by C T Glatte
There was a half-moon, which lit up the desert like a flashlight. He saw movement and focused his eyes to the side, using his superior peripheral vision. There were four camels sauntering along the track. They’d pass right by him. He wondered where they could possibly be going. He knew there was nothing for many miles.
As they neared and were nearly abreast of his position between the rocks, they turned off the road and came directly at him. They were following a well-used trail that he hadn’t noticed before. It led to the rocks where he was hiding. He silently cursed himself for not doing a better reconnaissance of the area.
He could see each camel had a person riding on top. Rex hunkered down, wondering where they were going. He was well-hidden between a jumble of boulders but once the sun was up —if they lingered— they’d probably see him. What would he do then? Fight them? Kill them? It would be better to try to talk his way through it. He had the translator and he assumed they did too, but they’d still know him to be a foreigner, simply by his skin color. Before the Korth invasion, there’d been plenty of white people, but nothing was known now.
He wore a ragged turban that hung beyond his neck. He pulled it over his face and secured it. If he had to fight or run, the less they saw the better.
The camels sauntered around the boulders and the riders stopped and dropped off their steeds. There was a smattering of words spoken and Rex was relieved they were human. They were thirty-yards away, so he couldn’t make out what they were saying. They pulled large containers from the sides of the camels and Rex knew they were clay by the sound they made when they clanged together. The four riders left the camels and walked along another path, he hadn’t noticed and soon dropped out of sight.
If he wanted to get away, this was his chance, but where would he go? The land was virtually flat in all directions, once the sun came up he’d be spotted for sure. Besides, his mission was to blend in. Before he could do that, though, he had to figure out where the hell he was. A local, or even semi-local, would at least know the area.
The riders were gone for thirty minutes. The camels barely moved and he wondered if their noses were as good as horses. Did they know there was a stranger lurking? Probably.
The sky was lightening in the East when the riders returned, laughing and talking and hauling the clay pots, only now they looked much heavier. Each rider assisted the other in lifting and mounting the pots back onto the camel’s sides. The camels grunted and groaned with the extra weight. The riders continued talking in low murmurs. Rex wished he were closer, so he could hear what they were saying. Finally, the riders mounted the camels and reversed their course, heading back toward the fading lights.
Rex waited until he was sure they were gone then climbed down the rocks and followed the trail they’d disappeared over. He was dumbfounded to see a large oasis of water. He wondered how he could have possibly missed it. There was a well-used trail winding down a slope and ending at the water’s edge. The water shimmered and sparkled in the moonlight and it looked so inviting, he walked down and kneeled beside it, taking a large scoop and drinking it from his palm. It was cool and he savored it as it dripped down his throat.
He pulled the pack from his back and quickly filled his water bottles. He dipped his hand and dripped water over his upturned face and wiped the dust and dirt off.
He walked around the oasis, marveling at its beauty as the colors started to change with the rising of the sun. He glanced at the low ridge and wondered if he had time for a swim. He decided against it, there was bound to be more people in the heat of the day. He was tempted to stay along the water’s edge, beneath one of the many palm trees, and act like he belonged there. He could interact with the people and figure out where he was. Perhaps travelers weren’t unique and he’d be accepted as one. He shook his head, too risky.
Once he’d circumnavigated the water and was back at the end of the trail, he felt refreshed. He took one more longing look at the oasis, then went up the winding trail.
Just before cresting the top, he slowed and listened. Had he heard something? He stopped and listened intently. There it was again, the clomping of a hoof. He looked around for a place to hide, but there was nowhere. He resigned himself, he’d proceed and act normal. Hopefully he’d be seen as a fellow traveler. Perhaps he could even glean his whereabouts if he played his cards correctly.
His heart sank when he crested and instead of innocuous travelers or townspeople, he was confronted with men in turbans pointing rifles at his chest. He smiled and raised his hands. “Good morning,” he said.
