Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1)

by Tyler, P. K.

  Texting with his thumbs, he squinted in the darkness for the right letters: Safak Mh., 79071—Mayor is missing—come now.

  "Kana, are you coming?" Serge called out to him.

  "Yeah, yeah, just texting Sabiha."

  "Ever the lapdog, huh little man?"

  "Yeah, well, at least I don't smell like an Arab," Fahri joked, his hands shaking as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and strode inside.

  At the hospital Maryam's phone vibrated in her scrubs' pocket, pulling her out of her thoughts. She was exhausted, sitting in the nurse's lounge, staring at the tile floor. It was one of the only places in the hospital where she could find some quiet. The doctors were not allowed in the lounge—it was open only to women staff members. As much as it made them angry when they couldn't demand the nursing staff's presence, they respected the need for separation of the sexes too much to barge in.

  Her shift was slow. There was only an hour left before she'd be able to clock out and head home. Everything in her body ached for sleep. The past forty-eight hours had been exhausting. None of it made any sense. Secret catacombs, quicksand that delivered her to the Imam, Recai's strange role in all of this. She believed. She was faithful. But she had never seen a miracle before. Those things happened when The Prophet was alive, not now.

  But then, her people had strayed so far from that path perhaps everything she had seen was a sign from Allah.

  Taking her phone out of her pocket, Maryam leaned back and crossed her legs, a habit her mother had tried to break her of since she was a child, but the posture was comfortable. Fahri's message glowed on her screen.

  Sitting up, she read the text again before dialing the phone.

  Recai drove to the mosque in the Safak district. There he could leave his car, and the Imam would vouch for his presence at a special prayer meeting if anyone asked. When his phone had rung and Maryam told him of Fahri Kana's text, the instinct to leave the house and run on bare feet straight to the address Fahri had sent had overwhelmed him.

  The streets were empty, and the sky, the color of lead, hung dark and low as he drove.

  As usual Maryam's head had stayed cool. It was her idea to contact Imam Al-Bashir and have him set up the cover story, her idea for Recai to navigate to the address through the catacombs. But his body already knew the way.

  He pulled up in front of the mosque and breathed deeply, pulling on what strength he had.

  Recai's body ached to return to the caves, to act. Instead he forced himself to be still and find the strength Allah had given him. He was the one who ran, who acted without thinking. He was the man who screwed everything up, who let people down. He wasn't the man anyone should count on. He hadn't inherited that gene from his parents.

  Now he was called to be more than that, and he felt unworthy. It had been easier when the situation landed in front of him. Without the time to consider the ramifications of his actions, he had defended Sabiha. Now he was intentionally involving himself in something purposeful. Was this even his business? Perhaps a coup was a good thing. The mayor was the worst thing ever to happen to the city.

  Yet something about Fahri's text troubled him.

  The ornate wooden door of the mosque opened, and an elderly Imam with a white beard appeared. His eyes peered into the darkness, searching for Recai's black car. When he found it, the emotion that flared in the old man's eyes made Recai's decision. It was hope that brought fire to the man's eyes.

  Inside the mosque, Recai followed the man to the back rooms and down to the hidden caves beneath.

  "Al-Bashir is a good man," the Imam spoke finally when the stairs reached the sand-packed floor of the softly lit tunnel.

  "He is."

  "He has faith in you. He believes that Allah has called on you."

  "He does."

  "Has he? Has Allah spoken to you?"

  The Imam's eyes were bright, this time with excitement, as he asked.

  "I don't know. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do."

  "You're supposed to listen, to bend to the path that's been decided for you."

  He spoke with the confidence of a person of faith. Recai was awed by a belief so deep there was no room for compromise. Actions could be decided, people could be corrupted, but faith is the only thing left that could remain pure no matter what trials it endured.

  "A woman was here; she brought you this."

  The Imam handed Recai a brown niqab, which was designed to cover a woman's face below her eyes. Recai smiled and hooked the sides over his ears, allowing his features to be hidden.

