by Jack Ziebell
The Fallen
Jack Ziebell
© 2012 by Jack Ziebell.
All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Jack Ziebell.
This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
4th Edition
Dedicated to my wife and my parents,
for their love and support.
And my friends and editors Dev and Lissa,
for giving their time generously and their good company.
Chapter 1
The beating on the door and the howls drifted into the distance. Why not let them in and end it. How many were outside now? Three? Maybe more. He’d lost everything he ever knew; what was he holding on for?
He eased his shoulder back and waited for the final push.
Chapter 2
“You always leave it in third for too long - can’t you hear the engine?”
Sarah couldn’t hear the engine; all she could hear was Tim asking her if she could. She tried listening, without looking like she was trying; sounded like an engine. “Of course I can hear it, I do drive on my own sometimes you know.”
He really should’ve known how not to push her buttons by now.
“Mirrors,” he continued, “Hey do you know why women think they never cause any accidents? Because they never look in their mirrors to see the trail of destruction they leave behind.”
Man he could be annoying. She’d once asked her grandparents why they squabbled so much and her grandmother had told her, “After sixty years of marriage, if you don’t argue, you don’t have anything to talk about.” Surely they weren’t at that stage yet, it had only been five?
The car ploughed on up the A21 through the grey English existence. Tim had wanted something ‘fun’ with two seats before they had kids, but she had talked him into something more sensible – “What are we going to do if we have to move house or go on a trip with friends,” she’d said, “Or we might get a dog”. But they’d needed to hire a van anyway when they moved – too much stuff – and friends all lived so far away these days. Tim never said anything, but she could tell he felt a little sad each time he looked at the car, like each time he touched it a little part of his life that never was to be slipped further away.
And they never did get a dog. They’d both wanted one, even if they couldn’t agree on what sort - “Just not one of those small yappy ones that belongs in a D-list celebrity’s handbag,” he would say. At least they agreed on that. Travel always got in the way and it wasn’t fair to keep a dog locked up two-thirds of the year. But that was the NGO business; you can’t save the world from Tunbridge Wells.
“Which terminal are you flying from?” he asked.
“Four.”
He looked out of the window at a plane coming in to land. “Ah, that’s the one that’s miles away. My flight goes from Terminal Five, you could just drop me there; I probably haven’t got time for breakfast anyway, you know, with getting through security and everything...”
She tried to look as annoyed as she felt. “Fine, if you don’t want to keep me company.”
“Hey, I’m not going to see you for two months, what difference does an extra fifteen minutes make?” he said, trying to laugh it off.
“No difference obviously.”
They went the rest of the way in silence, except for Tim incessantly fiddling with the iPod he’d connected to the car stereo. Resisting the temptation to nag further, she wondered why he couldn’t just listen to a whole song for once? And why did he insist on constantly changing the settings? He knew she didn’t like too much bass; it made Radio 4 sound otherworldly.
She pulled up outside his terminal.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
And then he was gone. As she pulled away she realized he’d been shuffling through to play songs he thought she’d like; Stina Nordenstam, Dave Matthews, Coldplay – and he hated Coldplay.
Chapter 3
Out in space it spun onwards. Vast solar sails glistened, shedding waves of light along its surface, illuminating the letters and the flag that men had once painted there. They had spent their lives devoted to the silicon that made it alive, losing wives and hair in the process. It was truly a miracle machine, representing all good things that had come before and the dreams of those who listened for its silent trail.
For ten years it had travelled, out and out and out, the Earth a distant memory; nothing more than a grid reference within a grid reference within a cold universe. The shielding that had long protected its vital organs was deeply grooved and burned from solar winds, the tails of comets and the deadly specs of nothing that failed to grow into planets. But she had been built to last and the cosmic damage was only cosmetic. The old girl had some life in her yet.
Ping - 2014.11.15.5,246,325. Another packet of data enveloped, date stamped and posted on its journey home. Every minute of those ten years, regulated by the atomic clock she carried, a lonely signal to say ‘I’m still here and I’m still breathing,’ even when there was little else to report out there in the deep. Stars flew by like blurred car headlights in a motorway photograph.
Ping - 2014.11.15.5,246,326
Ping - 2014.11.15.5,246,327
Ping - 2014.11.15.5,246,328
Then silence.
Chapter 4
Tim braced himself for takeoff. He’d worn his woolly jumper; he’d once read that natural fibres burn less quickly. He wasn’t sure if that still held true if the natural fibres were covered in burning jet fuel but it made him feel a little more prepared all the same. He also wasn’t sure if the obese lady in the seat next to him counteracted the jumper; he would need to clamber over her in the event of a crash. Put on your own oxygen mask before attempting to help anyone else to put on theirs equals, get safely to the aisle before attempting to save the obese person next to you. Still the jumper would buy him valuable clambering time.
“Sir, please buckle your seatbelt, we are about to take off,” said the slightly-past-her-sell-by-date stewardess, cheer worn thin.
“Seatbelt?” Damn, he’d forgot. Must be losing the edge; hey just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. He clipped himself in. “Gremlins on the wing.” Nobody got the reference.