Rex was stripped of his possessions. His hands and feet were tied and he was flung over the back of a camel as though he were a shot animal. Despite the slow saunter, every jolt hurt and by the time they were on the outskirts of town, he was sore and dripping sweat. He protested his treatment, but his captors hadn’t spoken a word.
He craned his neck as they entered the town. It was small, with squat mud-huts on either side of the main road. Curious townsfolk watched them pass as they scrubbed clothes, swept dirt from small porches or simply sat chewing grass shoots. There wasn’t a signpost anywhere. He dropped his head and watched the road, wondering if he’d set a new record for mission fail.
Soon he was yanked from the camel and pushed to the ground. He moaned, exaggerating his pain. “This is how you treat a traveler? A guest?” he said in his most indignant voice. Their necks were covered where the translators would be embedded, so he didn’t know if they had them. He was hoping for some kind of facial tell, letting him know they understood, but they were unreadable.
Weathered, sandaled feet were suddenly in front of his face. Rex tried to crane his neck to see who they belonged to, but couldn’t arch enough. Rough hands grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet. He cursed and yelped in pain which was only half-faked.
Before him stood a tall man with deep inset eyes. Despite the wrinkles from a lifetime spent in the withering desert sun, Rex couldn’t decide if he were ancient or young. He seemed ageless somehow, exuding youth but displaying age.
The man’s piercing eyes looked him up and down. Finally, he nodded as though deciding and pointed to a mud and thatch building. The men on either side roughly hauled him through the low door. The transition from light to dark made it impossible to see, but he could discern he was in a large room, probably some kind of local meeting hall. Perhaps a dining hall.
The two men pulled him further inside and pushed him to the ground. He was still bound and now on his knees. Was this where he’d die? He tested his bindings, they were tight, no way he was getting out of this one. He conserved his strength using the breathing exercises he’d learned to still his mind, preparing himself for violent action. There was no way he would die on his knees without a fight. He wouldn’t make it easy for them.
The two men stepped away and behind him half a step. Rex kept track of them, formulating how he’d strike and when, while pretending to be cowed, docile and weak.
His eyes adjusted and he could see he kneeled at one end of a long hall. In the center there was a long table with benches lined on either side. He noticed a sculpture at the front of the table. It was a sculpture of a warrior on watch. He was holding a spear in his hand. The warrior looked to be carved from wood, but the spear was real, with a real metal point.
He thought his guess of a chow hall accurate. Perhaps they intended to eat him. He’d heard of cannibal communities in remote areas of Africa. The thought made him grin, what a way to go.
From the far side a door opened and in strode the tall, inscrutable man from outside. He approached and stood before him. Rex glanced up at him, keeping his actions as meek as possible. The man’s baritone voice startled him. “What’s your name, spy?” The man’s language came through the translator. Rex didn’t answer right away, but lifted his head judging what he’d have to do to kill the man. “Answer!” the man barked.
The sudden outburst nearly sent Rex into action, but he wanted to be put on his feet firs
t. He wasn’t being executed just yet. He spoke in a soft voice. “My name — my name is, Rex.”
The man leaned forward slightly, obviously having a hard time hearing him. “Get him on his feet.” Rex felt hands grip his arms and yank him upright. He yelped and whimpered a little, keeping his eyes down. “Repeat,” he barked.
“Rex, sir. Rex is my name, but I’m not a spy. I’m — I’m a traveler from the South.” The man scowled and the lines at the crease of his mouth and cheek deepened into caverns. He reached for something in a fold of his flowing robe. He pushed it into the side of his neck.
“You don’t speak the language. Repeat.”
Rex was momentarily stunned. He was under the impression the translators were surgically implanted, yet this man had just inserted it as though he could remove it at will. “My name is, Rex. I’m not a spy,” he repeated.
The man’s scowl deepened and the crease at the junction of his mouth and cheek deepened into a fissure. “Rex,” he said and even through the translator it sounded clunky and foreign.
Rex cursed himself silently. He should have used a more appropriate name for the region, although he had no idea what that would be at the moment. He nodded and tried to look as small and meek as possible.
