"What now?" Malak asked.
No plan B. None of us were close to being ready to deal with a situation of this magnitude. We were not prepared or capable as far as we knew of protecting ourselves. My heart sank. We were low on options. I looked at Malak. I couldn't panic. I needed to get us somewhere safe.
"Look,” Malak said, pointing to her right. “That sign.”
"Where?" Deema asked.
"Over that pole," she said. A pole a few meters away from where we parked, barely visible under the smog.
"Can anyone read it?" I asked.
"Turn back—?" Malak started. The flames grew heavier. "Turn back. This area is quarantined."
"We have to leave," May said.
Quarantined? I needed a minute to catch up to all the events. I sat there in silence over the girls discussing things. I tried to gather my thoughts to decide on the next step. It was like a wall landed on my head. They blocked Bahrain. We couldn’t drive around; it was dangerous. Go to the police? They weren’t answering. After weighing all the outcomes … I had nothing.
"We can't stay on the causeway. It's too exposed," Malak said.
"I just said that," May said.
I unbuckled my seat belt and rotated back to Malak and the rest of the girls, and calmly said, "We need a plan.”
"We need a place to lock ourselves in," May said.
"How about my place?" Deema said.
"Your house is basically made out of glass," May replied. "Mine is locked, and I didn't bring the keys. I was supposed to stay with them." She pointed at us with a tear in her bright eyes.
“Our place." I looked at Malak, reading her opinion in her eyes. She agreed.
"We need supplies and food," Malak said.
"We need some medicine and first aid kits,” Deema added.
"We need coffee," I said. I had eaten nothing since the bad scone I had for noon-breakfast. They both looked at me like I was insane but something caught my eye and diverted my attention from them.
"What," I said, fully fixated on a moving shadow a few steps away from the car, "is that?"
"What?" May asked, rattled, turning in all directions as if she was caught in a web.
"There’s something there," I said. A shadow slowly walked in the distance; it converted to a human figure.
"Saw it," Malak said, looking out the window. “Let’s leave.”
"Do you guys hear that?" May asked.
"Death creeping upon us?” I asked.
"No," May said. “Listen!”
A sound grew loud and clear. A man’s voice. The word “help” enveloped by gibberish words and grunting that seemed to come from the deepest part of pain.
"I think he's calling out for help," Malak said.
"He's dead!" May replied. "He just wants to eat." This would have sounded stupid on any other day, but today wasn’t any other day.
“He’s saying something,” I said, listening.
"Zombies don't talk," May dismissed.
“So he’s not a zombie then,” I said, “right?”
"I think he's hurt," Deema said.
"Zombies don't talk?" Malak asked.
"Well, not like spoken language,” May said.
“Does that make sense to any of you?” I asked.
"I didn't make up the rules," May said.
I cracked the window to hear better. I was sure he was saying “speaking language” words.
"Help me, please," he said. The words clear as day. His raspy voice reached us before he fell to the ground.
"He's hurt," Deema said and opened the door. She got out of the car and jogged to the other side where he collapsed before I could object.
"Deema!" I shouted. I grabbed the knife and popped out of the car behind her. I was already in front of the hood behind Deema before Malak or May could try to stop me. Malak climbed over to my seat and exited the car from my side, and she met us on the other side. The wind blew a breeze and sent the smell of my clothes to my nose. I gagged. But held it in.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked Deema, breathing through my mouth.
"He's hurt, I can't leave him. I'm a nurse," she said.
"What’s wrong with you two?" Malak told us both off. May stayed in the car; she chose not to follow in the madness. Instead, she jumped to the front seat and rolled up the window.
"Sir, have you been bitten?" Deema asked politely. She was always the type who addressed people properly with titles. He grunted and held his left hand with his right, pulling it closer to his chest, saying nothing.
"He might have been bitten," May said from a window cracked in the back seat then rolled the window up.
"Your hand," Deema took a step closer, "you’re hurt."
"Deema," I warned.
He had a black uniform on. I couldn’t tell what it was but it had holes and tears revealing his skin. He wore a bulletproof vest. The light hit a logo on his right shoulder. It read, “S.A.N.G.” with a strange insignia attached to his chest.
"You’re a police officer?" I asked, doubting he was. That was not a police uniform.
Deema leaned down and sat in front of him. His black uniform showed dark splatters. Blood? I was sure Deema saw them.
"No," he exclaimed.
"Can I examine your hand, sir?” Deema asked. “I am a nurse."
He extended his hand toward her. She held it, searching for something, an injury.
"I’ve never seen that uniform before," Malak said, “army?”
"National Guard." He groaned and tried to pull away when Deema touched his upper arm. S.A.N.G. Saudi Arabian National Guard. But what was the insignia? It looked like a wasp.
