it. It contained a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm model, four boxes of hollow points and $14,000 in cash. Most of it was in Egyptian pounds, but a little under $2,000 was in US dollars, mostly tens and twenties. Two years ago he and his partner had pulled over a known drug dealer in a late night stop. The man, he knew, paid protection in the 21st Precinct, but not here, which made him fair game. Saddaq hated drug dealers. He saw what their poisons did to people, especially poor people who could least afford it.

  They searched the man’s car, and in a cardboard box under a layer of videocassette tapes they found stacks of hashish. It was pressed into flat bars which were each wrapped in gold foil. They looked like chocolate bars. Under the spare tire they found the 9mm and a bag of cash, totaling about $32,000. Saddaq’s first impulse was to arrest the man on the spot, but his partner pulled him aside. We should take the money, he had said. No one will know. When Saddaq had refused, he grew desperate. “Please, Omar,” he implored. “My wife is sick! I can’t afford to take her to a private hospital on my salary. With this money, she could be cured! In the name of Allah, the Merciful, I’m begging you!” This was the first he had heard anything about a sick wife. Nevertheless, he reluctantly agreed to keep the money.

  They took the money and the gun, allowed the dealer to keep his hashish, gave him a perfunctory beating and sent him on his way with a warning to stay in his own territory from now on. His partner’s wife had looked like she made a complete recovery by the next time he saw her, a few days later. A miracle from Allah, he thought wryly.

  Saddaq returned the money to its hiding place and looked out the window at the busy street below. This money, he thought, might just save our lives.

  Five days later he was called in to the precinct house for a meeting. There didn’t seem to be any bus service, so he finally hailed a cab. When he arrived, he was amazed at the changes in the area surrounding the station. There were roadblocks and bodies in the street, most of them naked. A few fires burned in crumpled buildings. An officer he didn’t recognize directed him to a conference room. Inside was Captain Khouri and a slender, harried-looking man in a whiter suit, who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. With him too were Officers Jbahli and Bagalo, two of the other survivors from that disastrous day in the City of the Dead, and about a dozen other cops from the other shifts.

  Khouri said, “Saddaq! Glad you could join us. Do you have your family squared away?”

  Saddaq couldn’t tell if he were needling him or not.

  Khouri said, “Gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that, of the forty-two men on the roster as of a week ago, you’re all that’s left of the 19th precinct.” There were exclamations of surprise and dismay. “The civilian population has largely abandoned this precinct. All we’re doing here is performing a holding action against the Infected, and we are not equipped for that. As of tomorrow, this station is going to be closed. And as of today, all police departments in Egypt are being nationalized, and will fall under the direct jurisdiction of the Department of the Interior.” Khouri pointed to the man in the suit. “This is Mr. Idris from Interior. Mr. Idris?”

  The slender man stood. “Gentlemen, first let me congratulate you on your efforts thus far. You have stepped forward in a difficult time, and the nation salutes you. Unfortunately, we are losing the battle against the undead. More and more people are turning every day, by the tens of thousands it would seem. It has become increasingly difficult to find those who are succumbing to the parasite before they turn, as I’m sure you’re aware. The worst areas are the City of the Dead, and the surrounding communities, and the hordes of Infected are pushing slowly north. The decision has been made to evacuate everyone in the city south of the Sixth of October Bridge.” He pointed to the large map of Cairo on the wall. There were murmurs of surprise around the table. The Sixth of October Highway ran east-west and split the city nearly in half.

  “In fact, this is probably only a temporary measure. The next line will be at the Nile-Timsah Canal, since these things have an apparent aversion to water. Our ultimate strategy is to retreat to the Delta, where enough crops can be raised to feed the survivors. Once the situation stabilizes, we can think about retaking the city, but until then, we can’t be everywhere and defend everything.

  “The government is now establishing a series of holding camps for refugees all across the Delta. Local police units from the evacuated areas are being assigned to provide order and security in these camps, in cooperation with the army, which will oversee logistics and defense. The remaining members of this precinct have been assigned to a camp here, near the city of Samannoud.”

