(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  “Fifty-fifty?” Sam was pleading.

  Jerry thought, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really am, but no, I don’t think his chances are that good,” he said.

  Sara’s hands shot to her mouth and she quivered. Sam turned and held her, folding the delicate woman into his arms. Ammon moved forward and put his arms around her, too. Mary stood beside the young doctor, staring sadly at the ground.

  Jerry watched the family, then touched Ammon’s arm. “We need to start the blood transfusion as quickly as we can.”

  Sara closed her eyes, holding onto Sam, then pushed away. “No. Not yet,” she said to Jerry, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “There’s something else we need to do first, something more important.”

  She turned to Sam, a great weeping in her heart. He was such a good man, such a strong man. She loved him as much as any soul she’d ever known. But he had never seen the vision. He’d never grasped the plan. He was good enough and worthy, but he had just never been interested. Church. Religion. Things of God, things of the Spirit, he had never understood.

  She smiled at him weakly. Even though she loved him, he couldn’t help her now. And the thing that she was asking was the most important thing that they could do. She was as certain of what Luke needed to survive as she was of anything.

  She lowered her eyes, then turned to Ammon. “Your brother needs a blessing,” she said. “You need to put your hands on him and pray for him.”

  Ammon turned away. “Mom, I don’t have any idea how to do that!” He shook his head and turned away, his shoulders slumping.

  The night was silent.

  Sam stepped forward with hesitation. “I will do it,” he said.

  Sara turned to him, her eyes wide. “What do you mean, Sam?”

  Sam looked at her, thinking deeply as a long moment passed, the wind blowing gently through the trees. “I’m not afraid,” he said.

  Sara closed her eyes and raised her face toward the heavens, her cheeks stained with tears and mud.

  Sam walked to a patch of thick grass under the front bumper of the car where he’d laid his backpack to keep it dry. Lifting it, he pulled out a small chrome container of consecrated oil.

  He moved to the other side of the car where he could be close to Luke and knelt down beside him. Sara and Ammon followed and stood nearby, their heads bowed. Mary remained beside Sara, desperately grasping her hand. Jerry stood back but stayed close enough that he could hear what was said.

  At that moment, a sweet spirit fell around them, as powerful and overwhelming as a rush of hot wind. They felt it, they all felt it, everyone who was standing there. Poignant and powerful, it filled the dark night with peace and comfort that could not be denied. Sara closed her eyes again, and Mary gasped. Jerry squinted, his forehead creasing in peaceful thought. Sam waited, uncertain, his face stained with tears. Then he felt it. Someone knelt down beside him. Unseen. From the other world. He felt his presence. Then another. He actually felt the heat of their spirits there.

  He was not alone.

  The Spirit deep inside Sam told him what God needed him to hear.

  “Sam, this is my son. I love him more than you could ever comprehend. His work is not finished, so listen and I will tell you what to say.”

  Sam took a breath and began to speak. The words came slowly at first, but were full of faith and power. “My brother, Benjamin Luke Brighton,” he started, “in the name of God who loves us, I bless you . . . .”

  Sam paused a long moment, then spoke again, his voice confident and assured. “The Spirit whispers to me that your purpose in this life is not yet finished. There is a greater work for you to do. So in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you now to live. You will sleep in peace. You will be stable and in comfort until such time as we can get you to the doctors who will then take care of you.”

  Finishing the prayer, Sam continued kneeling, touching his brother’s head. Then he heard his mother weeping. Standing, he turned to her. She stood strong, her shoulders square, her face peaceful now, and calm.

  Mary was leaning on Sara’s shoulders, her cheeks completely wet with tears. “There were others there,” she whispered slowly. “A young man. He looked like Ammon. Another man. I don’t know who.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “I felt them,” was all he said.

  “They were kneeling right beside you.” Mary’s voice was choked with sobs.

  Sara held her close. “I saw them, too.”

  Mary pulled back and looked pleadingly at Sam. “My little girl . . .” Mary murmured slowly. “Can you do this thing for Kelly? Can you pray and give her a blessing, too?”

  Sam looked around, uncertain of who or what she meant.

  Then he heard the same Spirit whisper to him what he had heard before.

  “There is another child, one of my daughters. Her work has just begun. I have sent you here to save her. Now you must listen once again.”

  SIXTEEN

  East Side, Chicago, Illinois

  By morning, the rain clouds had completely blown away. The sun rose, casting a white beam of light through the small portion of the kitchen window that caught a patch of sky. The warmth fell upon Azadeh’s face where she was sleeping on the kitchen rug.

  She lay there, feeling the heat until the sun had passed, then rose and looked around. Stretching, she rubbed her eyes, feeling the empty loneliness return again.

  She was so thirsty and hungry now. There was a little food in the pantry, but she was afraid to eat it all. What if Mary and Kelly returned and needed something too?

  Looking around, she knew she had to find something to drink. She couldn’t go another day without water.

  Then she heard it. Slow. Somewhere in the distance. Droink . . . droink . . . . The sound of dripping water.

  She turned, her eyes wild with excitement. A pool of wetness had formed under the refrigerator and she ran toward it.