  "Maryam?"

  Nodding, the Imam smiled.

  "She believes in you. Al-Bashir believes in you. Allah believes in you. And so do I."

  "In'shallah," Recai replied before handing the Imam his keys and heading off into the caverns deep below the city, on his way to the address sent in the strange text message.

  Isik waited until the room was full before nodding for the door to be shut. No one from outside was getting in now, and those in attendance were staying until he was ready to let them go.

  Lighting another cigarette, he eyed the hidden office. Darya was in there, plotting his death he was sure. This betrayal would be the end of them. Isik loved her; she was his only sister, the only one who had known his father, the only one who knew just what he was capable of. She really shouldn't have been so surprised.

  Isik stepped up onto the seat of a folding chair and watched as his presence commanded silence. This was power. To control without ever saying a word. He saw Darya's connections standing on the peripheries of the room, not wanting anyone to see them in association with this kind of underground movement. But the money was here, and their loyalty followed the cash.

  "Brothers," Isik began with a low voice. The men unconsciously leaned in or stepped closer to hear him. Power does not lie with the man who screams, but with the one who whispers.

  "My name is Dayar Yildirim. Some of you know me by other names. Some of you know my assistant, but you are all indebted to me. I have freed you. I have freed the city."

  Isik paused, looking out, waiting for his words to register. The group was eclectic: men in suits, men in uniforms, men in taqiyahs of all colors. With a single breath they waited, united in anticipation of his next words.

  "The mayor is gone. He will not be returning. It has been too long that he's stood apart from the daily lives of his people, so much so that I have been able to take his money and his power without him ever noticing. His final moments were pathetic, like a dog pleading for his life. He whimpered like a woman."

  He sneered, inhaling the nicotine from his cigarette before tossing it aside. Smoke swirled in the room, and the temperature rose. Brought together in fear, the men faced Isik and the future he promised.

  "With our leader so far from the reality of the streets, crime has sprung back up. Drugs have been infiltrating our homes, and women are allowed freedoms The Prophet never intended."

  Heads nodded, encouraging him to continue. Isik stepped down from the chair, pulling the attention of the room as he moved. His voice rose as he continued, flowing in waves over the crowd, inciting even the withdrawn men to a call for change. All around him men from high above his social standing and those who worked every day for what little food they had came together in fear and the promise of something greater.

  "The paper says our city is in decay, that we need a hero like The SandStorm to protect our women. But why? Why are these women out walking the streets alone at night at all? Because the mayor lost sight of his responsibility and became bloated with his own power and prestige. Without him, we have a choice. We can let our city fall farther into decay. Our women and children can wander unsupervised, and the vices of the West can continue to seep into our streets. Or, we can join together, take the reins of this driverless coach, and steer our people back to the right.

  "We need curfews for our women!" Isik proclaimed.

  "Yes!" a man in a suit cried out.


  "We need respect for our officers!"

  "Yes!"

  "We need freedom from corruption and greed!"

  "Yes!" The crowd cheered.

  "We are leaderless. Who will lead you?"

  "Dayar Yildirim!" a man in the back called.

  "Dayar Yildirim!" another cried.

  "Day-ar, Day-ar, Day-ar…" the chant began, rising in pitch as the men wrapped their arms around one another in celebration.

  Isik watched as the frenzy of revolution rocked through the crowd. Alone these men were pawns; together they were his army. He smiled broadly, relishing the sound of his success, then wrapped an arm around a young man with curly hair who had been standing near the front of the crowd.

  "Everything will change now, Brother. All our dreams will come true," Isik promised.

  "Even mine," the strange man agreed, passion and determination in his voice.

  From the tunnels below the city, Recai reached his destination and climbed out, entering the sewer system before going aboveground. Below ground he had navigated instinctively, unable to see through the darkness but sensing the movement and location of the sand that called him, drove him forward, whispered to him the secrets of the colonized desert. The alley was black now that night had fallen. His eyes were sharp, able to make out even the subtle changes of the wind by watching the sand that rode its current.

