The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories

by Mahvesh Murad

  You guys get way too emotionally involved in this shit, Chuck said, stepping back inside.

  I don’t, said Ernesto.

  Gotta have feelings to feel, Grant said.

  Sian left, and Grant focused his attention on the displays. There were six cameras on Reap, each one outputting to a different monitor. The largest screen attended whichever camera Grant cycled to as his primary. They all showed a world entirely in greys. Light-grey rocks casting dark-grey shadows on an even-grey landscape, broken up by intermittent growths of near-black foliage. The houses were all squat, pale-grey boxes, and their inhabitants appeared most of the time as grey-black forms. If he zoomed in enough he could see their individual expressions, divining moods from the shifting patterns of highlights and shade. Only when it was night there, or when the drone switched to targeting mode, did the heat signatures of each person glow phosphoric white.

  How’s things at home?Ernesto said in a low voice, free hand covering the mic positioned an inch above his chin.

  Great, whispered back Grant, Really great.

  That bad, huh, said Ernesto.

  It was getting into late afternoon in Pakistan and there was little activity on the ground, the summer heat driving everyone indoors.

  Grant had grown used to the slow dilation of time that drone operators experience: 12 hours spent watching blandly monochromatic lives, with all the tedium that daily life brings. He knew the toilet routines of everyone they watched, the drone had relayed hours and hours of footage of people shitting and pissing. He’d seen the parents of the eleven kids – nicknamed Daisy and David – have sex on their roof, while their large brood slept underneath. He’d felt guilty watching them, hating himself for taking their brief moment of privacy.

  The kids were coming back from school, not walking back single file the way they did every day, but running. The eldest two – Mickey and Mikey – had just entered his view and it wasn’t just that they were running, but how they were running. He switched to Camera 3, giving him a wider peripheral field. All the kids now, scrambling in a mad dash over the rocky terrain, towards home.

  A year before, Grant had been sensor for a drone over Iraq. He had sighted a long procession of men crossing a ridge, carrying weapons. They had been deemed active-targets by someone higher up his chain of command, Anna the Analyst gave independent confirmation, and Grant used the drone’s targeting system to aim the Hellfire missile that awoke, somewhere far away. The men had heard its impending arrival and tried to run, practically leaping with every step, but it was too fast, their reaction too late. The missile struck and a flash of white filled his screens, resolving into a mass of flames, flickering like broken pixels.

  Grant remembered the way those men had run as he watched the children. It was the same panicked dash.

  Something’s up with your kids, Ernesto said.

  There’s one missing, Grant noted.

  There were nine children. There should have been ten: Mickey, Mikey, Molly, Marty, Mel, Micah, Marcus, Mario, Milo, and Miriam. The youngest, Ray, was still at home. Miriam was missing. Grant scanned the landscape with his cameras, then zoomed in close enough to see the faces of all the kids as they tore towards home. They were all screaming, their mouths stretching and snapping over and over.

  Their mother appeared at the door, wrapping her shawl around her head. She was elbowed out of the way by their father, just as the eldest of the kids reached the house. The neighbours were also starting to appear, drawn by the frantic activity.

  What’s happening? Anna the Analyst asked.

  Miriam isn’t back with the other kids, Grant said, and I think something’s happened to her.

  The kids were all clustered around their father, pointing back the way they had come. Grant, with eyes that could see farther and a vantage point that allowed a wider view, was already scanning the landscape. He had no way of alerting anyone on the ground if he did see Miriam, nor of helping her if she needed help.

  Chuck was standing right behind him now. Nothing? he asked.

  Nothing, sir, Grant said. A donkey grazing, trees, scrub, becoming bright spots of light as Grant cycled through to infra-red, hoping to pick up any heat signatures.

  Well, shit, hope she’s okay, said Ernesto.

  I didn’t know you cared, Chuck said. It’s not exactly a great place to be a little girl anyway.

