The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising]

by Landeck, R. B.

  Taking one last look through the hatch at the peaceful coastal strip rapidly disappearing in the dust kicked up by the Humvee, Tom couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing for times gone by. A feeling he had fought hard to suppress ever since they had left Nairobi. No, probably even before he had left for the Congo, in the knowledge that their life would never again resemble the one they had left behind in England. It now almost seemed like the desire for new shores and the passion with which they had pursued their dream, had been but guises for what really had been an escape. A getaway from the social confines, the haunting memories, and the stale mundanity that had blanketed them from the moment he left the service. Yet with things the way they had become, that now elusive ordinary life seemed more precious and desirable than ever. Angry at himself for letting nostalgia get the better of him, Tom shook his head and slammed the hatch shut. This was their life now and not by choice. There would be time to reminisce if and when they returned to some kind of safety. For now, he would need to compartmentalize.

  He finished his train of thought just in time for the first round to ricocheted off the vehicle’s exterior with a loud metallic ping.

  “Here we go. Better get low and put nut to butt, folks!” Jimmy to let out a nervous giggle.

  Tom pointed to the floor, and everyone followed. The interior exploded with the staccato of projectiles bouncing off its Kevlar-protected skin from all sides. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see muzzle flashes erupting from upper floors of the buildings as the occupants opened up on the moving target. He could feel his muscles tense as the assailants ramped up their rate of fire, and pieces of shrapnel and pulverised glass began to whizz around the cabin. Mama Samaki shrieked. Anna clung to him, her tiny fingers digging into his back in desperation. He knew from experience that the vehicle was ordinarily well equipped to withstand this type of assault. But as was the case with all armour, this, too, would eventually buckle under the kind of sustained fire they were now receiving. Amadou winced and grunted as bullet fragments sprayed through a small opening near his head. Jimmy yelled and the driver pushed the Humvee to its limits.

  Careful to avoid random bits of rubble and debris obstructing the road in front of them, it swerved. Close to losing control and zigzagging with dizzying speed, it tossed the survivors back into a tangle of bodies, arms and legs, the mix of broken glass, hard metal and human remains adding to the jumbled mess of fear and agony. The Humvee leapt over the remnants of several charred bodies littering the asphalt, jolted and then veered hard to the right, the gunfire ceasing almost instantly as it disappeared into the shadows of a narrow side street and out of the assailants’ view.

  “Marine Corps one, BMOs zero. Hooah!” Jimmy laughed, visibly relieved they had made it through the gauntlet, while his passengers in the back began inspecting themselves for injuries.

  Amadou was the first to give the thumbs-up, followed by Mama Samaki and Nadia. Anna ever-so-slowly released her grip, and her frightened eyes searched for Tom’s. Quickly checking her over and satisfied that she, too, had come away without injury, he tickled her, gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster, and breathed a sigh of relief as she responded with a playful giggle.

  “Before you ask, we don’t have too far to go.”

  Jimmy addressed them, not least as he could feel Mama Samaki’s angry eyes burning into him. She was in no mood for more of the same and was drawing on her last remaining reserves not to lose composure. “A few more blocks at most. I promise. We will stick to the side streets, so things should be a little calmer from here on out.”

  The vehicle grumbled and resumed its forward motion at a more controlled speed, crawling through the single-lane streets lined by largely abandoned shops and entrances to ill-maintained apartment blocks looming above them on either side. This was clearly a different part of town. One not on display in the tourist offices around the world, which hailed Mombasa as a premier African travel destination.

  This was downtown in the truest sense, where penury and yearning hung in the air as much as the scent of toil and sweat. The place where those lived that made Mombasa what it was and yet would never take part in its splendour reserved for the rich. Once again, the vehicle jolted slightly as the confined space made it impossible to avoid debris, turned-over pushcarts, burned-out cars, corpses, and animal carcasses that seemed to litter the entire city.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Amadou half-whispered to Tom.