The large lady grappled with her belt for a moment before holding both ends and looking sheepishly up at the Stewardess.
“One moment, maam.” The Stewardess disappeared and reappeared holding an extender belt, which she helped the woman to attach; aware of the danger that heavy unsecured objects can pose during turbulence. The stewardess tried in vain to muster a polite smile then half bowed instead and left. Cheer-fatigue the black box would say.
“Hi, I’m Wendy,” said the large woman in an American accent, “It’s so embarrassing,” she motioned to the seatbelt.
“Hey we come in all shapes and sizes, right?” said Tim. It was the most congenial thing he could think of and she seemed like a nice woman. “Talk about surly,” he added pointing to the stewardess.
The lady raised her eyebrows and smiled, shrugging her shoulders. “Fly the Unfriendly Skies?”
They laughed.
“So why are you heading to Ethiopia? Holiday?” she asked.
“No, business – well, work.”
“Oh me too, what’s your field?”
He wondered how best to describe what he did. “Development, I work for a big NGO – sorry, Non-Governmental Organization – you call it a not-for-pr
ofit I think.”
“Oh I know – I work on similar stuff.” The lady gave a knowing smile.
“What organization?”
Without irony she answered. “The World Food Programme.”
It was these encounters that were starting to make Tim feel jaded about the NGO world, and the world in general. Too many ubercrats getting a little too fat off the suffering of others. He looked down at his own belly - not too big but it was there. He’d gone over the arguments in his head again and again; yes you need to pay good money if you want good people; yes we were working in shit holes, far away from home and family where the only thing to keep you warm at night was the malaria the mosquito gave you the night before. A mortgage in the West doesn’t pay itself you know? Don’t we deserve homes to return to? Etc. It grated, but never enough to make him quit. He often mused that he could have been a corporate banker, made his second million by thirty, given half to some poor leper colony in bumblefuck India, then retired to an island in Thailand with a clear conscience and a private school for his servants’ kids. But he hadn’t sold out, well not entirely. He’d made his choices, and when he looked back on his life he thought he’d make the same ones again, given the information available and the wisdom he’d acquired at each stage. And he was doing all right: Deputy County Director at the age of thirty-four for a respectable development organization; good(ish) salary; moral(ish) work; happy(ish) marriage. But still there was a part of him that felt like a failed martyr – the world’s smallest violin was definitely in there, somewhere near the back, playing a sad song for Timmy.
Sarah never seemed to have these moral dilemmas – she knew she was helping people and that it was the right thing to do. But she spent most of her time out in the camps, not cooped up in an air-conditioned office, looking at numbers on a spreadsheet and going to meetings where a jumped-up ten-year-old USAID official tells you you’ve filled in last year’s grant application forms. He wished he’d made time for their farewell breakfast at the airport and he missed her already. Next time they’d make sure they got posted to the same country. It was always next time. Five years of marriage and he’d only seen her for maybe two of those, once you evened it out. This wasn’t the deal he’d signed up for; a beautiful pen friend who was too busy to write.
The Captain’s South African voice came over the radio, “Fleeeght time today to Dire Dawa airport, Ethiopia, ten hours and fifteen minutes, we hope you have a pleasant fleeeght with BMI, drinks will be served shortly.” That accent still represented something dark to Tim, Mandela or no Mandela.
Chapter 5
Sarah looked up at the reddish brown sign. So many choices, when did coffee become so complicated? The new thing on the menu caught her eye – a Whippachino – ‘Not too frothy, not too Milky! Just Right for You!’ the sign exclaimed. The Goldilocks of coffees. Why not? She’d be drinking grainy dishwater for the next who-knows-how-long, and that’s if she was lucky; Whippachino, because I’m worth it?
“A Whip – a… - chino?” She winced as she ordered.
“Tall, Medio, Grande?” asked the handsome Latino behind the counter.
“Um, which one is the big one?”
“Eh Grande!”
She smiled. “Grande please.”
But damn it was good. Whippachino, she’d have to remember to tell Tim about that one, he loved his coffee too. On their wedding registry, the only thing he’d insisted on choosing was the coffee machine. She looked back at the Latino, and felt a slight pang of guilt.
The departure board told her to go to Gate 13. Unlucky she thought, but then remembered BA always flew to Sudan out of 13 and brushed the thought into the cupboard of superstition where it belonged. She stopped at duty free to pick up a twenty-carton pack of Marlborough Reds,
“Bad for your lungs but great for bribery, eh?” she said to the checkout girl who didn’t seem amused. But at least four of those packs wouldn’t be crossing the greasy palms of local officials. Tim didn’t know she’d started smoking again and he wouldn’t approve. He was the one who’d convinced her to quit, after she’d stopped smoking ‘just when we go out for a drink’ and started smoking for breakfast. But cigarettes were her small luxury in an otherwise unluxurious world and sometimes she hated to admit, she needed them.