  Grant scanned one last time, then returned to the primary zone. The father, David, had set off with his elder three children in tow, retracing their steps. The rest had gone back inside. The excitement had clearly been too much for Tommy the Talib’s bowels to contain and he was back in his outhouse, light flaring out from under the edges of the wooden shack.

  There was almost no more activity worth noting for the remainder of the shift. David and his sons were out of observable range, and Grant logged all of Tommy the Talib’s entrances and exits.

  Jeffrey’s back, Ernesto said.

  Grant focused the cameras, bringing into view a man pedaling across the desert. Jeffrey was thin and wore giant spectacles. He didn’t wrap a turban around his head when he went out, like David and Tommy the Talib did. They didn’t know why, nor did they know much else about him. He had always lived alone and seldom left the house. When he did leave, he went to the bazaar a few miles away, returning with just enough food for one. He barely spoke to the others and they gave him a wide berth when possible. His house was the one all the children visibly feared approaching. Cricket balls landing on his roof would signal the end of play, as no child would knock on the door to ask for its return.

  He’s scared. Or anxious. He’s something for sure, Chuck said, leaning over Grant and pointing at Jeffrey’s face.

  They could read emotion through thermal imaging, had been trained to do so. When a subject was experiencing heightened stresses, the blood rushed from certain parts of the face, or filled it more. The tip of the nose was the giveaway, glowing brighter when angry, or embarrassed, dulling when frightened, or surprised. Jeffrey’s face was almost as grey as the surrounding countryside.

  How long was he gone? Anna asked from her perch.

  Grant consulted Sian’s notes. Seven hours and thirteen minutes.

  She made a note of that. Grant imagined some nerd in the Pentagon would use that to extrapolate where Jeffrey had gone, and what he had done while gone.

  He’s been rolling around in mud, it looks like, Grant said. Then he zoomed in some more. No, that’s not mud. It’s got a mild heat sig. Very mild. But it’s there.

  Blood? asked Anna.

  Could be, said Grant. I think – yeah, he’s definitely wearing his clothes inside out. His top. Whatever the stain is, its not visible to the eye, but we’re picking it up. So it must be inside out.

  Hunh, said Ernesto.

  Yeah, said Chuck.

  They watched Jeffrey cycle furiously up to his home, skidding to a stop and almost falling off at his front door. He unlocked it, shoved the bike inside and dove in after it, the door slamming shut so hard Grant could almost hear it.

  Well that’s not fucking suspicious at all, said Chuck.

  Grant felt bits of intuitive data grow connective tissue. David and the boys weren’t back yet, which meant they hadn’t found Miriam. Dried blood. And no one else had seen Jeffrey indict himself. No one on the ground, at least. Not Miriam’s father, probably not her mother, none of her siblings, not even any of the neighbors. It was almost sunset in Pakistan, the dulled visibility was why they were on thermal imaging and had seen the mild heat from the splatter on his clothes. That meant that anyone who was indoors was praying. Tommy the Talib would usually be at the mosque at this time, but he hadn’t left his home, likely afraid of soiling himself when he prostrated to Allah.

  Grant switched to the side cameras, searching the periphery. In the distance, he picked up the flitting signature glows of David and his two sons coming back, defeat writ in their postures. He watched them head home, David pausing to look back out over the desert before e
ntering.

  Too dark to keep searching, Grant said. Then, You know, Reap’s due for refueling in two hours. We can take a roundabout way home, see if we pick up anything?

  Chuck considered this. As commanding officer on deck, it was within his purvey to okay it, but he’d also have to explain higher up. Grant turned to look up at him.

  It’s Miriam, Grant said. We’ve watched her for months. I’d spot her in a crowd.

  There’s no crowd around, said Chuck. If she’s out there, she’s likely dead. Which means she isn’t giving off any heat. And say you do find her? What then?

  Grant cursed. Chuck was right. There was no way of notifying anyone on the ground in that small village in rural Pakistan – they didn’t even know they were being watched.

  Grant was about to concede the point, when Ernesto spoke up. What’s that? he said.

  Grant turned his attention back to the screens. In the distance – the direction the children went to school in, that David and the boys went searching for Miriam, that Jeffrey had come back from in panic – a single flare of brilliant white glowed, a blade of light slicing its way across the desert.

