by Jeff DeMarco
Gloria breathed in the scent of the long forgotten outside world, then exhaled deeply. “He’s a rat bastard, that one.” She turned her head to catch a fleeting glimpse of the world below. “Can’t say that I blame him though. Changed hands so many times.”
“Oh?” Ellen feigned interest, but her face soured at the remark.
“I can see why they’d want him, Israel, Russia, the U.S.” Her wheelchair swung into a familiar doorway. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“Don’t think ‘brilliant’ is the word,” Ellen mumbled, as she bent forward, securing Gloria’s legs.
Gloria squinted as she gripped onto the tops of Ellen’s shoulders. Ellen lifted, dropping her gently onto a padded table. Gloria lay back, her eyes still fixed on Ellen, as she stretched the contractures from her dead legs. “Say you were him,” Gloria strained, her arms gripping the edges of the table to stay on. “A brilliant mind, captured by some foreign government… What would you do?”
Ellen stopped with a leg positioned on her shoulder, her stare blank. “Shoot myself… I’d shoot myself square in the head.”
Gloria’s eyes widened, a question lodged in her throat.
“All that knowledge…” Ellen let out a long sigh. “It’s fatal in the wrong hands… As you can see.” She motioned towards Gloria’s scarred abdomen.
“In the right hands!” Gloria torqued her leg from Ellen’s shoulder, nearly throwing herself off the table in a fruitless attempt to sit up.
Ellen surged forward, her hands catching Gloria’s torso. “You’re a researcher,” Ellen strained. “I’m a Nurse Practitioner. We just see things differently, I guess.”
Gloria settled back onto the table. Her brow furrowed, still unsettled.
“You look at something and say ‘How can I change this, make it better, give it a pill, a drug, a chemical…” Ellen clipped a rope and handle to an overhead rack. “I see the end of that, the overmedicated, modified, chemically dependent patients that come to me for help.”
Gloria stewed, a harsh anger building inside. “Bit of a generalization,” she mumbled.
“Yea.” Ellen shrugged. “Not to say I never prescribe… I just think you ought to take care of what God gave you.”
“God…” Gloria huffed as she gripped the handle above. If not for a remnant of civility, she would’ve asked, ‘What the hell’s he got to do with this?’
CHAPTER 16
Three weeks had passed and Jacob continued his trek on foot. He could have easily found a plane or a car, driven it straight to Russia, but he didn’t. Nor did he wonder why he kept walking the path. He felt a sort of peace being out of the fight, in the sounds of his feet falling on the trail, one after the other, after the other.
The trail, as he had read on signposts along the way, was a pilgrimage of sorts: El Camino del Santiago, the way of St. James. The trail passed through small towns and ending in either Santiago del Compostela, Spain or St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France, depending upon the direction of travel.
He wondered whether fate had him land in Santiago, though he didn’t wonder especially hard. Rather his memories played through his mind on a continuous loop, interrupted on occasion by a stunning view of the countryside.
He passed along rural Spanish towns, old stone buildings worn with time; a central cathedral in each; always the largest building. Often the towns had hostels, nothing more than a bunk for weary travelers. He would often stay inside of the church, bar the doors closed, admire the intricate stained glass as fading light shone through. He contemplated his existence and that of Jesus’ apostles, and that of Jesus himself. He had no right to think of himself in those terms, anymore.
His heart was heavy with grief. A mix of emotions that he didn’t fully understand. He hadn’t been taught to feel, rather to suppress and lie, as Flynn had. It was accurate to say that for the first time in his life, he felt bad, and wrong. It was a simplistic emotion taught from birth, but one that he was just coming to understand. He felt his actions, his iron fist, his lack of trust and saw how they had disintegrated the fellowship he could have had with his brothers and sisters. ‘But I freed them.’ His chest puffed out at the thought. ‘We were slaves of a sort and I freed them… to be my slaves.’ His spirit deflated.
He felt a weight lift off his shoulders with each passing step, but a deep, ugly, rotten sore underneath the yoke he had bared. In time, and with ample antiseptic of humility and penance, he hoped the sore would eventually heal. Even if the end result was an ugly scar.
