The Dig

by Michael Siemsen

  “Where is Oten?” a scout behind Irin asked.

  The two returning scouts panted for breath, barely holding back their sobs.

  “He was taken!” one of them gasped.

  “It was a giant flyer, but dark… so much bigger… it took him.”

  Irin reeled inside. They would have to move close together—appear as one giant beast. No new would be allowed to play along the edges of the column. He sent his instructions back. Must everything go wrong this night?

  Irin closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally. He heard the screech echo across the mountains. The flyers were calling for them to enter their land.

  41

  THE LEARJET’S TWIN TURBINES HUMMED BEHIND Tuni. Beside her, Matt lay motionless, bound to a stretcher. When they rolled him on four hours ago, the wheels had dropped into four slots in the floor and locked with a loud click.

  The feet of another man faced Matt’s; his stretcher, too, was secured in the floor panels. The other patient had an oxygen line to his nose, several IV bags hanging above him, and a stack of electronic devices behind his head. He was conscious, though, and his drooping eyes roved over every inch of Tuni’s body before moving on to the two nurses.

  Tuni watched the black accordion rise up and drop down in opposite sync with the man’s chest. Tired of his ogling, she gave him a goggle-eyed stare to embarrass him, and after a slow blink, he moved his expressionless gaze elsewhere.

  In front of her sat two other men she did not know. One, clearly the son of the gawking man on life support, appeared terribly inconvenienced by the whole affair. He also seemed to think that the nurses were his personal flight attendants.

  The other passenger, sitting in the front seat, just behind the cockpit, was a skinny African man with smooth shiny skin, who had started reading his copy of Town & Country for the third time. Tuni had noticed him right away at the airport and wondered if he was getting free transport via a relative in the company—why else would anyone tag along on a medical flight? He wore a cream-colored silk shirt tucked into expensive black slacks, Gucci loafers with no socks. How eighties, Tuni thought—like the thick gold bracelet dangling from his wrist.

  Tuni decided not to bother trying to sleep. Peter had arranged for a hotel room near Matt’s hospital so she could start getting some real sleep. She had decided that it was okay to leave him alone with people she trusted, but she would stay with him at least the first night to make sure the staff understood his special needs. The big paycheck Jon Meier had promised her would post to her checking account at midnight, so she could get some new clothes and other essentials, and she looked forward to a long, hot shower in a clean, private room. With a tired sigh, she nestled into the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Hello—Sharma,” Peter answered into the sat phone.

  “Mr. Sharma, Detective Chitundu,” said the deep voice on the other end.

  “Yes, Detective, how are you?”

  “Me? Well… I suppose I am a bit blue,” Chitundu replied in a tone of exaggerated melancholy.

  “Oh?” Peter rolled his eyes to Collette, who stood beside him in the RV.

  “Oh, yes. It doesn’t matter, though. You’ve decided to answer the phone this time, so I will have to find some happiness in that small act.”

  “Um, yeah—sorry about that. I guess you’ve tried calling before and no one answered?” The man’s melodrama was beginning to pall.

  “No, no one answered. I believe this is eleventh attempt, but we needn’t dwell on that. My perturbation will no doubt pass.”

  “Okay, great. So, um, tell me what this is about.”

  “Ha-ha-ha… yes, cut to the chase, as they say. I suppose I have a tendency to ramble on. Yes, let us.”

  Peter waited in silence.

  “Mr. Sharma, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Detective, right here—go ahead.” Peter mouthed HO-LY CRAP to Collette, who looked at him questioningly.

  “Ah, there you are. I was wondering if someone would like to know what time we would be arriving. No one has called or anything to check on your friend’s status. He has not said so, but I’m sure he is quite shaken inside, as I would be in his position.”

  “Friend? What friend… ?” He looked out the window and realized that the Jeep was gone and that he hadn’t seen Rheese all morning. “Is Dr. Rheese there with you?”

  Silence on the other end. When Chitundu finally spoke again, the slow, dramatic affect was gone and he sounded like an entirely different person.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Sharma?” he barked. “Dr. Rheese is not there?”