  “No, kidding!” Nadia, sitting within earshot, looked through the spider web of cracks in the bulletproof window and frowned. “We may have made it out of the camp, but we’re just as boxed in here as we were back there.”

  “Omar’s is safe, don’t worry.” Jimmy could see the concern written across their faces. “You will see.”

  He tapped the driver on the shoulder and signalled for him to get a move on.

  They crossed main thoroughfares a few more times, here and there catching a glimpse of the various estuaries that snaked inland and the forests of mangroves that lined them. Seagulls of all shapes and sizes circled the sky and dropped down on piles of rubbish by the side of the road, retrieving the odd morsel or two. Apart from the desolate disarray of the place, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and the absence of walking corpses was not only noticeable but striking.

  “No staggering munchers in this part of town,” Jimmy explained. “When the BMOs took the city, they pretty much cleared it out. About the only good job they did, too!” He laughed. “But now they’re kinda stuck here, with the good old US of A to the north, a big-ass fleet out on the water and the pus bags virtually owning the territory outside the city limits. Not to mention our African Union friends, who are still pissed they lost the city in the first place...”

  Jimmy straightened up, unslung his rifle, and pointed to a nondescript building up ahead, near a street corner opening up towards what appeared to be a car park surrounded by a low wall topped with razor wire.

  “Ah, we’re here, folks!”

  As they approached, two heavy-set men in traditional garb carrying AKs emerged from the darkened entrance to the building and trained their weapons on the Humvee.

  “Not again…”, Amadou hissed but instantly eased when one of them responded to Jimmy’s wave.

  Weapons were lowered, and Tom took a deep breath as Jimmy got out, and moments later indicated for everyone else to follow.

  “Tom, guys, this is Abdullahi and his brother Ahmed. They are Omar’s sons.” Jimmy made the introductions.

  The stocky men nodded without emotion and then turned to lead the way inside.

  “Best not to stay out in the open for too long,” Jimmy winked.

  Tom briefly tilted his head towards Amadou, the sign for him to keep his eyes open for anything untoward. Just as they had rehearsed so many times before, the lanky Congolese took the lead, with Tom monitoring their rear. If there was anything his tours of duty had taught him, it was that trust given too early was a recipe for disaster and in a town overrun by extremists, lowering one’s guard a surefire way to end up in an orange jumpsuit or worse, headless.

  He stayed behind for a moment, standing in the darkened doorway and scanning the area outside. Except for a couple of over-turned bins from which some kind of sludge had spilled onto the concrete, the adjacent parking lot was empty. The street was devoid of any movement, as were the rooftops, but somehow his senses told him they were being watched. There was no way whoever was in control of this part of the city didn’t make sure they knew everything that went on within it, and a roaring Humvee full of strangers was hardly a cloak and dagger affair. Still, for now, there was no choice but to play along, and Jimmy’s track record at least gave some reassurance that maybe they weren’t about to step into yet another trap.

  Sudden laughter from inside had Tom snap out of his thoughts. He could hear Anna shriek with delight, and the others engage in lively conversation. Shutting the wooden door behind him, he followed the bright light em
anating from a room at the end of the corridor. Inside he found the group reclining in lavishly upholstered settees, sipping hot tea from traditional cupware. To the right, an older, very tall, dark-skinned man in a white Kaftan complete with Kufi cap straightened and extended his arms in welcome. His warm and regal appearance left no doubt as to who he was. Omar’s sons, keeping a watchful eye from a corner of the room, seemed unmoved by the atmosphere and, with their rifles slung, stood silent like a king’s guard. In the centre of the room, sitting on a lush Arabian carpet, Anna was busy feeding nuts to a small monkey dressed in children’s clothes, laughing ecstatically each time the animal jumped all over her and ruffled her hair. Mama Samaki was nowhere to be seen, but a distinct clanking of pots and dishes from the kitchen to the left told him that she was busy doing what she did best. Jimmy, having removed his helmet and vest, stripped down to his T-shirt and sprawled out in a large armchair on the other side of the carpet, looked almost civilian.