  Recai spotted a fire escape and climbed the narrow metal rungs. Hand over hand he climbed easily, scaling the wall of the building until he reached a small window. He peered through from his perch two stories above the alley. Although there was only one dim lamp in the room, the smoke reflected its light, creating an ocean of fumes around the figures who had gathered.

  At the back of the room there was a man standing on a chair, speaking animatedly. When he stepped down to address the crowd more intimately, he turned his head to the left, giving Recai a direct look at the snake eyes tattooed onto his skin.

  Fury flashed through Recai. His skin tightened as his muscles involuntarily tensed. He was taken back in time to when Rebekah had lain across his lap, eyes wide as she was violated again and again. He remembered his uselessness as he lay injured, unable to do anything. Leaning forward, Recai carefully lifted the window so he could listen. Particles of sand drifted past him into the warehouse. The man's words were meaningless, making no promises, making no real statement, only provoking the fears and pandering to the egos of the gathered crowd.

  When a chant began, Recai's mind reeled with sudden recognition: Dayar Yildirim was the Board Member who couldn't be found for questioning about the money missing from Osman Corps.

  Recai waited until the crowd was in a frenzy before raising the window higher. He swung his legs through the opening and crept inside the warehouse, using exposed pipes and scaffolding to climb to the floor. Crouching low, he backed silently into the clothing racks before anyone could identify his presence.

  No one looked his way; the crowd was too wrapped up in its own momentum. He moved through the racks, creeping forward toward Dayar Yildirim. A rapist, a Board Member, an RTK officer, a financier. The numbers didn't add up for Recai.

  Recai slunk down an aisle left open between racks of clothing. The oppressive head of the badly ventilated warehouse bore down on him as sand shone in the air around him. Its presence surrounded him, further obscuring him in the dim light. Boxes of clothing were piled around him, some open, some stacked haphazardly. The chanting continued, rising into a fevered pitch, giving Recai the perfect opportunity to attack from behind.

  Ducked low, he rushed out behind the tattooed man and pulled his arm back in a crippling lock. The curly-haired man who had been standing with Dayar fell to the ground and yelled out, even as the chanting crowd dropped into a hush.

  "Let go of me!" Dayar seethed, pulling against his grip until Recai had no choice but to wrap a forearm around his neck. Recai held him tight, his muscular arm pushing into the rapist's jugular vein. The desire to squeeze until the man hung limply in his hold raged within Recai, making him pant as he restrained not just his enemy, but also his fury.

  "Dayar!" the young man who had fallen yelled as he struggled to stand up.

  Recai backed away from the crowd as they ceased their celebration and turned their full attention to the masked man. The smoke in the air became denser as sand began to rise in compliment to Recai's adrenalin.

  "This man is not who you think," Recai proclaimed.

  "It's The SandStorm!" someone cried out from the crowd.

  "You cannot follow this insanity! This man is not a leader. He's a rapist and a murderer!" Recai continued.

  "And what are you?" his captive hissed. "A coward behind a woman's veil, sneaking in the night—Allah only knows what you've been doing out there!"

  Recai's fury rose in spite of his best efforts at self-control, and the air in the warehouse began to move. Sand and grit drifted through the room, slowly at first but picking up speed. The hanging garments moved with the wind, filling the open space with the whisper of fabric.

  From deep within Recai another voice rose, and as he opened his mouth to speak, The Prophet's words were repeated: Do you then feel secure that He will not cause a side of the land to swallow you up, or that He will not send against you a violent Sandstorm?

  The men nearest Recai hesitated at being reminded of their beliefs. With Recai's attention on the crowd his hold on Dayar loosened, allowing the murderer enough leverage to slam his elbow up into Recai's ribs.