Still deeper, he found a voice. It spoke a language that he couldn’t understand, but it grew stronger the further east he walked. It felt primordial, ancient, omnipresent; like it had always been there with him. He put the thought aside and one foot in front of the other.
“Why’d you do it?” Gloria asked.
Dr. Bariac glanced up from his microscope with a puzzled look and put his glasses on.
“When they asked you to make this virus, why didn’t you refuse.”
“My dear…” He smiled a half-hearted smile. “We’ve talked about this. They would’ve killed me.”
“Yet you wait till the damage is done… then slash your wrists. Why?”
He looked at her with a befuddled frustration.
“Why not save us all the trouble and do it before you created hell on earth?”
“I…” He opened his mouth, unable to form the words.
She glared at him, waiting.
“I won’t lie to you; I’m ashamed for what I’ve done. It’s why I sought to end it all. Another part of me, I’ll call it the scientific part, wanted to push the limits of science, see how far we could take it. I think about Albert Einstein and how he must have felt to create the atom bomb and-“
“Stop.” She fingered the grip of her pistol. “Don’t compare yourself to Einstein. He didn’t build the bomb.”
Bariac shrugged. “His research.”
Her teeth gritted into a growl.
“One man’s savior is another man’s murderer,” he said. “Ask the people of Hiroshima.”
Her eyes narrowed as she shook her head.
“Just think of what we could have done if we released the virus on a group of insurgents,” he said, simultaneously. He thought, ‘Oh God… I’m quoting a madman to justify my actions.’ “I didn’t know what they’d do...” He shuddered. ‘Another lie,’ he thought. “Not exactly, that is.”
Her grip tightened around her pistol.
“As I said…” He slumped in his chair. “Once this is all over, once we’ve reversed what we can, you’ve every right to end my life. In fact, I want you to. Until then, give me time to fix this.”
“And let you be a savior, a martyr?” She released her pistol. “You’ll rot in jail once this is done.”
His eyes closed and face slumped, as he peered inside himself, a wash of self-pity and hatred. He moved slowly, painfully back to the microscope and immediately his eyes widened. “Come! Come quick!”
Gloria wheeled over to the workstation and propped herself up in her chair to see down the lenses. “I’ll be a horse’s arse,” she whispered.
A metal container rose from the ground. Two Airmen dressed in fatigues and full combat gear pulled the heavy metal door open. Light shone into the dark place. A young man huddled in the rearmost corner.
“Come here, Demetri.” Colonel Petersen spoke softly, as he knelt down. “It’s ok. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Demetri crawled, feeling the warm dry air on his face, the cold metal floor beneath his hands.
“It’s ok,” Petersen whispered. “Come on out.”
Demetri knelt and looked up at the sky.
“First time out of the facility?”
“First time out of my room,” Demetri whispered. He saw a crow fly by and shot back into the safety of the container.
Petersen crept in low, his hands out to show he wasn’t a threat. He sat down next to Demetri. “You ok?”
Demetri shook his head frantically, his a
rms wrapped around his legs.
“I’ll tell you a little story…” Petersen put his hand on the Demetri’s knee. “My father, the Senator, the monster. Everyone liked him, looked up to him, respected him; Former Naval Officer, church deacon, family man… but you know what he used to do behind closed doors?”
Demetri looked over at him and shook his head.
“He’d beat the hell out of me and my brother, my mom. He’d lock us in our room for days at a time, all the while quoting scripture.”
“Our parents were unfaithful,” Demetri whispered. “They did evil in the eyes of the Lord our God and forsook him.”
Petersen smiled, the verse familiar, though he couldn’t place it. “You know what I learned, though?” He put his arm around Demetri. “I didn’t have to look up to him, didn’t have to follow him; and no matter what, so long as he didn’t kill me, I’d be ok.”
Demetri looked at Petersen with a confused look.
“I don’t want to pass judgment on Flynn. He was my friend.” Petersen let out a long exhale. “I can tell you that what I’m finding out about him, his secrets, keeping you locked up… He lost his faith in the end. I know why, now.”