  “Tom, meet Omar. Omar, meet Tom.”

  The tall Somali man rose. He put out his hand, and his stern expression softened, his mahogany eyes exuding a warm glow and a subtle smile of appreciation brightening his features as Tom bowed and responded correctly to his traditional greeting.

  “I see you are familiar with our ways,” Omar remarked, not without curiosity and directed Tom towards the armchair next to his.

  “I have spent some time in the Middle East, yes.”

  Tom was careful not to let on too much. During deployments, his past encounters had been less than friendly, and his knowledge of culture and tradition extended but to the few titbits he still remembered from mission prep. This hardly seemed the place and time to regale someone like Omar in war stories of a conflict that had seen Tom and his men pitched against the man’s spiritual brothers.

  “This is a beautiful house. You have always lived here?” Nadia, much like Tom, tried to make a good impression on their host.

  Omar nodded tactfully, painful memories of loss briefly burning in his eyes. After thirty years, his home country was still in a perpetual state of war and insurgency. He himself had experienced his share of suffering that accompanied life there at every turn.

  “I came from Somalia many years ago, seeking peace here in neighbouring Kenya.” He paused and stared into space for a moment, his mind taking him back in time. Then he continued.

  “You know, sometimes new beginnings can be soothing. I have made my peace and hold no grudge, neither against those who cause death, nor the foreign invaders still involved in the conflict. And whilst many of my countrymen still see the battle as an existentially religious one, I have never felt the urge or inclination to join their plight.” Omar sat up and looked Nadia straight in the eyes with a hardened gaze.

  “War is as unfortunate as it is necessary. A universal evil brought about in the name of righteousness, but for many with nothing but greed at heart. This is commonly understood. For those who fight the good fight, it seems as unavoidable as death itself. But let us not talk about politics and death. These days it seems, there is so much of it.” He poured a cup of tea and handed it to Tom, his gestures slow and deliberate, almost ceremonial.

  “So, Omar, how’s business?” Jimmy began. Half yawning, he put his feet on the small coffee table in front of him. “

  Plus, I hoped my remaining family could thrive here,” Omar continued. Instead of answering, he leaned back in his chair and continued sipping his tea in silence.

  Then he lowered the cup and smiled.

  “It has been…shall we say…challenging.” He had long chosen to ignore the American’s disregard for etiquette in favour of their business relationship but still occasionally found himself irritated by Jimmy’s cultural ignorance. “But seeing that you are here and looking at whom you have brought, I sense the situation is about to improve.”

  “Well, Omar, I don’t know about that. But if you could use your creativity to get us some papers and maybe put us up for the night, then that would be a good start.”

  Somewhere between patronizing and conceited, the tone in Jimmy’s voice seemed, if not inappropriate, indicative of something in their relationship that Tom had not yet been privy to. Omar was a proud man, not only deeply rooted in tradition but also much older than Jimmy. Addressing him in this way was nothing short of offensive, and yet neither Omar nor his sons batted an eyelid at Jimmy’s obvious provocation.

  “Of course,” Omar replied calmly and with a simple nod, put his sons to action.

  Without a word, both disappeared through another door down a dark passageway.

  “Tom, is it?” Omar turned back towards him. “If you please, kindly ask your fellow travellers to join me.”

  Omar’s office was spacious, even by executive terms. Ornately decorated, much like the living room, it featured golden fixtures and several chandeliers, a giant solid dark wood desk, and lush Persian rugs. On the walls were silver-framed quotes from the Quran, and behind his desk towered a giant hand-painted family portrait, depicting a young Omar on a throne-like chair amidst his family - wife, sons, daughters, and grandchildren - a reminder both of who he was and what he had lost. In the far corner of the palatial room, incongruously stood a camera tripod and a workbench littered with passports and other official documents.

  “Welcome to my business.”

  Omar pointed to a row of chairs, arranged like a waiting area near the tripod.

  “Who shall go first? Perhaps the young lady?”

