He rounded a corner and decided that he needed to sit for a while and perhaps get something to drink. He had an uncomfortable buzzing sensation in his head and was uncharacteristically fatigued, both certainly due to dehydration. The water in his canteen had a funny salty taste, and each time he took a sip of it his mouth tingled. Hours earlier he had poured what remained of his daily ration into the sand. It wasn’t unusual to have problems with their water, and for the last week they had been using a small tanker truck for their supply. The bitter and salty aftertaste was an indication that they were getting down to the last of it, and he hoped that some tea would mask it. He turned back the flap of the mess tent and was greeted by silence. Normally at least half a dozen men would be busy preparing breakfast for the compound. Khalib glanced at his watch, found that his estimation of the time was correct, and after a moment of confusion walked through the tent and into what passed for a dining hall in the middle of the Libyan Desert. A large central aisle was framed by six rows of long metal tables arranged along both sides of the pavilion. A figure with his back to Khalib sat at the second table; he watched the figure struggle with something and then recognized his grunting.
“Good morning, Habib,” he greeted his countryman and tent mate. Habib did not respond, but continued to struggle until he finally screamed and frantically stripped off his tunic. By the time Khalib had reached his friend he was on the ground scouring his chest with sand and rocks. Within moments his skin was raw and bleeding. “Habib, what are you doing?” Khalib grabbed the smaller man’s hands and restrained him.
“It burns,” he screamed in full voice. “It burns, it burns …” he continued, and Khalib wrapped his arms around his friend and forced him back up to one of the benches. Habib’s right arm came loose and he started to tear at his face, all the while screaming. Khalib noticed blisters and deep scratches on the back of Habib’s hands and arms as he pried his friend’s fingers out of his face.
“I need some help,” Khalib called; he was a big man, but so was Habib. “Have you burned yourself?” he asked his friend, who had begun to wail and thrash inside his grasp. “Somebody help me,” Khalib yelled even louder. Flashlights and then dark figures began to appear, but none of them approached the pair of struggling Pakistanis. “Come, somebody, grab his arm,” he yelled, and despite the fact that most would not understand his language, his need was evident. “What’s wrong with you dogs?” Khalib demanded, and then followed the beams of their flashlights to the bloodstained sand just outside the tent. Another man lay on the ground, his head almost severed from his body, an expression of horror frozen on his upturned face. The figures began chattering away in some foreign language, and then, first one, and then all of them, fled, leaving Khalib alone with the struggling Habib. “What have you done, my friend?” He asked the wailing man, noticing more blood and at least two more corpses.
Habib suddenly stopped struggling, and his insane gaze was replaced with terror. “Khalib,” he said plaintively, “you have to help me.”
“Tell me how, my friend.” Khalib relaxed his grip on Habib’s wrist.
“You have to kill me. The desert demons have found me. They’re inside of me,” Habib finally said, with a tortured but clear voice, and the blood in Khalib’s veins froze.
When Khalib was a small boy, his grandfather and uncles took great joy in terrifying him with stories of demons in the desert who could devour a man’s soul in the blink of an eye. It took Khalib years to realize that his family was using him only for sport, but the fear had taken root. He tried to exorcise it by sharing some of the stories with Habib and their three other tent mates on dark quiet nights, but instead of dissipating, the fear seemed to strengthen with each tale.
Unconsciously, he relaxed his grip even further and Habib sprung from his grasp, running and screaming into the darkness. Khalib stood but did not follow his friend, who was clearly beyond any assistance he could render. He began to pray as a short burst of gunfire came from the opposite side of the camp, and then a second salvo much closer. He heard feet running towards him, and suddenly lights were flashing on all over the compound. He squatted down below a bench and worked his way back to the empty supply tent. It was clear that they were being overrun by something, and as he wedged himself between the tent wall and some crates he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t demons.
Demons are a child’s fear. A man killed those men, and it couldn’t have been Habib, he told himself without conviction. It was possible that Habib had been out looking for something to drink, just as he had, and witnessed someone killing the kitchen staff, the violence unhinging the mind of the gentle Habib. Now the murderers were running through the camp, slaughtering anyone they found. Khalib reached for his weapon and pulled it between his knees, using it for support as he squatted. He was one of the few who were armed and could offer a degree of protection.
Nine months you have walked in the desert and have never found a trace of demons. Get up, you coward! he demanded of himself, but his heart prevented his legs from responding. He knew—as well as he knew the love of Allah—that it wasn’t invaders that were killing his comrades; it was something that couldn’t be stopped by bullets.
