The thought was nice, but if he mentioned anything edible one more time, I would vomit.
Chapter 47
Where was Deema? Where was Rakan? Plumpy? Two men in hazmat uniforms covering everything but their eyes walked by me on each side, escorting me to a machine that looked like a walk-through metal detector. The man on my right nodded, intensifying the crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes.
“I walk in there?” I asked. Both men stood silent, waiting for me to make my move. “Okay,” I said and went through it. On the other end stood a black door. I looked back at the men in hazmat suits; they stared straight ahead as if transformed into statues. A small red light flashed in the corner, a camera. There were cameras everywhere. I swallowed my questions and advanced forward; the door automatically slid open. Beyond the door was a white room. No cameras. A table stood in the center, over it layers of white cloth. A black bin next to a frosted glass cubical box in the far corner. On the other end of the room stood another sliding door.
“Take off your clothes and place them in the black drop box, then take a shower using the products as labeled. After that, wear the clothes left for you on the table.” A voice vibrated through the objects in the white room.
“Where are the people I came with?” I asked. No answer. “Hello?” No answer. I looked down at my clothes, full of black goo, the smell of rotten eggs and insides enough incentive to get me out of them. I entered the cubical shower stall. I closed the door three quarters shut then I held my breath and took everything off. I slipped my hand between the door crack and threw the clothes in the bin. Naked, exposed, I ran the warm water, every drop comforting me and cleansing my skin but reminding me how vulnerable I was. I allowed my eyelids a few seconds to rest before looking at the shelf at eye level. Over it, two bottles stared back. The labels read, Hair. The other, Body. I flipped the bottle sideways and upside down, but nothing else was on the label. No ingredients, no instructions. What was I expecting? I washed with the designated liquids with no smell and no color. But whatever it was, it was strong; it stung as I lathered it on my skin and scalp. I put on the white oversized long-sleeve shirt and white loose pants. They looked like the clothes you would wear when checking into an asylum. A place you go when you have mentally detached from reality when you see things you shouldn’t be seeing. Like the dead walking around. I stood under a sensor, activating the other door to open, only to drop me off at another room, a smaller, brighter one. Another door on the other end of the room had a red dot flashing over it. I crossed the room and watched the door close behind me. I paused, counting four cameras in every corner. A soft breeze filled the room, the wetness soft against my bare skin. A misty blue substance spray followed. Then ultraviolet lights activated over my head. I took a deep breath, paralyzed. Were they sterilizing us? The red light switched to green, signaling the door under it to open. Malak is here, keep going. I went through the door into another white room, mirrors on both sides, and a closed door across the room. I was going through a series of white cubes, like stages, as if they were filtering out people. Like the previous room, the door behind me locked as I stepped in. I gently tapped the mirror, the clean surface reflecting this scared girl in a white uniform. The uniform told me I’ve been marked and labeled. I had no power here; they decided what happens. The cameras, they were watching. This could also be a two-way mirror. They are observing. The door behind me slid open and a face came into focus. Deema. She stepped in, disoriented. I ran to her at once and threw my arms around her.
“Deema!” I shouted, clutching her shoulders and examining her before pulling her to me again. “You’re okay.”
“What is this place?” Deema said. I sensed a slight shiver.
“I don't know.” I let her go. She smelled of nothing. Emptiness. Her hair was as wet as mine and her clothes were as colorless. “But I’m glad I’m not alone.”
“This place is like the lab part of a hospital.” She walked around, scanning the room that did not smell of antiseptics, nor harsh bleaches. “Where’s Rakan?”
The door on the other end of the room slid open. We exchange looks, and I stepped forward. “Let’s go get my sister,” I said.
On the other side stood an eye scanner, with four heavily armed soldiers in tan camouflage uniforms, and they wore matching tan masks.
“Stand on the footprint,” a soldier said, his voice coming from underneath the mask. A voice of a man in charge.
I looked down. Two foot-shaped outlines were planted in the concrete gray ground. I placed each foot in its place and looked straight ahead. The scanner made loud sounds then beeped three times—beep, beep, beep—before turning green.
“Clear,” another solder sounded off. “Walk to us.”
I followed instructions and stood next to him. Deema positioned herself in front of the scanner, planting both feet down and triggering the eye scanner. There was a beep beep beep again, this time silence after. Then a high-pitched alarm instead. The lights turned red, casting an evil glow. The soldiers aimed their guns at Deema.
“Wait, wait,” I said, and before any of them could do anything, I ran back and placed myself between Deema and them. “Wait. What does this mean?”
“Move from the infected,” a soldier yelled.
“No, no she is not,” I said. “She’s not infected.”
“Miss, you need to move,” the soldier who first spoke said, his voice firm yet calm. “Walk slowly to me.”
“She’s not infected,” I screamed, holding both arms up. “Run it again, please. Please.”
The soldiers turned their heads toward the first one. “Sir?” one said.
He paused. “Run it again,” he ordered, clearly their commander. His eyes on mine. “Miss, what’s your name?”
“Sara.”
“Sara?” He cleared his throat. “Walk to me.”