  He smiled at Anna, who had taken an immediate shine to him and his warm hospitality. While Omar retrieved an old digital camera and began mounting it on the tripod, the others took a seat and looked around.

  “Is that your family?” Mama Samaki began to ask, pointing at the large painting, but Tom cast her a stern look and shook his head.

  “What else, other than photographs will you need from us?” He tried to change the subject a little too obviously.

  “It is Ok to ask, Tom. Our history is part of us. Both the joyful and the unfortunate”, Omar replied without looking up from adjusting the equipment. “It is my family, yes. Some are still here, some no longer with me, but I find joy in remembrance.”

  Without further elaboration, he walked over to the wall and pulled down a white projection screen.

  “Would you like to take a seat on this stool over here, little lady?” He invited Anna over, patting the seat before taking position behind the camera.

  When all the photos were taken, Omar escorted them back to the living room where Jimmy was still snoozing in his armchair.

  “That’s it?” Tom asked, astonished. “You don’t need anything else? Names, birth dates, etc.?”

  “You know, Tom, in as much all this information might be useful or even required for an official passport, when it comes to forgeries, it doesn’t lend any more truth to the document than a label does on a fake designer bag.” He smiled widely, exposing a solid set of gold teeth. “Besides, if indeed our American friends are looking for you, not using your real names will prove a distinct advantage.”

  “How do you know…?” Tom wanted to ask how the old man knew that the military was after them, but bit his tongue.

  “Let’s just say Jimmy over here doesn’t just bring people to shop for souvenirs. I am often the last resort and, if you pardon my candour, your appearance and, shall we say, aroma speak of duress and a rather untimely exit from wherever you have come.” Omar smiled another warm and understanding smile that seemed almost permanently etched into his otherwise chiselled features.

  They all sat up for a good while, with Omar’s son’s soon returning with a goat they had slaughtered for the occasion and Mama Samaki with Anna’s help busying herself in the kitchen, cooking up a storm of coastal dishes she remembered from her childhood. Jimmy produced a bottle of whiskey from somewhere beneath the Humvee’s passenger seat and, once again in defiance of culture and religion, began free-pouring it into the empty teacups. Omar all the while maintaining an oddly ser
ene composure despite Jimmy’s constant affronts.

  Having showered and changed into the clothes their host had provided them with from his personal supply, the group tucked into succulent spiced lamb, fish stew, rice, and beans. Everyday fare in these parts, but under the circumstances, food fit for a king. Omar had excused himself well before dinner to work on their documents, leaving them to their own conversations. Finally, bellies full and their minds exhausted from the day’s ordeal, eyes fell shut one by one, and before long, they all nodded off, tucked into crisp linen, each in their own tastefully furnished bedroom. All, except Tom.

  Before putting Anna to bed, he had inspected their room as a matter of trained pragmatism, checking under the bed and behind picture frames, drawers and wardrobes, and even lifting the carpet to make sure there was nothing that didn’t belong. All had checked out. In fact, more than that. Pulling open the louvered doors to the large in-built wardrobe, he was surprised to find a small desk complete with an old desktop computer. The internet cable had been cut, but much to his surprise, the machine was still connected to power. Now, having made sure Anna was fast asleep, he squeezed into the small space of the wardrobe, half-closing the doors behind him.

  The computer’s fan wheezed, and the ancient hard drive rattled, but sure enough, the CRT monitor flickered to life.

  ‘Africa. The elephant graveyard for old technology.’ Tom smirked at the antiquated operating system splashed the first blips across the screen. Half cringing, he inserted the USB stick into the box below the desk.

  There was little chance this dinosaur of a machine would produce anything but an error message but he had to try. He had been itching to take a closer look at the files and this could be his only chance to do so in complete privacy. If he were to use them as collateral at some stage, he needed to know more about their value, either to those who had played a part in causing all of this or those who worked to contain it, whichever. The little hourglass cursor turned and turned as the drive clicked and pinged in an attempt to read the memory stick.