"I think it's deep. I need a piece of cloth or something,” Deema said. He yanked his arm back.
"You need help," Deema insisted. "I have to see the wound.”
"I was bitten,” he said, curling up in pain. We took a step back. He pressed his uninjured hand on his outer thigh. “By a dog.”
"A dog?" Deema asked, watching him. He started coughing. "You’re very warm. You might have a fever which could be a sign of infection from the bite," she said.
"We need to know what is happening. Do you know what's going on?" Malak asked him and got closer.
"Watch it, Malak," I said and matched her step, placing my hand on her shoulder instinctively, my gaze fixed on the guy.
"We weren't briefed," he said. A sharp cough escaped his lungs, sounding like it cut its way out. "We're special forces, specialized in tactics and high-risk operations." He gasped for breath.
"We’re under attack?" Malak asked.
He looked around like he was expecting something. His eyes flickered right and left.
“I know some things,” he said, turning his gaze back to us. "Scientists and researchers were experimenting on something. I don't know what it was, but it was located in the Empty Quarter, and there was an outbreak."
"The Empty Quarter?" I asked, surprised.
"It would be the perfect place," Malak concluded quickly.
The Empty Quarter was the largest sand desert in the world, encompassing most of the southern parts of the Saudi Arabian Peninsula. The inhospitable desert covers 650,000 square kilometers of pure golden sand, privacy, and isolation. The perfect place.
"Something went wrong. A virus broke out. Emergency protocol took in effect immediately as soon as the outbreak was recognized as a threat. They had to counter the outbreak and control the infection so as not to spread. The protocol included quarantine. The facility was under lockdown," he continued, pressing his arm and taking a deep, whistling breath. We listened, trying to follow. "But… there was a breach.”
"A breach?" May repeated. I turned around to see her head popping out of the window. I almost forgot about her. Almost.
"The facility was contaminated. It infected everyone in the facility,” he said.
"Ground Zero is in Saudi Arabia," Deema said.
He looked up at her and paused for a few seconds and said, "We were called in t
o clean up.”
"You mean to destroy all the evidence," Malak said. Her journalist instincts never disappointed. "What happened to the facility?"
"It was leveled," he said.
"So all evidence is buried underground in the desert," Malak said.
"You said there was a breach?" I interrupted.
"Something escaped the facility. We predicted whatever, or whoever, was already out of the building when the fail-safe was activated and the place was locked down. After whatever escaped, it walked on foot through the desert and reached a village. It’s calculated to be a full month of walking. It infected the village with a population of two hundred and sixty in twenty-four hours."
"How fast is this thing spreading?" Deema asked. The guy shook his head.
"We were under attack for months," Malak said. Her words echoed in my head. "We just didn't know it.”
The weight of the truth sank in. The reality started to set in. This was happening. We were under attack. We had been under attack for months, attacked from within. Attacked by our own. We just didn't know it.
“There are all kinds of emergencies out there we're equipped and prepared for, but the undead uprising.” He stopped and gazed in the distance, seeing something we didn't. "Is not one of them.”
"There are protocols for these things. The government will fight back, right?" Malak asked.
"At first the Ministry of Interior Defense took swift action, an attack like that would require a fast, aggressive extermination response. Taking a defensive stance would not work, but they failed, so we were called in. The national guard, but we failed,” he said, and his eyes went glassy. “We failed.”
He sounded hysterical. My heart slowed down and my fears sped up. I slipped my hand into Malak’s. She squeezed “calm down.”
"We failed. We all failed. They keep getting back up no matter how many holes we put in them. They kept getting back up." He started giggling. "They are unstoppable. A week of this, and it would be nearly guaranteed the civilization will not bounce back. It’s the end of time.”
Malak squeezed my hand harder; she was panicking. Deema stood up next to us.
"This is not good," Deema said.
"No one’s coming. No one’s coming," he repeated, and his laughter grew sinister. “Phase one failed.”
“What do you mean phase one?” I asked.
The man in uniform was already gone, no longer with us. He was somewhere else in another timeline. "The dog that bit me was dead. I shot it. I shot it and it got right up. We can't fight this, no one can. We can only sit here and wait for our impending doom. Those things walked back to their village. They recognized it.” He pulled a gun out of thin air and aimed it in his mouth too fast for any of us to even think of taking cover.
"No," I shouted at the sound of the bullet going through his head. We threw our arms on our faces, protecting ourselves from the scene. From death claiming another one.
"Oh my God! Oh my God!" May screamed.
I looked at the ground. My brain hadn’t had enough time to process what happened. It was all over in a blink of an eye. He took his own life. He gave up. Something drove him to do it. He saw something that made him choose death over life, or was it something he knew?