  LaGuardia Airport, Queens, New York

  May 26th

  In the late afternoon light, the gleaming white Gulfstream bearing the green flag of Saudi Arabia on its tail taxied across the tarmac at LaGuardia and pulled up into an empty slot in a row meant for private jets. Its side opened and the cabin steps extended and locked into place.

  Almost immediately three men in dark glasses and suits came down the stairs and took up positions near the plane. Three men stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. All three were dressed in flowing white thawbs which came to their ankles, and red and white checked keffiyehs. One of them was older, a short stocky man with a neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray, and thin metal eyeglasses. The other two were both young, with lean angular faces. After a brief conversation, the young men descended and the older man disappeared back into the plane.

  Under the watchful eye of the security men, two baggage handlers opened the compartment on the side of the plane. A security agent pointed to several high-end Vuitton and Bottega bags, and the handlers carefully unloaded them onto their cart. The agent spoke to them and they both stepped back. He reached into the cargo hold and produced two titanium Rimowa carry-ons, set them on the ground and extended their handles. Both bags were locked, and both bore a thin strip of brass which enclosed each lock. A label dangling from each bag’s handle read, in both English and Arabic, “Diplomatic Pouch.” Another agent grabbed one of them, and together they wheeled them toward the VIP entrance to the terminal.

  The jet refueled and then taxied back onto the runway. From LaGuardia, it flew to O’Hare Airport in Chicago, and then on to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. At each stop, several more men deplaned and their luggage always included two identical titanium cases.

  Once inside, the two men in keffiyehs stepped up to the counter and produced a stack of passports, all with diplomatic markings, for themselves and their security team. An agent thumbed through the passports; they were all heavily marked with entry and exit stamps from a variety of countries, including the US. Satisfied, he waved them through, not bothering to inspect their luggage. The terminal sat eerily empty. The President’s ban on all but diplomatic flights meant that the International terminal was a vast echoing hall.

  Two cars were waiting outside the terminal: a sleek Mercedes limousine with a driver for them, and a black new-model Lincoln Navigator for their security agents. The luggage, including the two diplomatic bags, was loaded into the back of the limo. As they drove off the airport and into Queens, several other cars unobtrusively shadowed them. Behind their wheels were other Arab men from the consulate security team. While they rode, the two men slipped out of their long robes and into casual clothing.

  When they reached the Saudi consulate on Manhattan Island, the limo and the Navigator drove through the iron gates, and the trailing team disappeared into traffic. Once inside the small consulate parking garage, the Mercedes pulled up next to a dark blue SUV with tinted windows. Two security agents got out of the Navigator. They were now unobtrusively dressed in jeans and light jackets. Under the watchful eye of the two supposed diplomats, they transferred the luggage, including the two titanium cases, from the limo to the SUV.

  All four got into the SUV and exited the consulate into the heavy Manhattan traffic. By the time they reached the Queens Midtown Tunnel, the s
un had set and the city was descending into darkness. Once through the tunnel, they turned off the expressway and made their way to a warehouse, which a chipped and flaking sign proclaimed Fazid Importers. There were lights on in the building and a few cars in the small parking lot. An overhead door opened, and they drove in.

  They were surrounded by half a dozen smiling men when they climbed out of the vehicle. “Khalid! Hamad! Welcome, brothers!” A tall well-dressed man stepped forward, smiling, and asked, “Did you have any difficulties?”

  The men shook their heads. “None, Sheikh Al-Jadaan.”

  “And where are they?”

  The men gestured toward the SUV where the two security men were standing. One of them opened the rear door, revealing the cases.

  “Very good! Very, very good,” the tall man said. He turned to the two security agents. “Put them on the floor, and then wait outside.”

  The men all waited until the two security agents had driven the SUV through the overhead door and out into the parking lot, and the door had closed again. Khalid and Hamad stepped forward and each picked up a suitcase. They were fairly heavy, each case weighing about fifteen kilos. “Bring them here,” the tall man said, indicating a table nearby. They set the luggage on the table and used a screwdriver to pop off the diplomatic seal. They each produced a key and opened their carry-on. Inside each, a hard plastic case exactly fitted to the interior dimensions of the carry-on. They were both locked as well. When they were opened they revealed a dark plastic foam interior, which had been cut out to fit perfectly around their contents.