Chapter 6
Tim gripped his armrests as the plane descended. Too many bumps. He’d once been on a Czech Airways flight where the landing gear had refused to come down. They’d circled for two hours, until the fuel light went red, but the ‘landing gear locked’ light was still off and it was too dark for ground control to tell them any different. Cabin crew, white and sweating, had made passengers stow everything; women had to take off their earrings. Out of fuel, the pilots had to land, knowing that ten years earlier a similar incident had ended in twisted metal and a hundred charred bodies. The runway was foamed; a fleet of ambulances stood ready on the tarmac; and behind the glass windows of the arrivals lobby, TV news teams had begun to silently congregate. Tim had been flying alone that day and assuming the crash position he thought of Sarah. He could hear the couple behind him saying sorry to each other for hasty words exchanged the night before. He had thought of all the things he had wanted to say, knowing he wouldn’t even get to say goodbye. He had thought about writing a note, then realized the fear was making him irrational; a note wasn’t any more fireproof than he was.
The Czech Airways plane had landed safely, the landing gear was fine, the light was broken – but you never forget something like that.
Ping. The seatbelt sign went off. Wendy, moving quickly for a lady of her size, unlatched her belts, stood up and grabbed her bag from the overhead locker in one seamless, well-practiced motion.
“Duty calls!” she said, “Nice meeting you Ted!” Then she was off down the aisle, most likely to a pristinely white and air-conditioned SUV, complete with a deferential chauffer.
At a more leisurely pace, Tim traversed the anarchic airport, dodging the desperate porters who forced themselves upon you before demanding $5 dollars for lifting your bags five meters.
At Dire Dawa Arrivals a restless crowd of loved ones, taxi drivers and greeters surged forward as passengers exited the baggage hall. Sarah loved to watch arrivals as families and couples tearfully reunited, quoting Love Actually she said it proved there was still love left in the world. Tim scanned the cardboard signs among the sea of Ethiopian faces, half of them yelling, “Yes! Mister! You want taxi!? Yes?”
Then he heard a deep and familiar voice. “Timothy Smith – Welcome!” The warm Cameroonian tones restored a sense of calm in his travel-worn mind.
Asefa was smiling, holding a cardboard sign, with ‘His Royal Highness, Timothy Smith – Welcome Back!’ hurriedly scrawled in large biro letters.
“Nice touch you bastard,” said Tim, motioning to the sign before hugging his friend.
Asefa smiled and gave him a hard slap on the back. “Hey knew you couldn’t stay out of Africa long Timmy. OK, holiday’s over, time for work, lets saddle up – you white people are so fucking lazy!”
Asefa slung Tim’s duffle over his shoulder and they headed out to the car.
Tim laughed when he saw it. “Hey nice cream SUV.”
“Yes, I wanted to get something different, white SUV’s are so 2005; you English are so behind the times – that is why we had to send our Naomi Campbell to punch some sense into you!” Asefa climbed into the driver’s seat and revved the turbo-diesel engine.
Tim got in beside him. “Good to see you man. And by the way, Naomi Campbell is English; you can’t claim her.” He was happy to be back, like he was coming home, not leaving it again. He’d always liked Africa, ever since he was a boy growing up in Johannesburg. His dad had been one of the few white ANC supporters and they’d had to leave South Africa in a hurry a day before Tim’s eighth birthday. After a whirlwind tour of Europe they’d finally settled in the UK, where his mother had grown up. He’d taken her name, Smith, after a bout of bullying about his father’s mo
re Afrikaans one – Volkstannanburg – a move he still felt secretly ashamed of.
The SUV bumped along the potholed road at a surprising speed. He was always impressed with Asefa’s ability to drive fast under terrible conditions - rogue goats and fatalist pedestrians; two-thousand miles from the Green Cross Code – how damn hard is it to look before you step out? Most of the local drivers simply put their foot down; an icon of Jesus taped to their window, their holy airbag. Use of the horn was invaluable and frequent. Asefa seemed to have no problem navigating this living maze.
“Where we headed?” Tim asked, “The office?”
Asefa hunched down behind the steering wheel, doing his familiar impression of a boggle-eyed manservant. “Waass tha meester boss man, you’s wanna we go office now? You’s got it boss sir!”
“Hey I thought you got a promotion last year, so that technically makes you the boss, boss!”
Asefa straightened up and gave a deep chuckle. “Well I guess it does! You’ve been spending too long at Head Office counting chocolate teapots in that rainy country of yours. Out here’s where the action is man. We’re heading to the office – I’ve got a stack of project proposals we need to go through before we head out to the mine tomorrow.”
“Jesus, I thought slavery had been abolished. Can’t a guy get a break after a ten hour flight?”
“No rest for the wicked Timmy. See what I mean, you whiteys… sooo lazy!”
The sun had gone down by the time the car came to a stop outside the walled Development Institute compound. The guard outside stood to attention, dressed in a makeshift uniform consisting of surplus from German, French, Italian and British police forces, with a US fire chief’s badge pinned to his overcoat for good measure. The guard gave them a military salute as they entered the compound. Asefa saluted back, Tim gave a nod and a slightly belated, very English sounding, “Hello.”
