by Jack Ziebell
He drove around the city for almost an hour, sometimes doubling back on himself, which was always worse. When the runners had seen him once, they were more intrigued and incensed by his presence the second or third time; and chased him for longer. He was glad for the Niva’s sturdy bull-bar as he had knocked down several people, including a large Sudanese man in a smart suit, who he’d sent tumbling awkwardly into the dust.
The fires seemed to have been less bad than he had seen in the big towns in Ethiopia, perhaps due to the lack of mains electricity and the concrete walls of the buildings, with their corrugated metal roofs. He had still seen some smoke, rising from the windows of several of the bigger buildings. He was therefore relieved, when he finally came across The Lion Den, to see that it appeared intact. In his haste to escape a particularly aggravated pack, he had almost driven past the small sign above the high main gates to the walled, razor wire topped, hotel compound. In his mirror he could see the pack getting closer and more runners coming towards him from a side street several yards in front. He quickly pulled away and drove down a few blocks before turning a corner and slowing down. How could he get in without stopping? He would need to do as he did back at the Institute: pull up outside the gates, jump onto the car roof, climb over and unlock them from the inside, then bring the car in. But to do that he’d need time, at least a minute or two.
From the recesses of his childhood he remembered the story of the Pied Piper. He would lure as many of the runners away to another part of the city as he could, then drive quickly back to the hotel, leaving them behind, knowing they would not find their way back, except by chance. He doubled back, and blasted the horn – too loud he thought, he didn’t want to attract more of them from other areas. He cracked his window slightly and turned on the car stereo. Zangaliwah. The joyous Cameroonian tones seemed surreal and out of place and he wept as he thought of the last time he had heard it and when he had danced with Sarah, warm from Asefa’s damned moonshine. It worked, almost too well. The runners ran towards him, some trying to reach through the gap in the window and pull it open. He sped up a little and those clinging on fell away, then slowed down to allow the crowd, which now numbered about twenty, to catch up. He had to stay close enough to keep them interested but far enough away that they couldn’t catch him entirely. The heat and the adrenaline drenched him with sweat. If they surrounded the car, he didn’t know what he would do, could he shoot them all? He feared the sound of gunfire would bring an endless stream of bodies, trapping him in his vehicle or else ripping him from it to meet a brutal end at the hands of the frenzied mob. The more people that followed him the faster they seemed to join the fray.
After circling the block twice and slowly driving some fifteen blocks down he then sped up for a further two blocks, turning the music up and blasting the horn as he did so. A sharp turn took him onto a quiet side street and out of sight. He immediately turned off the stereo and dropped the clutch, coasting onto the next parallel main road. Keeping the car in third, so as to keep the engine quiet, he made his way back to a side street that would take him back to the hotel. For the last hundred yards he turned off the engine and let the car roll almost silently in neutral to a stop outside the gates. Without stopping to look he jumped out, clambered onto the bonnet, onto the roof and over the gate.
His feet were now resting on the iron crossbar on the inside of the gate, with his back to the compound. He was about to jump down and slide open the lock when he saw ten or more tall black figures streaming down the street towards the car. There would be no time to drive inside. He quickly ducked down behind the gate, hoping they would be attracted only by the car and would not have the presence of mind to understand its strategic placement for use as an improvised ladder. Before he had finished the thought something inside the compound grabbed him by the ankle. Losing his footing, he crashed to the floor, catching his chin on the gate on the way down and cutting it open. He spun onto his back to face the wild blood-encrusted face of a twenty-something white woman; an aid worker no doubt. Her clothes were torn and breasts exposed, covered only by her grimy hair. She grabbed at the wound on his chin, yelping excitedly at the sight of blood. Behind her he could see the movement of others but couldn’t tell how many. He regained himself and landed an awkward blow across her jaw, sending her sprawling into the dirt and revealing the three other men behind her across the courtyard. Attracted by the scuffle the men were rising from some other unfortunate distraction, lying motionless behind some grubby plastic garden furniture. Under the dirt, he could see two of the men were white but the leader of their pack was a large Sudanese man, nearly seven feet tall and dressed in a stained khaki guard’s uniform. For a moment there was a standoff; Tim lying on the ground, head up and staring at this new threat and the pack staring back at him. His eyes darted to the reception area, which led to the rooms; it was slightly closer to him than they were. The door was ajar and looked sturdy, he might just be able to make it.
The pack acted first, smashing plastic chairs out of their way and running towards him. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the door, ducking a hand that grabbed for him as the pack overshot, not comprehending his plan of escape. He slammed the metal door and slid the heavy bar lock closed, to the sound of furious thumping on the other side. Running to the other side of the small reception desk he scanned the guest logbook – there she was, Sarah Whitfield, Room 9, and a familiar signature. His heart leapt, she was here. He took the keys for the room from the board on the wall behind the desk, noticing with dismay that most of the other rooms were also occupied, then ran into the dark hall.