More gunfire, closer still, followed by screams of joy and insanity, told Khalib that it was time to move. It wouldn’t be long before they found him and either made him into one of their own or into one of their victims. He had to make his way to the desert, at least until the sun came up; demons respected the dawn and feared the sun. He kicked his leg out to stand but found that his balance was off. He slowly climbed the stack of crates, using his arms more than his wobbly legs, until he was safely on his feet. He waited a second more, and when his balance had fully returned he quietly slipped out of the tent into the cool night air. The buzzing in his head was louder, and a sudden thought riveted him to the ground. Demons can pass from person to person through a simple touch, and he had certainly touched Habib. Could he be possessed already? After a moment’s consideration, he rejected the idea; his thoughts were his own and his intentions were to flee, not to kill and destroy. Perhaps the demon was too busy controlling Habib to pass through to him. It was a lucky break, and one that was unlikely to be repeated.
He retreated into the shadows of a nearby tent, resolving to shoot anyone who got near him. Most of the compound’s lights were on, but there were enough dark spots to get him into the desert and safety. He plotted his course, and just before sprinting to the next dark spot he saw a phantom float effortlessly through the air directly in front of him. It was nearly translucent, but Khalib could still make out a body draped in a fine silk robe that rippled behind the specter, blood-stained arms with sharp talons, and a head covered in long, flowing black hair. It had the snout of a dog, its teeth sharp and exposed, its tongue black and lolling to one side. The eyes bright red and alert as it scanned the path ahead. If only his long dead grandfather could see this, Khalib thought, pressing himself into the canvas. Then he would be the one scared.
He waited a full minute before sprinting to the edge of the next tent. Twice more he did this before reaching the tents fronting the fence. He watched as another demon floated in from the desert, not even pausing as it flowed through the tall chain-link. He was close to the small hill where earlier he had seen Dr. Ja’amal and reasoned that this would be a good place to hole up until sunrise. His grandfather had taught him that demons didn’t like heights, which was one of the reasons they preferred the long, flat deserts. If Khalib could reach the top of the hill unseen it was unlikely that any would search there.
He slid along the back of the tent in total darkness until he reached the end of the canvas. He risked a peek around the corner and came face to face with one of the Security Force. The man jumped back into his colleague and for a moment all three regarded each other. Khalib was first to recover. It was clear that these two had the same idea that he had, and the mere fact that they were raising their small autom
atic weapons meant that they were unwilling to share the refuge. He grabbed the smaller man by the neck and pushed him into the next man. All three weapons began to fire at once, and in less than a second they were dead and Khalib was bleeding from his arm and hip. He stepped away from them and back into the shadows just as two demons rounded the corner, drawn by the smell of blood and death. They let loose screams of delight that paralyzed Khalib, and then began savaging the bodies. He tried not to listen to their slurping sounds or to the crack of breaking bones. He dared not move or even breathe until they had had their fill; it felt like an eternity before the gorging stopped and the demons glided away, almost certainly looking for flesh to feed upon, or to inhabit.
Khalib waited a full minute before running to the next tent and then another minute before reaching the final tent. All the demons had moved to the center of the camp, and he had a clear path to safety when the door to the underground lab slid open. The head of security, a man as tall as Khalib but not nearly as broad, stepped cautiously out into the darkness. His weapon was already raised as he surveyed the area. A small ray of light from the doorway fell on the man’s exposed arms, and Khalib saw the same blisters that had afflicted Habib.
The sign of the demon! He aimed his weapon at the man/demon, but before he could fire the thing ran off into the darkness. Khalib waited a moment longer as safety beckoned him, and then he sprinted up the hill completely unseen.
In seconds he reached the tallest rock and slipped behind it. The buzzing in his head had become relentless, intensified by the physical exertion and fear. A powerful wave of nausea struck him and he fought the need to vomit. His heart was racing and his breaths were coming in gasps as he fought for control of his normally reliable body. He began to silently pray, and slowly his body responded. The rushing, uncontrolled thoughts of panic began to be replaced by reason and instinct. He surveyed his surroundings in the dim light, and despite the safety that came with height he still felt exposed. He worked to wedge himself deeper into the rocks; twisting his broad back, he found a gap just large enough to admit him and he disappeared into the blackness of the night. After several moments of complete quiet he began to feel as if he had escaped Death itself. Relief washed over him and he closed his eyes, his mind shutting out the horrors that had been visited upon his comrades. He floated away to the western mountains of Pakistan; a warm and inviting campfire beckoned to him and he found himself sitting in a circle with his family. His wife, her black hair reflecting the fire, stared at him with love and devotion, his children arranged by his feet, comfortable and safe. A sense of peace and contentment enveloped his small family as the fire crackled. He watched the sparks spiral up into the night sky and with a start found his grandfather standing over him.
“Demon,” he hissed over the fire, his frail arm rising in accusation.
“No,” he answered with the voice of a small child pleading for reality to be only a bad dream. He felt his wife’s hand leave his and he turned to find her face covered in blisters, her eyes rolling upward in death. He felt the small bodies of his children fall against his crossed legs. He tried to jump to his feet but his head hit something more solid than his skull and he awoke to find himself alone in the cold desert.