"He's gone," Deema said.
"Is he gonna?" Malak stopped. We all knew what she was about to ask.
“Come back?” I completed her question.
"An infected dog bit him. Can the virus be transmitted from animals to humans?" Malak asked.
"Some viruses can. We can’t be sure," Deema said. We jogged back to the car, not taking any chances.
"The gun," I said, my hand on the car’s cool door. I double backed, narrowing my gaze on his hand. There was something unnatural about a body without a soul. Don't look at his face. There was so much blood. I extended my hand, stretching it as long as I could and touched the gun, deliberately looking away. Don't look at his head wound. His grip was firmly sealed on the gun. I took a deep breath; his smell went inside me. I released his handle on the gun one finger at a time. First finger, second finger, third finger, fourth. His fingers twitched. I glanced at him, at his face. He lay still, head cocked back. In his other hand, a prayer bead wrapped around his wrist fell loose in his hand. I didn't notice it before. Ninety-nine beads, each one corresponding to the names of God. I pulled the gun out of his hand and ran back to the car. I fastened my seat belt and set the gun on my lap.
"Now what?" Deema asked.
"We head back," Malak said.
The sun cast its final rays before fully sinking in the horizon, forming a fire-red smoke upon the clouds. I touched the gun to reassure myself. I had my other hand on the steering wheel. I turned the car around, heading back the way we came. Back to the uncertain. Back to the city of the dead. Back home.
Chapter 20
Shanghai, China.
Population 26.317.000 million
Two and a half weeks earlier
He walked through the street of Nanjing. The heart of Shanghai city. He loved it there. He loved the busy, vital streets and how different it was from Riyadh, the city he came from. Although Riyadh, the capital, gets busy in its own right, it’s nothing compared to Shanghai. He decided to grab something quick to eat on his way to the office building. Street food, he made up his mind. I get enough empty calories from the fast-food trash I consume while traveling, he thought. He got a veggie dumpling and a bottle of water to wash it down. He took his food and wolfed it down, enjoying each bite of its authenticity. He checked his watch. I’m not late. He didn’t want to miss the important meeting scheduled later that morning. A meeting he had been planning for months, a meeting he flew over ten hours to attend. He walked among the people, dodging them whenever he could, his suitcase gripped tightly in his hand. He stopped at a red light, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He looked up. The Shanghai sun was not nearly as hot as the Riyadh sun. He took another sip of water, glanced to his right, and saw a group of elderly stretching out, warming up for a morning workout. He smiled. I need to start working out, he reminded himself. As soon as I get back to Saudi I’ll start working out, he promised. The light turned green. He crossed with a horde of people to the other side. He’d never seen so many people occupy the same space before. The experience excited him. Back in his city, he drove everywhere, never got a chance to walk like he did when he came here. It was not his first time in Shanghai, but it was the same feeling of surprise every time he visited. He felt a little light-headed and had the chills, but brushed it off. He felt ill. Unsteady. I’m probably jet-lagging. He finally reached the building. He displayed his ID and they allowed him up to his temporary office, on the thirty-fourth floor. He went up and was greeted by the secretary, a secretary that almost quit many times. She believed working on this floor was bringing her bad luck, she’d explained to him countless times. The pronunciation of the number four and death were similar and working on the thirty-fourth floor was bad news. But she stayed. The pay was good, and she needed the money. He entered and got on the pc, printing off some papers.
“Your coffee, sir.” The young Chinse secretary entered the office and sat a coffee cup on the table. “Your meeting will start in fifteen minutes.”
“Sysh-syeh.” The man thanked her in Chinese. As much as he came to this city, he never stayed long enough to expand his Mandarin vocabulary. “Could you please bring something for my headache, Lilly.”
“I will bring it to the conference room.” Lilly picked up the tray and bowed before leaving.
The hot, bitter coffee ran softly down his throat, spiking his blood with caffeine, stimulating every sense in his body. He drank the last drop then walked up to the window, staring down at the busy streets. It was not yet seven a.m. and the streets were already roaring with movement. After a few minutes passed, he checked his watch. One more cup, he thought. He looked down at the bite mark under his watch; the skin around it felt tender and swollen. A hot sensation developed, followed by an itch. I
t could be infected. I will have to have this checked out as soon as I’m back home. He couldn't shake off the feeling something was wrong. And it might have to do with the little boy at the airport. Did I contract some kind of illness? He shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. Three minutes until the meeting. An itch clawed its way up his throat. He coughed, cupping his mouth with one hand. He removed his hand and saw a drop of blood in the palm of his hand. Not good.
“Sir.” Lilly opened the door. “Everyone’s here waiting for you in the conference room.”
“I’ll be right out.” He forced a smile.
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