He could just make out the numbers on the doors, 3… 5… 7… 9. He fumbled with the keys, unlocking the bottom deadlock first. As he was about to place the key in the top Yale lock he heard a bang from down the hall, the opposite end to where he had just entered. Peering down into the gloom he could see, two, then three figures silhouetted by pale light. There must have been another way in, an open back door that led in from the courtyard. They hadn’t seen him yet in the darkness; he focused, re-aligned the key and inserted it into the lock. The door opened a crack and then clanged as something wedged against it from the other side. A chair. She must be inside, he knew she always took this added precaution; he was so close. He rattled the door as if he was picking a lock, hoping to dislodge the chair from its tilted position against the handle, but the noise was attracting the pack down the hall, which let out excited calls. He had no option but to continue rattling though the pack was drawing rapidly closer, loping down the hall like gorillas, howling and hitting walls and doors as they approached. He rattled the door faster and with his full strength, they were almost upon him when he heard a wooden clunk and the door slid open, scraping the fallen chair backwards across the floor. He fell inside and slammed the door behind him, catching the fingers of one of his assailants as he did so. He threw his weight against the door, something snapped and the lock clicked shut.
There she was. Lying on the floor, weak but alive, was his wife. “Sarah!” he shouted, but to his despair she had the same vacant stare that he had seen so many times before; her mind had gone like the others. He repeated her name again and again. There was no reply. He didn’t know why he had hoped for more, he should have been glad she was alive but somehow finding her this way made everything that had happened since his escape from the mine seem suddenly true, as if it had become more than real. They had been to many strange and dangerous places together before; travelling around Pakistan, Africa and the Middle East; and he had hoped against hope that this, terrible as it was, would be some sort of surreal continuation, made bearable if they could be together on their island of two.
He broke, weeping hysterically, still saying her name. The beating on the door and howls seemed to drift into the distance. He couldn’t hold for much longer. Should he? Why not let them in and end it. How many were outside now? Three? Maybe more. He’d lost everything he knew, what was he holding on for? He eased his shoulder back and
waited for the final push.
A weak, unrecognisable voice spoke from across the room, “Teh.” Then clearly she said it again. “Tim.”
It didn’t sound like her, but she had spoken and she had said his name. He threw his weight back against the door. In a flash, fuelled by the adrenaline that returned with a vengeance, much became clear to him. The old man lying in the garage, the people in the streets of Gambella, the runners outside and now this; they were waking up; they were getting better. When he was trying to reach her, he had been like a machine; focused on a distance objective; blotting out all else, but now he had something that he had not truly felt during that journey: hope. The sight of his wife, hungry and defenceless somehow increased his strength and resolve tenfold, he almost had to stop himself flinging open the door and running savagely at those who besieged them. He slid the chair towards him with his foot and propped it back against the door handle, while taking the key and locking the deadlock. It wasn’t sturdy and wouldn’t hold for long. He wanted to run to his wife and hold her but he knew he couldn’t do that yet. There wasn’t much furniture in the room, just a bed, a flimsy wardrobe and a small chest of draws, but he moved all he could against the door, even throwing her suitcase and backpack into the barricade.
The thuds, now muffled, seemed to gradually decrease in ferocity; they were losing interest he thought, either that or the pain in their hands was getting too great to continue their onslaught. A final loud thud, as if a head had slammed against the wood on the other side, brought silence to the room.
“Tim,” Sarah said again, not to him, but looking almost through his face. He ran to her and held her and like a child she grasped him tightly back, clinging to his body as if she were clinging to a ledge. They stayed like that for what seemed like an hour, sobbing. He told her he loved her and that he wouldn’t let her go.
The wave of emotion subsided and he tried to peel her hands from him to survey the room. He laid her down on a pillow as her lips mouthed his name. Empty packets of nuts and granola bars lay about, many of the packets looking chewed and half eaten. A plastic washbowl lay on the floor with some dirty socks nearby, she must have been about to hand wash some clothes when it happened, but the bowl was now nearly dry. The place smelt fowl; sickness had visited her in the past days, perhaps explaining her weakness. He took out a ration pack he found in his pocket; peanut butter and vitamin mix, opened it and handed it to her, placing it to her mouth. She ate ravenously and looked at him for more, but that was all he had – the rest was in the car. The car; it was probably swarming with people by now.
The imminent danger seemed to have passed but how could they get out? With Sarah so weak, making a run for it through the hall seemed like suicide. He went back to the barricade and started to go through her luggage, nothing useful except a bag of gummy bears and a carton of cigarettes. I guess she never quit, he thought and smiled to himself – so pointless now. He sat on the floor, with his back to the pile. He opened the gummy bears and gave them to Sarah and took out a cigarette for himself. After a few drags he saw her reaching for the cigarette so he carefully put the filter to her lips, she inhaled once but then grabbed for the lit end, burning her hand and crying out. A thud and muffled grunt on the other side of the door let him know their assailants were camped just outside in the hallway, intentionally or not.