“Give me your word,” I said, Deema’s hand clutching my arm.
“Arms down!” he ordered. All weapons went down. “You have my word, Sara. Come stand next to me. Please.”
I turned to her. “You’ll be okay,” I said. “You are not infected.”
“Please don't go.” She took down her glasses.
“Two people standing close to the scanner could interrupt the process and might not give an accurate reading,” the soldier said, still calm, still in charge.
“You’ll be okay,” I said, needing to leave before I lost control of the situation.
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. A single tear dropped as she let go of my arm. I dawdled to the soldier. The second I was by his side, all weapons went up again, and Deema’s eyes went wide.
“I am a man of my word,” the soldier in charge said, placing one hand in front of me, blocking any attempt to run back to her. “Run the scanner.”
“Yes, sir,” another soldier said. He lowered his weapon and addressed Deema. “Look at the red light.”
Deema shut her eyes, then opened them with tears running down her cheek, reflecting the red atmosphere. She looked directly at the eye scanner, both hands pressing the end of her white top, twisting in her hand. The machine went on. Beep, beep, beep… Green. I let out a sigh of relief, and Deema was permitted to take a deep breath.
“One more time,” the soldier next to me commanded.
Beep, beep, beep … Green.
“You may pass,” the soldier said, his brown eyes less intense.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded as his eyes crinkled the slightest bit, a smile hidden under the mask. “Anything to save one life.”
Deema ran to me, locking me into an embrace. “Losing you is not something I can add to my list of events,” I said.
“Sara,” Deema said, holding my hand too tight it hurt, “I need to tell you something.”
“Deema, you’re okay,” I said.
“It’s not that—”
Two soldiers appeared, dressed differently. Their uniforms shared the same colors with the ones standing outside, bu
t the patterns different with less armor. Carrying only a pistol in the holster, they marched side by side.
“Sara and Deema,” one said, approaching us.
“Yes?”
“Follow us, please.”
“Why?”
“Follow us, please.”
We followed them. The narrow concrete hall ended with metal gates that opened vertically like a garage door. The gates went up and revealed a different sector of the building. A wide area with high ceilings, columns holding up the massive place. The great hall had three floors viewing over it. A group of six men marched in two lines, dressed in green hazmat suits and rushing by with a pressing rhythm. I glanced around. There were people here. Normal people. Civilians. Kids, women, and men. Dressed in white. A few stared at us, the newcomers. They knew we were new. Some quickly diverted their attention back to their companions, comforting one another or engaged in conversation. I scanned their faces. Where is Malak? An old man with teal eyes looked back at me, so many questions in those eyes. Another woman glanced at me with violet eyes. A little boy looked up at me with tiny, narrow, turquoise eyes. The majority had brown eyes. Not immune. But what am I? Hands grabbed me from nowhere and pulled me.
“Have you seen my boy?” a lady shouted, shaking me.
The soldiers in front of me stopped, rotated to us, and calmly asked her to move along.
“He is my only son.” Tears in her eyes. I pulled free from her. “You have been out there.”
“No. No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m not from Riyadh.”
She turned around and poked someone else.
I hope I find Malak before I too lose my mind in here.
Chapter 48
The men escorted Deema and me to double doors with a red “do not enter” sign on it. They guided us in and closed the doors behind us. The door from the inside had no handles. A screen hung on the right, with a keyboard. I took a few steps into the bright white room; a wall-sized mirror covered one side, a sitting area nestled in the corner, white sofas surrounding a white table. The place did nothing to calm my nerves. It was like a waiting area in a hospital. Waiting for bad news to drop on me, tearing my adjusted reality apart. What is this place?
A buzzing sliced the air, followed by the automatic doors gliding open.
“Sara.” The voice warmed the place instantly. Malak. That's Malak’s voice. My little sister’s voice. I turned around. She was standing, dressed in white. I ran toward her faster than she could run to me. I held her tight, resting my chin on her shoulder. I lost her twice already, which was enough for a thousand lifetimes. I couldn’t lose her again.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” She squeezed harder, looking at me. “Are you?”
“I am,” I said and scanned her from head to toe, her eyes lighter than the last time I saw her, glimmers of sparkling white set in a blackish-blue background. “I found you.”
The buzzing echoed through the white walls once more. Malak and I moved away from the entrance as the doors open again. Rakan stood behind the open door, dressed in white. His face lit up when he saw us. My eyes locked on his. Behind him, two men in uniform. Rakan took a few steps in and stopped. He regarded Malak.
“She’s alright.” He smiled.
I held Malak’s hand; this time I would not let go. This time I would not leave and hide behind a door. No matter what happened, I would stick around. “What is this place?” I asked.
“I am not sure,” Rakan said, surveying the surroundings.
“Do not worry, you are in safe hands,” a voice announced from the telecom, seeping into every corner of the room. “All that was a standard process. You needed to be tested before allowing you to unite. I am happy to confirm you are negative. I am Abdullah, and I will be with you shortly.”
Abdullah? Trust? Don't trust. “What did they do to you?” I asked Malak.