  Opening the door, she traced the dripping water. The upper freezer was closed, and she pulled it open to find a small, swinging, plastic door. She pushed the tiny door back, revealing the automatic ice-maker. Melting chunks of ice floated in the ice container. She almost cried with relief as she gently pulled the plastic container from the freezer, placed it on the kitchen counter, took a cup, and dipped out a drink. Another cup and then another. The cold water washed down her parched throat, giving instant life. Satisfied, she looked around, pulled a kitchen towel from the oven handle, dipped one corner into the water to get it wet, and wiped her face and hands.

  A slice of bread and two dilapidated leaves of lettuce for breakfast kept the hunger down.

  Walking to the small living room, she sat down on the cloth-covered sofa and thought.

  It had been two days now since all the power had gone off, two nights since the mobs had formed out on the streets, three days since she had been outside the apartment, and a day since Mary and Kelly Beth should have been back.

  Something had gone wrong. Maybe deathly wrong.

  Azadeh realized they might not ever come home again.

  She glanced toward the tiny kitchen. There were still some eggs, bread, lettuce and a couple of cans of food in the small cupboard, but that was about all. If America was the land of plenty, it was hard to understand why Mary had so little food around. Azadeh and her father had kept more supplies in their mud and wood home back in Iran than Mary kept in her apartment in Chicago. Still, it was what it was, and the small amount of food would have to do. The bigger worry was the water, of course, and she glanced at the small plastic container she had taken from the freezer. It was enough for two, maybe three days if she was careful, but that was all.

  She could survive here for three days. If Mary didn’t come back before that, she would have to venture out of the apartment on her own.

  She stood and walked into the kitchen and looked through the window once again, looking out onto the street.

  The world outside her apartment was as strange and foreign to her as if she had l
anded on the moon. The streets were full of angry people. There had been fights, she could see that, and she was shocked to see what looked like a body lying on the street, the mob mulling around it as if it weren’t there. She shivered as she studied the growing crowd of people. There was danger down below.

  She did not want to go out there. She knew it would be dangerous. An Iranian girl wouldn’t be welcome on the hard streets of East Chicago.

  But what choice did she have?

  She would die inside the apartment if she stayed after the water and food were gone. Friendless, without any money or ability to travel, she didn’t know where she would go, but she would have to leave eventually.

  She watched a long time, studying the swelling crowd, then walked back and sat on the sofa once again. For at least the hundredth time she picked the phone up and listened, but heard nothing. She punched the buttons on the handset, but the phone was clearly dead. She tried the lights and television but nothing worked.

  I’m on my own again, she thought miserably. But that’s OK, I’ll work it out. I’ve been on my own before.

  Two more days, maybe three, before she’d have to leave.

  Her stomach grew tight at the thought.

  Curling on the sofa, she pulled a woolen blanket tight around her neck. The sun was bright now, but it was cool inside the apartment, the cold wind blowing in across Lake Michigan. She shivered, then rolled on her side and stared at the far wall, listening to the sounds drifting up between the buildings from the crowded streets below.

  * * *

  The day passed. Azadeh walked quietly from room to room, not willing to reveal to those in the apartment below her that she was still there. There were occasional steps in the hallway, and sometimes shouting, but they were growing less frequent now. Sometime in the late afternoon, she ate three more dilapidated leaves of lettuce and a slice of bread, then drank a little water. About half of it was gone.

  Night came. Dark. Colder than the night before. She drank half a cup of precious water, then went into her bedroom and curled up into a ball on the bed. The room was too lonely, too dark. She lay there for an hour or so, then walked back into the small living room and settled in on the couch instead.

  Time passed. Halfway through the night, she heard some cries and shouts coming from the street. Walking to the window, she looked out, but it was far too dark to see what was going on below. Moving back to the couch, she lay down again.

  Morning would come eventually, she knew that, but the night was dragging painfully on.

  She drifted to sleep sometime before the sun rose. In her dreams, she heard happy voices from her village from when she was a little girl. She felt the mountain sun on her face and smelled the alpine flowers. Her father was calling her to breakfast, and she pulled a lungful of cool air, smelling the cooking lamb, wheat patties, and hot tea. The faint hint of smoke drifted from the kitchen and she pushed herself out of bed, running from her bedroom. Her father stood beside the stove: thick work clothes, dark skin, and warm eyes. She ran to him, the feel of his closely cut beard upon her face.

  His voice was soft, but growing distant now. “Azadeh, can you hear me?”

  She looked around the kitchen.

  Her father was gone.

  “Azadeh, baby, open the door for me.”

  She sat up suddenly. She was not back in her village. Her father wasn’t there. Still, the voice was calling.

  “Azadeh, are you in there? Azadeh, it’s me. It’s Mary. I don’t have my keys.”

  Her eyes darted around in confusion, then, crying with relief, she ran toward the door. “Miss Dupree!” she shouted. “Mary! Kelly Beth! Are you there?”

  “Yes, Azadeh. I need you to let us in. I don’t have my keys.”

  Two chains and two deadbolts held the door shut. She snapped them back and threw it open.