They had to get back to the car somehow. Then he remembered the thing he had bought her after Nairobi. Did she still have it? She had been difficult about carrying it and forgot it most of the time. He scoured the room for her handbag and found it in the chest of drawers, he emptied the contents – there it was. A small black canister, about twice the size of a lipstick case; the red writing on the side, just below a skull and crossbones read ‘Pepper Spray - 5m Scoville Units – Maximum Strength’. He’d never used pepper spray before and wondered how effective it would be against mindless devils who didn’t even fear the sound of gunfire. On the back it read ‘Up to 20 Shots!’ but he doubted the small can’s claims. How many were out there in the street? More than twenty, that was for sure. He should have brought the gun; if he could have just got the car into the compound. Then he recalled another item from the suitcase, a small bottle of nail varnish remover, he could use that to make some sort of Molotov cocktail, not big but it might work as a distraction. He knew what he must do.
When night fell, he eased the room’s low window open, trying to make as little noise as possible. Beyond the window it was pitch black, but a flash from the small LED light on his key chain illuminated a gap between the building and the compound wall, wide enough to walk down. He helped Sarah to her feet, “We are going to the car now,” he whispered. She stared back but made no sign of acknowledgment and still weak, was reluctant to move.
He had to half-carry, half-drag her through the window, then put his arm around her waist and walked quickly with her, clutching the pepper spray and feeling his way along the compound wall, hoping he felt nothing else. After forty-feet of stumbling darkness his hand touched the metal of the gate. He stopped and listened but couldn’t hear anything outside. Now speed was going to have to take the place of stealth. He felt the heavy metal bolt and slid it open. Still gripping Sarah tightly, he opened one side of the gate and holding the pepper spray in front of him, moved through the gap.
Shuffling forward and feeling the path ahead with his feet he was ready to fight if he had to and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest with the fear. The metal of the spray canister clinked against something else metal; the car. His fingers found the handle and he opened the driver side door. As he did so the interior light went on, instantly illuminating the scene around them. Bodies lying in the darkness started moving; groans, grunts, then a screech. He pushed Sarah inside; she fell across both seats and he jumped in, sitting on her legs. The passenger door was closed but he could see the windscreen wipers and wing mirrors were all now missing. As he went to close his door the rancid face of the white woman from the gate appeared inches from his own. Startled, he fell back on his wife, but springing upright he sprayed the savage in the eyes and she recoiled in pain screaming. Slamming the door, he started the engine and the running lights lit up the street. Although his eyes burned from the pepper spray, through the windscreen he could make out hundreds of black shapes getting to their feet. He threw the car into reverse, not knowing if the situation behind was any better. They shot backwards, hitting several people and rolling over them without slowing. He tried his best to keep reversing in a straight line but it was hard in the darkness. In front, as far as the headlights reached, he could see people running after them, mouths open, arms outstretched or flapping loosely at their sides. He wanted to spin the car like in the movies but had no idea how. Instead he tried to do a fast three-point turn, but quickly realised why they always span in the movies. Halfway through the turn, the first of the runners caught up with them, slapping up against Sarah’s side of the car. The Niva rocked upwards and for a moment he thought they might be turned over. They crashed back down and he managed to gain traction, turning the car as he did. Then they were free of the scrum. He drove quickly but carefully to the outskirts of the city and then beyond, into the wide empty grasslands. After fifteen minutes he stopped and switched off the car engine. If any runners were out this far, they would most likely be dispersed and alone. In the darkness he shifted his position, unpinning Sarah’s legs from beneath him. He shifted her properly into the passenger seat, which he tilted backwards, then leant over and hugged her. Despite the discomfort and the heat, for the first time something felt almost normal. She knew him and that was all that mattered. With his wife in his arms he eventually calmed and drifted away into sleep.
When dawn came he woke, wondering again where he was. Sarah was still sleeping and for a second he thought they were back in bed in their Tunbridge Wells flat; he wondered why the bed was so uncomfortable and why he was sleeping in such a strange position. He had kept the windows closed and the car was stiflingly hot. T
hey were on a small hill, although not as far from the city as he had thought when he had parked the night before. He could see a few lone figures still wandering beyond the city limits but they were far away from the car. He looked at the fuel gauge; the tank was nearly empty. If they were going to drive any further they would need to go back into town to refuel, an idea he quickly pushed to the back of his mind. He tried hard to think of a plan – where could they go? He needed to take her somewhere safe until she got better, or the world did, or both. From what he’d seen so far, he still felt things were going to get a lot worse before they ever got better.
Scanning the horizon he saw an imposing structure surrounded by a high wall, topped with a double role of razor wire. He squinted, he could just make out a flag fluttering from the top of the main building; stars and stripes - and the gate was open. He looked at his wife, then at the gun that lay between them.
Chapter 23
“Captain Zakorski,” said the General, who was accompanied by his aides, the Brigadier and two concerned looking colonels.
“Yes Sir.” Zakorski stood up from her consol and saluted the General while brushing back a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun.
“You are the senior ranking officer responsible for space monitoring at NORAD are you not?”
“Yes Sir,”
“Well then can you tell us anything that that might make this situation we’re in any clearer?”
“No Sir, well…”
“Well what?” The General raised his groomed eyebrows, “The Brigadier here keeps telling me that someone hit us but your commanding officer is telling me you think something different?”
“Sir, as you know, our equipment is built to scan for planes, satellites and missiles; whatever hit us was none of those, as far as I can tell,” said Zakorski.