  Recai called out and crushed Dayar in his arms. He growled before the mob rushed forward.

  Dragging Dayar with him, Recai knocked over the shadeless floor lamp, shattering the bulb and dropping them all into darkness. The wind accelerated and every remaining speck of sand within the room rose into the air. Chaos consumed the crowd as some ran blind for the only door and others searched for their new leader.

  Weaving through the racks, Recai dragged Dayar until the man dug in his heels and brought them both to a stop.

  "I go nowhere with you!" he screamed and finally wrenched out of Recai's hold. Over his shoulder, Recai could see smoke rising from where the lamp had been. The exposed wires or one of the many discarded cigarettes had ignited the clothing.

  "We have to leave, now!" Recai reached out to grab Dayar, but the man had pulled something out of his pocket and was backing away.

  "The whole place is going to burn! You aren't safe!"

  "You are so right about that," Dayar sneered before lunging, aiming the tip of his butterfly knife toward Recai's throat.

  Recai watched the knife move through the air. He lifted his arm in defense, turning as he ducked. The knife slid deep into his shoulder.

  Recai sunk to his knees in pain and yanked the knife out, dropping it to the ground. The blade had missed his artery but cut deep into the muscle. Blood oozed from his wound. The screams of the murderous crowd shifted from lust for blood to fear for their lives as the fire blazed across the racks, surrounding them in flames. Dayar had fled.

  The wind stopped. Sand hovered in the air for a moment before falling to the ground around Recai.

  He knelt within a circle of sand which grew until his entire body was covered with a light dusting.

  "There you are!" a familiar voice said, reaching out for him. Looking up Recai saw the terrified face of Fahri Kana. "We have to get you out of here. There's no way you aren't going to get the blame for this insanity."

  "I know. I couldn't stop him."

  "If it wasn't him, there would just be someone else. Let's go!"

  Fire rushed forward, wrapping around the two men until they were surrounded by the hungry flames. With a grunt Recai pulled himself up, refusing Fahri's help.

  "I can't go out through the front," Recai said.

  "In the back, there's access to the alley. All these buildings have one."

  He began to run toward the rear of the building, but Recai heard a scream from the main door that stopped him in his tracks.

&nbs
p; "Kana!" he called and ran in the other direction.

  Rushing through the flames, Recai choked on the black smoke. The chemicals used to dye the clothing were being released with the heat and flames, poisoning the air until it was toxic. His shoulder throbbed, and his left arm screamed in pain as he moved toward the sound of the voice.

  "Where the hell are you going?" Fahri called out, catching up to him.

  "There's someone up there!"

  "I'll get him and go out the front. You get out!"

  Recai turned and ran while Fahri pulled a man with wild, curly hair out from beneath a fallen supply shelf.

  In the back of the warehouse, Recai searched for a gate or a door that led to the alley. Smoke and fire tore through the building, consuming the walls and storage boxes stacked tall. Behind one of the shelves Recai heard another call.

  "Help me! I'm…" the voice coughed, choking on the toxins in the air.

  "Where are you?" Recai yelled.

  "Here!" Another cough. Recai followed the hacking to identify the voice's origin. Around the corner, surrounded by ash and smoke, sat the man Recai had set out to capture. He was sitting on the ground, blood pouring from a wound over his eyes. Smashed pallets lay on the ground around him.

  "Help me." The man looked up into Recai's eyes. "They fell on me. I think my leg's broken!"

  Recai stared at him before turning away.

  "No . . ." Recai's voice was low, barely audible above the crackling flames closing in around them.

  "Please!"

  He stopped. Fire crackled around him, nearly reaching the tall ceiling now.

  "Who are you?"

  "Dayar Yildirim."

  "No. You're a thug, a rapist."

  Recai turned and spat, stepping closer, feeling his strength return. Lust for justice pounded through his veins. The fire blazed hotter, and voices could be heard in the distance over the din of destruction.