  Peter had had enough. “No! He isn’t—and if you’re not talking about him, who is with you? Did you—did you find Hank?”

  “Of course. Mr. Felch is in the office beside mine. You were not told? I informed Dr. Rheese late yesterday. Have you seen him since then?”

  “What! Hank’s alive! Jesus!” He paused. “But… Rheese was at dinner—he never said a bloody thing!” Peter looked around the RV, then stepped quickly down the hall, and checked in the closet—no clothes, no bags. “Yeah, he’s gone. All of his things, too. But is Hank okay? I mean, where did you find him? Is he okay?”

  “You asked that twice, Mr. Sharma,” Chitundu replied. “If not for your Dr. Rheese further incriminating himself, I would normally have found that suspect. I’ll be there with Mr. Felch in under four hours. And yes, he is okay. Yes, he is okay.”

  “They found Hank!” Peter shouted to Collette. “He’s alive and fine!” As she bounced out the door to spread the joyous news, he put the phone back to his ear. It sounded as if it was still connected. “Detective, are you still there?”

  “You shouted in my ear, Mr. Sharma.”

  “Oh… um, sorry. So, are you coming or what?”

  Silence. The call had ended.

  Rheese swung the Jeep into the small car park beside a farmers’ market. Nakuru looked fairly well maintained and tidy, he thought. Indeed, one might forget one was in the heart of the third world. He blended well with the other white tourists—only the oversize camera swinging from his neck was missing. He threw a dirty tarp over his bags in the back—one couldn’t be too careful.

  He walked along between the mounds of corn, melons, and bananas, ignoring the calling, waving merchants. Beyond the market, he spotted a canopy and, beneath it, a bank of telephones. How pleasantly modern, he thought, inspecting one. Credit card scanner, digital display, a small port for some electronic device or other. He dialed the number, and the display requested one shilling, which he dropped in the slot. A moment later a woman answered in Swahili.

  “The Gray,” Rheese said behind a cupped hand. He heard the phone drop, and the woman shout. The phone clattered, and another woman’s voice came on.

  “Who is these?” she said.

  “These is looking for the Gray. No one else.”

  “We no hear of no Gray. Who is these?”

  “Bloody brilliant!” Rheese spat. “Look, I’ve used this number before. Is there another number, perhaps?”

  “These number?”

  “No, another phone that I can call. A mobile? Cellular? Cellie?”

  “Cellie phone?” she answered as if that had clicked.

  “Yes, the Gray—cellie phone.”

  “These Rheese?”

  “Yes, damn it! Yes, this is Rheese! Give me the number, please.”

  “I have message for you.”

  “Well, give me the bloody thing! What is it—what did he say?”

  “Say you dead.” Click.

  The phone fell from Rheese’s ear, and he turned and scanned the area around him as he felt dread knotting in the pit of his stomach. What have I done? I paid him! I did nothing wrong! His eyes darted to every car, every face. With hurried steps, he walked behind the vegetable market to return to the Jeep, fighting down the panic. Where now? He was supposed to get me out. I could have kept that bloody money and done it myself! What was I thinking, dealing with a bloody
scoundrel like him?

  He needed a disguise—a wig. A white man with a bald head was surely the first thing they’d be looking for. But how would they know he was in Nakuru? The Gray didn’t even know he had left the site. But now… caller ID? Would they know he had called from that pay phone? Were they that sophisticated?

  He started to get in the Jeep, then stopped. He had seen this before. A bomb? Brakes cut?

  Dropping to the muddy ground, he peered up into the undercarriage. But what to look for? He knew nothing about bloody cars! Everything he saw could be a bomb, for all he knew. But he had to get away from here. Bloody hell with it! Getting up, he dusted his knees off and climbed into the Jeep, closed his eyes, and turned the key.