  Mary rushed into her arms. “Azadeh, are you OK?”

  Azadeh cried with relief. Mary held her tight, then stepped back.

  Azadeh saw it immediately: It was as if a beam of sunshine had been turned on inside Mary’s soul. Her eyes were alive and dancing. Her face was warm and bright. She beamed with joy and pleasure, her smile a brilliant dazzle against the gray morning light. Azadeh watched her, then broke into a smile of her own. She simply couldn’t help it. Mary’s pure joy was infectious. And she was so relieved to see her, it was impossible to hold it back.

  The two women looked atone another, each of them holding the other’s shoulders. Then Azadeh looked past Mary, momentarily confused. “Where is Kelly Beth?” she asked with worry, staring at the empty doorway.

  Mary turned around, her face still beaming, as Kelly Beth walked into the room. Her tiny frame was weak and fragile, but she was walking still. No wheelchair. No IV drips or medications. Her eyes were lively, dancing and she was smiling, too.

  “Kelly Beth, Kelly Beth!” Azadeh quivered with emotion as she peered down at the child. “Kelly, what has happened?” Breaking into tears, she dropped to her knees in front of the little girl.

  Kelly looked at her, then motioned to the hallway at her right. Raising a hand, she beckoned to him, and Sam walked into the room.

  Azadeh froze, her eyes wide, her face full of wonder, her mouth opened in a silent cry.

  The American soldier looked down at her. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  Azadeh didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t talk. It took every ounce of energy just to breathe.

  Yes, she remembered him. She remembered him from the mountain on the day her father died. She remembered him from the night on the river when he had come to save her life.

  She remembered him. She knew his spirit.

  She remembered him from long before—before this darkness. Then she sensed it, something further, something longer, something more eternal, long ago.

  She knew this was her brother.

  And she closed her eyes and cried.

  SEVENTEEN

  Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  The old man stood near the forty-foot windows that looked out to the east on the blank desert sky. The sun was a few minutes yet from rising, and the moon had set behind them, leaving the desert in the gray and lifeless twilight of predawn.

  The king remained behind him, unwilling to interrupt his thoughts.

  “You have proven to be reliable,” the old man said without turning around.

  Al-Rahman looked past his shoulders to the rising sun. The sky was turning red now, creating a glorious desert dawn. “Every warhead was successful,” he boasted. “The destruction has been carried across the entire country. It was much more powerful than we had even hoped for.” He paused, a shiver of excitement running through him. “I don’t think they’re going to make it,” he concluded. “I actually think we have destroyed them.”

  The old man turned. “You are wrong,” he said.

  The king waited.

  “They will rebuild,” the old man told him. “We hurt them, it is true, but there is still enough light, enough goodness, enough courage and strength inside their people. Yes, millions are going to die, but they will strive to rise again.”

  The king looked into his filmy eyes. “You have people, though, friends inside the country, who will see to it that—”

  The man cut him off. “Yes, many of our friends inside the United States have already done their work. For years now they have torn at their foundations, destroying the people’s faith in their nation, their God, even in themselves. These friends have been fruitful and creative, but in the end it may not prove to be enough.”

  The old man sniffed, then frowned, his bony nose so thin a dozen blood veins showed like spider webs through the skin.

  Al-Rahman watched him for a moment. Then he looked away, too pleased with himself to be brought down by the old man’s constant gloom. “Think about it,” he bragged again. “They’re just now beginning to understand how dangerous their situation is. They’re just beginning to get thi
rsty, just beginning to wrestle with their first hunger pains. They’re just starting to feel the panic. I really think we have destroyed them. Now the world lies in our hands.”

  The old man turned and looked blankly to the east, his reaction as vacant as the empty sky. If there was satisfaction in the victory, he certainly didn’t show it. “You know your brother has a son who is still living,” he said.

  The king nodded, the young prince the least of his concerns.

  The old man surmised his thoughts and shook his head. He knew better. He had seen it too many times before. He thought back to the two thousand years of family strife and fratricide over kingship and power. “He is young now,” he said, taking a step toward the king. “But think, King Abdullah, he will grow into a man. Everyone around him will remind him of who he really is, who his father was, what he has lost. They will tell, even goad him, that one day he must be king. They will remind him of everything that has been stolen from him. No, you cannot let him live, or one day, when he is older, he will come and claim your kingdom for his own.”

  Al-Rahman shook his head. “Don’t worry about him,” he sneered. “I have taken steps to find him. It won’t be long until he’s dead.”

  The old man compressed his lips and turned back to the rising sun. The two men were silent a long moment.

  “Do you remember the first time that I met you?” the old man finally asked.

  The king thought back to that distant morning on the beach in France, so far away—another life, another universe, another measure of time ago.

  “What did I promise you?” the old man demanded as Al-Rahman thought.

  “You promised me many things. You promised me freedom. Power. You promised anything that I could think of. You promised me it all.”

  “Have I delivered on my promise?”

  “Yes, sir, you have.”

  Silence another moment. The sun was just beginning to peek across the distant, flat horizon, sending the first shaft of sunlight to light up the world.

  “There was another thing I promised you.”