“Rex,” he tried again. He worked his mouth as though tasting something new, “Rex.” He put his hands behind his back and paced in front of him. “You are a spy. There’s no doubt of that.”
Rex shook his head and lowered his eyes, but kept the man’s feet in view. If he could get a few steps closer, he could pounce and see what happened. “I’m just a traveler.”
The man stopped, “Yes, you’ve traveled, of that I have no doubt. You are not from this land. I can smell it on you, I always can.” He stepped closer, “You are not the first, you know.”
It was the opportunity Rex had been waiting for. He bent his knees dropping from the grip of the guards, then sprang forward. His head connected with the leader’s chin and the tall man toppled backwards hard. Rex somersaulted and rolled over the man’s bleeding face. He rolled to his feet then launched again, but this time toward the warrior sculpture. He had one chance and it was a slim one.
He tumbled into the sculpture. It toppled and sent up a dust plume when it hit the floor. Rex pulled his legs tight to his chest and extended his arms until they were in front of his body. He leaped where the spear landed and gripped it between his bound hands. The guards recovered, bellowing curses and charged him. Rex pushed the spearhead down and sliced at the leather chords binding his feet. He’d nearly sawed through when both guards crashed into him. He lost his grip on the spear and it clattered away. He tried to roll to it, but he was held fast by strong hands.
The tall man grunted and got to his feet, holding and testing his jaw. He strode to him and laughed his deep baritone laugh, then said. “You fight well, Rex. But what have you done with Joe?”
Rex stopped struggling and looked at the man as though he’d seen a ghost. “Joe,” he stammered between labored breaths. “You -- you know Joe?”
The man scowled. “Of course. He is my son.”
“Oh, shit.”
The tall man, whose name was Talib, was not happy when Rex told him the fate of his son. After dispatching men on camels, he pointed a long gnarly finger at his nose. “If my son is dead, you will beg to follow him but I will make your pain linger as long as I can…years.”
Rex was put into an abandoned hut and had four guards along each wall. He used the time to sleep. The huts were cool, even in the midday heat. He hadn’t slept much, or well, since leaving St. Helena Island and he figured he may as well catch up now. If Joe had somehow survived, he’d be pissed and probably have him killed. If he were dead, he’d be tortured until he eventually died. He just hoped, if Joe was found alive, he’d have the decency to kill him outright, but he doubted it. Either way, he didn’t see a way out that didn’t include a shallow grave.
A full day and night passed before there was a commotion outside. He peered out the mud slit, which acted as a window. It was early morning and he was expecting breakfast soon. They’d given him plenty of food and water, which he appreciated immensely. He saw the camels trotting in and the men returning.
He looked for a body, but instead saw a man slide off the middle camel with help from the rider in front and wobble on his feet. Women rushed forward and surrounded him. Before he was hidden from view, Rex saw his head was covered in a thick white bandage with pink splotches bleeding through.
Talib was standing, talking to the lead camel rider but Rex couldn’t hear what was being said. Talib watched his son being helped to another mud hut. He turned toward Rex, who involuntarily pulled away from the window, as though he were breaking a rule by looking outside. He shook his head, and put his eye back to the slit.
Talib approached, stood outside the closed thatch door and crossed his arms across his broad dark chest. “My son is alive. That is good for you, but not too good. Your life hangs on his word, Rex.”
Rex put his mouth to the slit and answered, “I understand, Talib.” He knew there was no way out. Even if he were able to escape, where would he go? He didn’t know the area and as far as he could see in either direction it was flat desert wasteland. In fact, he’d been wondering why the village was there in the first place. Perhaps there’d once been vegetation. There was a nearby water supply, but why not build the town closer?
The other question baffling him was how it was possible for Joe to be Talib’s son? He’d been told no operatives ever came out of Africa, ever, yet Joe, an operative, was family and the way Talib talked, didn’t seem to be a stranger. That odd circumstance was the only thing which might just keep him alive.