  How far out is it? asked Chuck.

  Grant did some quick math, About four klicks, heading towards the village. It’s fast, too. Should make contact in eighteen minutes.

  What is it? asked Ernesto. His main screen was filled with the same visual display you’d get in a jet HUD, his view oriented directly below the drone. He kept glancing over at Grant’s screen. The light had narrowed into an ivory pillar, still moving steadily.

  I can’t tell. Too bright to be vehicular, even if it had a coal furnace. That much heat can only be... I – I don’t know.

  Chuck was leaning over him now. Close the aperture, I think I see something.

  Grant typed out a string of commands, and the screen darkened, visibility dropping away. The speckled starlight given off by wildlife scurrying across the desert floor faded into uniform blackness. Even the blaze from the object dimmed, until it was little more than a low flame. At its base was a child.

  It was still too far for Grant to be sure, but it seemed to be the same size as Miriam, and had the same scrawny build. At first he thought she was crawling on her hands and knees, then he realized that was an inaccurate description. She was propelling herself only with her hands, legs stretched limp behind her, slithering from side to side as she lurched forward.

  It’s her, said Anna the Analyst. Right?

  Yes, ma’am, said Grant. It is. I’m pretty sure.

  The girl was speeding towards the village.

  How is she moving so fast? Chuck said.

  This is fucking weird, Ernesto said.

  Grant ignored them all. He was panning the cameras to keep pace with her. As they watched, the girl sped over rocks, across a narrow gulley, and moved so fast across flat ground she was almost leaping. The heat from within her was fierce, even with visibility reduced to almost nil.

  As she grew closer to home, they were able to discern details; her clothes were torn, ragged patches hanging on her frame, and her legs were streaked with blood, the feet twisted almost entirely around. Grant zoomed in on her face and from next to him Ernesto said, Oh, Jesus.

  It was definitely Miriam; they could all recognize her despite the distorted mouth. Her lips were pulled back in a grin so wide it should have split her cheeks. The long teeth glowed with the same interior light. Her eyes, however, were dark holes in her face.

  She was almost at her front door now, gliding up the dirt path to her home. She stopped there, legs still stretched uselessly behind her. Then, as Grant and the others in the container watched, she turned her body sideways, tilted her head back, and stared straight up. At them.

  Pinpricks of light flared in the hollow gashes in her face that should have been where her eyes were. White petals climbed out of each eye and unfurled across her face.

  It’s fire, Grant heard himself say. Oh, God, it’s fire.

  Is she fucking looking at us? Chuck was saying.

  Then the feed from Reap cut out.

  AS GRANT DROVE home, he kept thinking about what had happened.

  Okay, tell me again, Sian had said.

  Chuck was red in the face then. Beyond red. The red was being consumed by furious white blotches.

  Nothing. Fucking. Happened, he said.

  Grant had tried to speak but Chuck cut him off.

  Malfunction. That’s all. Nothing fucking happened. We got it? Chuck said again, jaw clenching so tightly his voice was mostly hiss.

  Grant ignored him. She looked up, he told Sian. She looked right at us. Then Reap went dark.

  They had lost more than the cameras. Reap was on autopilot for a full five seconds. There were standard operating procedures for loss of contact with the drone. The software in her guts would fly her back to the hangar, and they would follow certain steps to notify the chain of command and attempt to reestablish contact. They had done none of those things.

  Instead, for the full five seconds it took before the screens flickered back to life, all four occupants of the container remained utterly still. Even after Reap began sending data again, they took several more seconds to react. Ernesto was first, making heading adjustments, seeing them enacted, then initiating a full systems check. The others stayed focused on the house. Miriam was gone. Whether inside the house or away, they couldn’t see. There was no other movement on the surface.

  Anna the Analyst had spoken first. She looked up at us, she said. Then Chuck had said, It was a glitch, and, Not possible, and, It’s just an error, and, That’s it, no more talking about it. Grant joined Anna the Analyst’s side of the debate, and Ernesto focused on piloting quietly. It was how Sian found them an hour later.