  After the engine caught and he realized that he still existed, he reversed and drove away to the north. He needed as much distance between himself and the site and Nairobi as possible. He mentally totted up his cash on hand: fifty-five hundred U.S. dollars and a few hundred Kenyan—enough to get him to Egypt or Morocco. But from where? Kampala? Addis Ababa? Too far—perhaps Torore, right across the border. There should be an ample population of corrupt airport personnel he could bride on the cheap.

  Turning onto the highway, he followed the signs pointing to UgandaLake Victoria.

  Blast that bloody Gray! It was his own fault for losing Felch, however the hell it had happened. They were supposed to keep him for a week, and now they were coming after him? He wished he were a crime boss and could order a hit on the Gray and the fools who had bollixed the job—no doubt those two idiots in the truck.

  Behind him a siren wailed. Rheese peered in the rearview mirror and cursed in a steady stream until he had stopped on the shoulder. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, breathed deeply and slowly, and prepared his face for a jolly smile. He considered trying an American accent, but it might not be convincing enough.

  “Hello, sir,” the officer said, his face impassive behind reflective sunglasses. Rheese turned and smiled. “Where you from, sir?”

  “Dublin, m’lad!” He opted for Irish. “‘Ow can oi ’elp ye?”

  “You forget something, sir.” The officer sounded angry. Rheese’s mind raced with all the things that could mean. Forgot the speed limit? Forgot to stop at a red? Forgot that police in Kenya were smart and knew which way you would travel?

  How about, forgot that cops were corrupt and could be paid to put a bullet in your head by order of the Gray?

  “Yeh?” Rheese smiled innocently.

  The officer held up his hand, clutching a blue tarp. Twisting around in the seat, Rheese saw that the tarp covering his bags was missing.

  “Oy!” he exclaimed. “So sorry, lad! Can’t be dairtyin up the beautiful land out ’ere, now, can we?” He took the tarp from the cop and stuffed it deep behind his seat. “Oi unnerstand if oi ’ave to pay a teckit. Where do oi soign?”

  The policeman stared at him for a moment through his big mirrored shades, tapped the door of the Jeep twice, and walked back to his car.

  What does that bloody mean? he wondered. Can I go? As he watched in the mirror to see if the man was leaving or getting out a ticket book, the police car made a U-turn and headed back the way it had come.

  With a gasp of both relief and annoyance, Rheese shifted the Jeep into first gear and continued on his way.

  42

  IRIN LED THE GROUP CAUTIOUSLY THROUGH the last of the foothills. Behind them stretched a continuous woodland canopy; ahead rose mountains, with no obvious way up.

  Irin had decided to send no more scouts ahead, for fear of another flyer swooping down on them. The travelers moved in a tight pack with lightsticks held high, for Wil had suggested that the unfamiliar blue glow might dissuade the flyers from grabbing someone in the group.

  As they continued down the final slope before the first mountain, Irin drank in the cool, moist air. He could smell the sweetness of the soft soil beneath their feet and hoped there would be more like it wherever they landed. Though he had never worked the food flats, the earth looked rich and fertile, and luxuriant plant life grew all around.

  Following a weakness in the foothills, they reached the steep watershed between two mountains. With no easier path in the direction of sunset, Irin turned up the valley, walking along the streamlet with his feet on either side of the water. The others followed, and with some pushing from behind, the n’wips moved slowly along. Irin was relieved that none of the monstrous screamers or the small fast-running creatures seemed to occupy this terrain, and that no new ones had made themselves known.

  Two challenging mountain passes later, they stopped to camp in a flat meadow, like a miniature version of their own valley but carpeted in soft, hair-covered plants as tall as a man. To flatten the plants, Pwig had two n’wips unloaded and dragged back and forth over the area. The mountains on all sides would provide shade for much of the day, allowing direct light for only a few hours when the sun was overhead. Soon all had eaten and were lying down for the day on comfortable beds of soft vegetation.