The rest of the day, Rex spent pacing and thinking. By the time the thatch door was pulled open, he was no closer to answering what was going on. The guards stood to either side and called to him, “Come out, Rex.”
Rex nodded and did as he was told. He came out and they immediately grabbed his arms with vice-like grips. He walked between them and he felt the prick of a spear at his back, not a good sign.
He was escorted to the long, mess hall hut. His guards kept hold of him the entire way, only releasing him when he stood before the long table. The benches were filled with what must have been the entire adult population, men and women both. He noticed the warrior sculpture was gone. He grimaced when the guard with the spear kicked the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees, painfully.
He wanted to lash out, throttle the man, but instead remained meek and alert. He took in a deep breath and let it out slow. The next few minutes would decide his fate.
A side-door opened and in walked Talib wearing ceremonial garb with brightly colored feathers and a colorful chest plate stitched intricately to look like an eagle’s head. Following him, also in colorful feathers and stitchery was Joe. He still wore a bandage on his head. He was thinner than the last time he’d seen him, but that was to be expected, he’d taken his food and water. The withering look he leveled at him, made Rex gulp against a suddenly dry throat.
The villagers stood, Talib waved his hand and they all sat again and fidgeted. Rex wondered if he was the only one in the room that didn’t know his fate. Probably.
Talib and Joe walked to the front of the table closest to him and sat in gaudy carved chairs, like something a king and queen would sit in, or in this case, king and prince. Who were these people? Did The Branch know Joe’s history? Was Joe a traitor? Was that why no one ever returned? The questions fired inside his head like rifle shots.
Talib clutched the arms of the chair and leaned forward. The villagers also leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. In his baritone voice, Talib said, “As you can see, Joe. My son survived your cowardly attack. My men found him wandering the road like a crazy man without food and without water. You took both after bludgeoning his head with a rock and leaving him to die of his wounds.” He looked at his son, who stared back, then redirected his gaze at Rex. “You didn�
�t even have the decency to put him out of his misery!” He yelled the last word and it echoed in the tight confines. He leaned back in his chair, getting control. “I want you to suffer, to die slowly, but…”
He hesitated and looked at his son who leaned forward and put his hand on his father’s knee and squeezed. He stood and for the first time, realized he looked a lot like his stately father. “I staid his hand. For the time being anyway. Your fate is tied to how you answer my questions.” Rex nodded. Joe raised his hand indicating he should stand. Rex was glad for it, it felt odd kneeling as though he were royalty when only days before, Rex had been considered his superior officer. He got to his feet and glanced back at the guard with the spear. Joe shook his head. “Any attempt to flee will be met with extreme violence, as the cadre used to say.”
Rex nodded, “Sorry, habit you know.”
Joe smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do know. The first question I have: Are you loyal to The Branch?”
Rex didn’t expect it. Answers flashed through his mind and he finally decided the truth was his best option. If it was the wrong answer, well that’s life. “I’m loyal to my country,” he shook his head, “but not to The Branch. No.” The silence hung in the air, so he continued. “The Branch, and the sadistic cadre, took everything from me. Everyone I ever knew or loved, my wife and son — everyone thinks I’m a traitor — a coward. I’ve been biding my time, waiting for an assignment. I never intended to carry out their missions. I planned to drop off the face of the earth and make my way, somehow, back to my wife and son. I don’t even know if they’re alive or not.”
He looked at the dirt floor then back up into Joe’s eyes. “When they saddled me with you, I assumed it was to watch me, to make sure I followed through with their orders. When I went to smash the radio and you tried to stop me, I knew I was right. I didn’t want to kill you.” Rex looked Joe in the eye and the tension in the room was palpable. “I could’ve.” He nodded, remembering holding the bloody rock. “I nearly did. It was what the cadre would’ve expected, what they trained me to be, decisive and deadly.” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “And that’s why I didn’t do it. Because it would’ve brought me closer to being what they want me to be. I’ll kill. I’m good at it, but I’m not a murderer.”