“I don't remember much,” she said. “I was in bed with you at the hotel, and the next thing I knew, I was in a car with soldiers.”
“Did they hurt you?”
“No. They wouldn't tell me anything, except that you should be here soon.” Malak hugged me again. “They took some blood and did some tests.”
Deema stepped close and hugged Malak tight. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, sadness in her tone. “I am,” she emphasized.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Malak said. “Where’s Faisal?”
I avoided eye contact and shook my head. She frowned.
A tall, heavy man in a uniform walked in, the belt around his belly barely containing him. He had a goatee and unruly hair, two men in black uniforms fully armed by his side. He nodded to them, and they stood next to the entrance, hands behind their backs. He signaled to the other two standing next to Rakan, and they nudged him to move to the sofas away from the door.
“I am sure you have many questions,” Abdullah said. “Please sit. We have things to discuss.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You son of a bitch,” Rakan said.
“Rakan, that's no way to talk to your uncle,” the man said.
“He’s your uncle?” I asked.
“No, he’s not.” Rakan hissed, his eye narrowed.
“Well, not by blood.” Abdullah smirked. “But I’ve known Rakan since he was a little skinny boy.”
“I don't understand,” Malak said.
“Please,” the guy repeated in a flat voice. An underlying tone that said, don’t make me repeat myself. He pointed to the sitting area.
“Not until you tell us what’s going on,” I said.
“You are not quite what I excepted.” He walked closer to me, examining me. Rakan took a step forward, which triggered one of the men in black to hold him back by his arm while the other placed one hand on Rakan’s shoulder and brought his other fist into Rakan’s stomach, forcing him a step backward.
“No!” the words escaped my mouth.
Rakan collapsed to the ground. “Don't touch her,” he howled.
“I have no need for you now, boy,” he said with a wave of a hand. “Get rid of him.”
“We’ll sit. Don’t hurt him,” I said.
Abdullah yawned and waved his men back. He sat down, crossed his legs and waited for us. We followed and sat across from him as far as the seating arrangement sanctioned us. Rakan stood on his feet. Composed. Close.
“Where do I start?” Abdullah said, bored. “I am a lieutenant general. I worked at a confidential facility where everything was off the records. We were ghost employees, like a ghost army.”
“We know you developed this virus,” Malak said.
“Hasn’t your daddy taught you any manners,” he said, uncrossing his legs and leaning in with his hands over his lap. “I was developing a cure.”
The doors slid open, and a guy in a white lab coat entered. “Sir, is this her?” he asked, walking to us.
“It is,” Abdullah said, staring at me as if I was a prize, shaking his foot. “The person who killed my daughter.”
“What are you talking about?” Malak asked.
“This guy developed the zombie virus,” I said. “Someone in charge decided to use it on me rather than on his daughter, and I assume his daughter died.”
“You assume correctly,” Abdullah said and got off his seat, restless, as if he’d heard this story so many times. “My daughter should be here with us today, not you.”
“I don't—” Malak started. “Sara, you’re infected?”
“No, it was a different strain,” I said.
“It seems like a certain rat talked too much,” Abdullah said, a smile fading away from his tense face.
I turned to Abdullah. “This is not my dad’s fault. It wasn't his call to make.”
“He didn't seem to mind it, either.” He walked around the sofa like a shark, placing his hands on the back of it. “We were friends before that happened, good friends. We were united by a common goal. Both our daughters suffered this rare, incurabl
e disease. Then, not only did he steal the cure I developed for my daughter, he stole my happiness, my purpose in life. He didn't even attend my daughter’s funeral.”
“So, you’re taking it out on the world?” I asked.
“She would have been your age,” Abdullah said, his eyes a little softer. “They took her away from me. After my little girl died, my wife followed. They said she died of a heart attack. A heart attack? A healthy woman with no preexisting heart disease does not die of a heart attack. She died of a broken heart. They killed her. When I lost her, I lost everything.”
“You’re sad,” Malak said. “Anyone can understand that.”
“No. I grieved for her and my wife. I grieved for them every day. They are the reason, the drive behind what I do. I am done grieving. I came to the realization this world is unfair. It is already set up in a way that forces some to fail, and it needs to be corrected. See, I am not the bad guy in this story.”
“But why develop something like this?” I asked.
“Power,” Abdullah said. One word.
“A weapon,” the other guy said. “A weapon so small but will create unlimited damage. A destructive force of terror.”
“After extensive research, it was clear to me this virus would be far more valuable as a weapon than it would for medical purposes. The virus was engineered to create a perfect soldier. A soldier that could heal in an astonishing time. After a series of experiments, we stumbled upon something that could be more valuable. A virus that animated the dead. Brought them back to life after they died, but they came back different. Violent, had no emotions, and they only followed one instinct, to feed. Feed on the living. It was a perfect solution for the army. All we had to do is infiltrate the enemy line and infect one soldier behind it and it would do the rest. But we needed to tweak it in order to be able to use it to attack our target and not us as well. However, it was unleashed before we were able to do that.”
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