  The next night they awoke and continued upward, making many winding twists and turns to avoid the steeper slopes. And in this way they passed another night, another sleep, another night. With each night, the feeling grew that they were close to a new home. What about this spot? Too small for houses. And this? Too far to water. The next night, one of the new, Gritten, went missing. No one saw anything, but all assumed that a flyer had taken him. His mother, delirious with grief, wished to stay in that spot and be taken as well, supposing that at least she might get to see her new one more time. Irin did not have to convince her to carry on, for her man promised her that another newest would come to them and that it would be another Gritten, as if nothing had happened. She eventually allowed herself to be lifted to her feet and led along.

  One evening, after Irin had lost count of the nights, he, Wil, Pwig, and Orin stood atop one of the mountain peaks, looking out at the distant clouds. Though they could see flat land in the distance, the nearby mountains were hidden in the clouds. Below them, three thousand people sat spread across the slopes, eating their midnight meal.

  “How many nights before the asteroid comes?” Irin asked Wil as he re-strapped his foot coverings.”

  “I’ve lost track of how many have passed, but I think not many more. It comes during daylight.”

  “Irin,” Pwig began, “do you think we’ll still return to Pwin-T when the fires are gone?”

  Irin looked at his brother in disappointment.

  “Do you wish to make that journey again?” Wil answered for him.

  “But… you told everyone we would go back and rebuild.”

  “Pwig, I said that to convince people to leave,” Irin said, placing his hand atop Pwig’s head. “To save their lives.”

  “So we will never return?” he persisted.

  “The city will never return, no,” Irin confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean a small group couldn’t one day return to see it. Perhaps, when you find yourself an Opwig and a newest is made, you’ll want to take your new to see where his people came from.”

  Wil added, “But you know the dangers this journey holds. You may not want to risk it with a new.”

  “Would you, Irin?” Orin asked him as she walked closer to him.

  “Would I travel back to Pwin-T? I think not.”

  “What about when you have your own new? Two or three boys who want to go and see where their father killed screamers and where he poured houses?”

  “No, they don’t need to see what they can hear from my mouth. And that is, if we ever receive any new.”

  Orin was silent as Irin looked at her.

  “You believe we will, of course,” Irin said with a snort.

  She continued to look at him and moved her hand over her belly. He looked down and frowned at her hand, then back up at her face.

  “What? You want one now?”

  “I think she has one now,” Wil interjected. “Orin?”

  Pwig smiled and ran to her.
“Is it true?”

  She looked up at Irin, waiting for his frown to disappear. She clearly did not want that face to be the one to receive the news. He relaxed it a little as the idea floated around his thoughts.

  “Is it true?” he echoed.

  She leaned into him and curled her hands and arms around his head.

  “It is,” she finally admitted.

  He pulled her close to him, unsure how he felt about the revelation but not wanting her to think him unmoved. Pwig and Wil touched both their heads in congratulations.

  “Will it be Irint or Orint, I wonder,” Pwig said. “Do you know, Wil?”

  “No, I didn’t even know a newest was coming to them,” Wil said with a hint of sadness before he walked away.

  Irin wondered what thoughts his friend was having—likely dark ones, since he well knew that Irin wouldn’t be going anywhere with new ones he would never live to see.

  Irin and Orin looked into each other’s eyes as Pwig descended the slope beside them, following Wil.

  “We should eat, I suppose,” Irin told her. “How long has it been?”

  “Since last I ate?” she replied.

  “Since you knew.”

  “Just before we left Pwin-T. I didn’t want to disrupt your thoughts.”

  He nodded and guided her down the hill, his thoughts disrupted.

  Irin led the people of Pwin-T over mountains and through canyons to a wide plateau. Short, dense trees covered the high plateau. From a distance, they appeared to be round balls of foliage that clung to the sloping ground without rolling, but on closer inspection, within the balls were thick trunks rooted deep in the reddish soil. Irin and Orin lay beneath one of the strange trees. The rigid branches scratched them whenever they moved in their sleep, but it was shade nonetheless, and all were grateful for it.

  Wil shook Irin’s arm until he awoke with a start, wincing when he sat up into the branches above him.

  “What is it?” he asked when he saw his friend’s veiled face. Thin rays of sunlight pierced the crown of leaves, dappling Wil’s k’yot top so that it looked much like the dark spots on his face.