Demetri stared down at the dark metal floor.
“C’mon.” Petersen stood and took Demetri under the arm. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”
The two stood, facing one another. Petersen pulled a remote controller from his pocket. “I’m going to give you free reign, on one condition… you don’t go digging around inside my head, you don’t harm me, and you don’t harm yourself. Agreed?”
Demetri gave an odd glance, then nodded.
Petersen toggled through settings, the collar issued a click, disengaging the sensors and explosive charge. “I don’t think I’ll ever have to, but just so you know, pressing a single button on here will fire the explosives in your collar, ok?”
Demetri nodded once more.
“Now let’s see what you can do…”
CHAPTER 17
‘Lub – Dub, Lub – Dub,’ The words echoed inside Jacob’s mind in rhythm with his heart. ‘ – , – ,’ A dead language, ‘Thump – thump,’ in rhythm with his footsteps, ‘ – , – .’ ‘Arabic?’ he wondered. ‘No.’ Jacob knew Arabic, and Farsi, and Pashtun, and Hebrew, and a dozen African dialects.
‘ – , – ,’ His head swayed in concert with the words. He began mouthing the words emanating from his mind. “Cuh – Tuh, Cuh – ToMuh,” at first a mumble. “Com – To mus, Come – To us.” His vision began to blur. “Come – To us, Come – To us.” A shiver went up his spine; He shook his head, snapping him from the trance. ‘Come to us?’
He was in southern France now, nearing St. Jean Pied-de-Port. He could see it, a relic; kept safe in the belly of a cathedral. A wooden box held safe behind lock and key. His pace quickened as the words flowing through his mind followed suit. ‘ – , – ,’ He smashed his eyelids together, gritted his teeth. The object was clearer now, small, metallic. The voices, the angelic, serene voices grew ever louder.
“AHHHHHHH!” He dropped to his knees at the cathedral steps, his eyes raised towards the sky, towards the towering marble columns and gargoyles, stained glass and arches. “What am I supposed to do?!”
The words repeated ‘ – , – COME – TO US!’
He gripped the sides of his head and squeezed, his head now pressed into the earth, repeating the words, “Come – To us, Come – To us.” A flash went across his the backs of his eyelids.
He rose, a sudden clarity of action; an understanding of what he must do.
He hadn’t been to the Middle East in many years, but he didn’t remember it being nearly as green, or as cool.
While an ally of the US during the Syrian conflict, Jordan had the distinction of having little oil or wealth. They were, however, rich in stone, as the city of Amman from afar took on a tone of limestone, with ornamental materials, columns and pediments on display and for sale along the highway.
He passed through the city, oddly remniscent of images he had seen of Detroit and Chicago, other rust belt cities at the turn of the century. Dilapidated structures and high-rises. Decay mixed with limestone huts, dirty shops and storefronts. The sense of shuffling homeless sandals still lingered along streets and ghettos. Images of an aging King Abdullah II and his wife and family plastered on billboards along the highway, dressed in military formal attire, traditional Jordanian garb, a business suit. A kind, benevolent face, he reminded Jacob of a king one might drink beer with and watch a football game, rather than that of a ruthless dictator.
He passed a piece of graffiti, crossed swords below the Quaran, another of a four fingered hand, the signs synonymous with the Moslem Brotherhood; training in military intelligence and geopolitics had told him this much. He felt a presence, the first he had felt in over a month. He was happy for them, for their survival, happy that his actions had failed.
He turned towards them, a rock and earthen wall set around a conflagration of limestone buildings. An opening – a bus skirted with sheet metal used as the gate. Mortars pounded into the dirt. “Allah Akbar!” the words yelled with each impact, ‘Allah is greater.’
Jacob laid on the horn, drawing the Hunters to him. He stepped from the vehicle, his arms raised in a V, his hands turned out towards them.
They gathered, poised on their haunches, eyeing him as a meal; militants at the rock wall staring down in wonder.