He began to weep silently. Surely the demons would sense or smell his misery if he didn’t control it, but he couldn’t master his emotions. The weeping became crying and soon he was wailing as much as Habib had been earlier. A part of his mind pleaded with him to stop, but he was powerless against the fear. Images of his wife and four children raced through his mind, memories of his father warning him about leaving them for money, his grandfather’s face illuminated by firelight, telling him about the malevolence of the desert demons. He wiped the tears from his eyes and in the dim light saw blood on the backs of his hands. He touched both eyes and found that they were oozing blood. A drop fell from his jaw to his shoulder; he was bleeding from his ears as well. He wiped more blood from his eyes with his dirty sleeve and noticed the blisters covering his forearms. He had been marked as well. He screamed and pulled at his sleeves, finding even more blisters, some of which were filled with his blood. He scrambled from his cover and started to run but pulled up short when he realized that the small stone circle was now filled with demons. Their fetid breath infected every breath he took, and his mind collapsed. He started firing his weapon, but the bullets passed through them, striking the surrounding rocks and pelting him with splinters. He kept firing until his clip was empty, and then he threw the rifle at the nearest demon just before they smothered him. The last sound he heard was the crack of bones breaking and the slurping of demons as they ate him alive.
***
It had been quiet for hours, and the midday sun was boiling Ahmed inside his tent. He was still lucid, or at least thought he was lucid. His eyes had filled with blood and his vision was reduced to only shadows. The skin on his face, torso, and arms had peeled away, and he left a trail of blood and plasma as he staggered towards the tent’s opening. He refused to die like this. He pushed open the tent flap and the heat of the sun seared the exposed nerves in his denuded skin. He cried aloud and sunk to his knees, but even this afforded him no relief. He started to crawl through the dust towards his laboratory, each meter an exercise in agony. A lifetime later he reached the entrance, which was mercifully already open. A body blocked the closure of the glass doors, and he slowly crawled over the liquefied remains of a human being he had probably known, and finally reached the shade. The inner door was sealed, aside from a series of bullet holes that stitched their way across the left panel. With a modest amount of force, Ahmed reasoned, he could shatter the remains of the pane and retreat further into the structure.
“What’s the point?” he asked no one. Painfully, he propped himself against the cool glass and surveyed his work. Nothing moved; the Hybrid virus that he had helped to create had served Jaime Avanti’s purpose well. The Ukrainian had probably emptied a vial of the virus in the air purifiers and another into the water before escaping. Ahmed thought that he would have preferred a bullet in the head over this, and that thought took root. He scanned the immediate area for a weapon, but only the corpses of the professional staff were within reach, and the most lethal weapon any of them carried would have been a clipboard.
Something moved just beyond the first tent, and Ahmed strained to see. The brilliant sunlight and the blood in his eyes made it difficult, but after watching for several minutes he realized that it was a vulture feeding on a body. He was filled with revulsion but didn’t have the energy to vomit. As his eyes began to adjust he found more of the large birds doing what came naturally to them.
“Birds,” he said through bleeding lips. They had never tried birds, and although it no longer mattered to him, Ahmed was somehow certain that they could have used birds to study the virus instead of humans. Of course, then the eight men he himself had killed two days earlier would either be dead or dying at this point anyway. He smiled; Avanti had managed to absolve Ahmed of murdering the “volunteers.”
He watched the process of life and death, refusing to close his eyes for the last time. The Imams taught that true faith required an acceptance of one’s fate, as all things are the will of Allah, but his mind, with all its complexities, refused. In a moment of clarity, he realized that his faith had always been hollow. He had never really believed that a golden palace and seventy-two virgins awaited him in paradise, or that it was the will of Allah that drove him ultimately to a painful death. Islam was more his identity than his religion. Something he had used to fill a void created by an indifferent family and society, something that offered him no peace in his ultimate time of need.
“The decisions I made were my own,” he declared to the uninterested birds. He knew that this was the ultimate heresy, and he accepted it. In the moments that preceded his death he would not wail and plead for Allah’s mercy. He would stand on his own two feet, at least metaphorically, and accept the conse
quences of his actions.
His mind was slowing, but it dawned on him that the carrion birds, if capable of carrying the virus, would spread it before Avanti could. It was possible that in time Avanti himself would become infected by a progeny of the very virus that had killed Ahmed. He tried to smile and, with his life literally draining away, he found enough peace to finally close his eyes.
CHAPTER 4
“She’s right, you know,” Lisa Flynn finally said.
Amanda had been braced for her mother-in-law’s comments since the two left the television studio. “I know,” she said quietly, watching but not really seeing downtown Chicago fly by their taxi’s window. Like Amanda, Mindy McCoy had forever changed with the death of her parents. The once gregarious, active youth was replaced by a reclusive, apathetic teenager, and the transformation had nothing to do with hormones. It took her years to find her way back to herself.
They rode in silence for several more minutes when Lisa impulsively sat up. “Excuse me, driver, could you drop us just up here?” She pointed at the corner of State and Lake and turned to Amanda. “Let’s get something to eat,” she said, a smile lighting up her face.
Amanda's Story Page 3