  Once Sian promised to keep him updated if anything happened and Chuck had threatened to punch him if he didn’t leave, Grant left.

  He drove beneath a bruising sky towards Alamogordo, the city’s lights glimmering ahead.

  I know what I saw, Grant said aloud. It was something he did, mostly voicing rebuttals to arguments he had already lost to Karry earlier. Chuck could pull rank and let his face turn as many colors as he wanted, they all knew the little girl had looked up. At Reap. Chuck could say she was looking at the moon, but Grant knew the moon was behind her then. She’d looked directly up.

  And then her eyes had burned.

  She hadn’t had eyes at first, the sockets had been empty. He considered whether the heat sensitivity being as low as it was just made it appear that way, visually carving dulled areas out of her face. But he was adept at reading low-sensitivity footage. They had been empty sockets, aimed upwards. And then the cameras had shown flecks appearing in that darkness, growing into flame.

  I know what I saw, Grant said to himself again.

  A car appeared ahead, its headlights growing as it neared, then passed.

  Yeah, kinda like that, Grant said, seeing the afterimage of the headlights dance lightly in his vision. Then he slammed on the brakes.

  Miriam was in the road. Her legs were stretched behind her, body arching upwards as she rose up to stare at him. Bloodied patches of skin showed through where the uniform was tattered. The eyes were tacks of light aimed straight at him.

  The car skidded to a stop, Grant struggling to keep it straight. He flicked on the high beams. A coyote stared up at him, its rear legs crushed almost into the road. It was struggling to lift itself on its forelegs, bleeding out fast.

  Fuck, Grant yelled. He accelerated hard, swerving around the dying animal.

  A MIGRAINE HAD begun burrowing through him by the time he reached home. Karry’s Mazda was in the garage. He parked behind it and got out, looking up at the bedroom window. It was dark, which meant she was already asleep. Grant considered the risk of waking her – and the screaming that would inevitably ensue – and collapsed on the couch instead.

  The phone trilled, bungeeing him out of a dreamless sleep. An hour later, Chuck was letting him in. Ernesto
was in his seat already, Sian still in hers. Anna the Analyst was standing behind them and Chuck maneuvered back to her, motioning for Grant to join them. All of their attention was on Sian’s screen.

  What is it? Grant asked, trying to look over Chuck’s shoulder.

  She’s been like that for an hour, Sian said.

  It was night in Pakistan, their view rendered entirely in milky white. The drone cameras were focused on three houses: Tommy the Talib’s, Jeffrey’s, and the one Miriam shared with her large family. There was a tree next to Tommy the Talib’s house and it gave off a mild heat signature, represented in a faint green glow. But Miriam wasn’t inside her house; she was perched on Jeffrey’s roof, radiating heat so intense she was encased in a blot of darkness.

  That’s her? Grant asked.

  Sian zoomed the camera in. Wisps of ink drifted off the girl, the air around her shimmering. She was crouched on all fours, torso pressed so low her knees and elbows jutted out like a mantis’ limbs.

  She moved, and they all inhaled simultaneously. Miriam scuttled across the roof, trailing black vapor in her wake. They watched as she reached the edge of the roof, then swung down, disappearing into a window that should have been too small for her to fit through.

  Jeffrey’s home, Chuck said. He hasn’t left since he got back yesterday.

  For half an hour nothing happened. Then Jeffrey’s door swung open and Miriam emerged, walking upright. With one arm she was dragging Jeffrey’s corpse, so empty of life it registered as an absence. He was torn open from crotch to throat, guts trailing like streamers behind him.

  The occupants of the container in the New Mexico desert watched as a little girl in Pakistan, engulfed in white flame, dragged a body all the way to the tree between her house and the neighbors’. She climbed up the tree, pulling herself through the branches with one hand, dragging a fully-grown man’s body up with the other. She draped him over the highest branch and swung back down. Then she walked back to her home, letting herself in through the front door.