Jacob flipped his hands around; they scattered away from the compound. The engine of the bus fired, it pulled forward and a young man walked out, dressed in green, tan and black fatigues, black boots and black hair, light brown skin, with two crowns on each shoulder. “Come!” he motioned Jacob with his hand.
Jacob pulled his vehicle in, stopped in a small courtyard.
“Shukran.” The young man’s pistol was drawn on Jacob. ‘Thanks.’ “But what are you?” His English heavily coated with a middle eastern accent.
“A friend.” Jacob stepped from the vehicle, waved his hand, flinging the pistol from the man’s grasp. “I think.”
Others stepped forward, robed in tan, faces covered in red and white tassled shemag’s, AK-47’s drawn.
“I am Captain Ahmad.” He held his hand out to the side, urging calm.
“Jacob.” He extended his hand out. “They won’t trouble you today.”
“Kafir!” A burst echoed from from a rifle. ‘Infidel.’
Ahmad’s eyes widened, the bullets hovering before him, midair.
“Ferrous metal, armor piercing steel core.” Jacob smiled, casting the bullets to the ground. “Easy to control.” He searched his mind for the words. “Umm… Pashtunwali?” ‘asylum,’ in the Pashtun language.
Ahmad chuckled. “This isn’t Afghanistan, my friend.” He motioned Jacob forward. “But come eat.” He snapped his finger. “Mansaf!”
“You’re not like the others,” Jacob said, sitting on an old couch. [WU13]He looked up at the walls, the Moslem Brotherhood flag displayed proudly, alongside the Jordanian flag.
“I would not say that.” Ahmad pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Jacob. “When my combat outpost fell, this is where I came.”
Jacob reluctantly took a cigarette from the pack. “How many of you?”
“37.” Ahmad lit Jacob’s cigarrette, pulling one for himself. “Where you come from?”
“I was last in North Carolina…” He took a drag, hacking up the smoke. “A… America, when things fell apart.”
Ahmad eyed him curiously. Men entered, carrying silver trays with small glasses of hot tea. “I ask again, what are you?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He took a sip of tea. “Part human, part something else.”
“And those… things you do with your hands?”
“I wish I had answers for you?” He stared back at Ahmad. “What’re you doing here? Isn’t the brotherhood an enemy of Jordan.”
“Perhaps…” Ahmad laughed. “I don’t think it matters anymore. B
efore all this, I was in Army, but allegiance to the brotherhood, Sharia law, hope for caliphate. I was happy when I heard what happened to America, destroying all the non-beleivers… Then it appeared. Allah has judged us all unworthy.”
Jacob shook his head. “Allah had nothing to do with this.”
“And you, my friend.” Ahmad’s look was grim. “What god you pray to.”
“God?” Jacob looked inside himself. “I was raised to know God exists, as proof in myself. I’ve ruined that.”
Ahmad stared through the smoke, a question at the tip of his tongue.
“And maybe I meant to ruin that… to prove his creation is flawed, weak; then God himself must be flawed; to prove that God must not exist.” He let out a deep sigh, his own worthlessness on display for this stranger. “You could come with me, if you want… I could protect you.”
“This is our home.” He shot up, stared down at the non-believer. “Pray as you’d wish, I’ll believe as I have.” They walked into a dining room, a large plate of rice and pine nuts, lamb covered in a sour goats milk.
In the morning, Jacob set out; his mind was drawn away from them.
His destination was set deep into a ravine, the giant stone columns and ornamental structure carved directly into sandstone; the holy city of Peetra. A massive 130 feet high, Jacob wondered at its construction, at the builders who could have accomplished such a feat.
He walked into the front opening. He crouched down along the blank stone, feeling its cold sharp contours. He placed his ear to the ground, hoping for a sign. Immediately the floor began to tremble. A perfect circle fell before him, sunk into the stone. He peered down into the black abyss and without thinking, began his descent.
A green ambient light shone in the distance. He walked toward it, down a perfectly curved and symetrical tunnel. He felt along the smooth walls, without so much as a rough patch. Then along the bottom for debris, signs of wear; not so much as a pebble. He continued on to a circular room, the walls illuminated in limelight, a single chair in the middle.
