Nameless Cult

by Grey Durose

  Suddenly Henry lunged at him, tearing the newspaper from his hands, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. 'Listen to me!' he spluttered in George's face.

  'All right, Henry.' George retorted, somewhat taken aback by Henry's level of agitation and irritated by being manhandled.

  George began to notice Henry's appearance; his hair was a mess as usual but matted and darker than he remembered. He was always a pale-complexioned indoorsman but now even more so, and his eyes and nose were encrusted with a ruddy brown substance which also covered his chin. Henry was in his bathrobe and had the shorts and T-shirt on that passed for pyjamas, underneath. The ruddy brown substance was smeared on every part of him. On his leg, was a familiar looking wound, the same as the one George had on his own leg from the night before.

  'What the hell happened to you?' George asked with a sudden urgency.

  'Taken!' Henry replied, his voice becoming stretched out and distant, as if it was coming to George across a much greater distance than it appeared to be.

  'Taken where? How?' He shook free of Henry's hold on his shoulders and stood up, grabbing him by the arm.

  'No time... coming!' a look of terror filled Henry's eyes and he began to struggle to break George's grasp on his forearm.

  'Henry, listen to me, what's coming? Why are you so afraid?' George asked.

  Henry ceased his struggling for a moment and leaned forward, 'IT! The first one! It will take you too, all of you!' With that, Henry broke free and made a dash for the door, yanking it open, sending a small table nearby crashing to the floor. Rather than revealing the corridor beyond, a wall of familiar blackness stood as if there was something there but it should not be seen. Four tendrils shot out from the blackness, latching on to Henry's flesh and wrapping themselves around his body.

  George could feel a pounding at the front of his skull. 'Henry!' he cried, trying to move to assist him but finding his legs unable to comply, moving as if set in syrup.

  'Remember: blood is...’ With that, Henry lurched backwards and was enveloped by the blackness.

  George went over to the doorway as quickly as his legs would allow but it was too late. For a moment he considered following him but realised how foolish that would be. Without warning another tendril shot forth, biting deep in to George's arm. George yelped with surprise and leapt to grab on to the nearby sofa. The tendril began to reel him in towards the door and the sofa followed; it was no good. George was just about ready to accept his fate and face whatever lay beyond the doorway when he heard a noise behind him, a hissing. He turned and to his amazement it was the rounded ginger form of Mr Alistair. The plump ball of fur leapt in to action, wrapping himself firmly around the tendril and attaching himself with his claws. Mr Alistair's head drew back then lunged forward, sinking his fangs deep in to the purple flesh of the tendril. The tendril released its bite on George and whipped back in to the blackness, slamming the door as it went.

  George rested his head on the sofa, he was still holding on to it with white knuckled panic. His body gradually relaxed once more. Mr Alistair wandered up alongside him, as if to check he was all right. George looked down at him and nodded. Mr Alistair looked back and, in a surprisingly feminine voice, began talking, 'Sir, SIR! Wake up, you're disturbing the other passengers!'

  George woke with a start, an attractive flight attendant was leaning over him, gently shaking him by the shoulder.

  'Sorry.' he said, embarrassed by the attention he'd drawn to himself.

  'That's quite all right sir, you just seemed to be having a bad dream.' She reassured him.

  'Yes, it was a bit of a nightmare.' He feigned a chuckle.

  'Are you okay now? Is there anything I can get for you?' she was trying to be comforting but there was a tired sound to her voice, like she'd just identified the trouble passenger.

  'I'm fine, thank you; perhaps a glass of water?'

  The young woman smiled and went off down the aisle to fetch some water.

  George looked at his watch, he'd been sleeping for quite some time, and they’d be landing in less than an hour. He came to the conclusion it might be better to stay awake for the rest of the flight. He removed the cockeyed blindfold and the earplugs which were already half out.

  It was just gone one in the morning, local time, when George finally departed from the plane. He smiled politely at the flight attendant as he stepped off, she smiled back with a look in her eyes that said 'No more trouble from you.' It surprised him, she must have remembered my clothes, he thought.

  George made his way through the airport, he never had any trouble with passport control, they simply projected the face they expected to see; it was the same for everyone he encountered. When he was a child he'd been given a tattoo on his back, it was small but, as with most tattoos, it had been painful, especially for a six year old. It was one of five tattoos George was given - like diplomas for passing a course - each imbued him with a gift. That one was named the Mark of Shifting and its affect was to make it almost impossible for any normal human to focus properly on his appearance, to them he was ordinary, nondescript, and mundane. It meant that George could go almost anywhere without being noticed and, unless someone had a reason to pay him particular attention, they wouldn't even remember he was there.

  George's baggage came around the carousel and he exited through customs with it, without any questions. He was always careful to pack his bag with items that wouldn't draw attention even when it was scanned, even his dagger would just appear as a harmless stick. He took no chances, though, and had other means by which he could disguise his baggage.

  Outside the airport he was confronted by the reality of where he was. The taxis, the languages, the smell of the night air, were all particular to the destination, the dust in the air was common enough but still a surprise after the cool filtered atmosphere of the airport.

  He put down his bag at the curb and waited. 'Where are you?' he muttered impatiently under his breath. George began to hear a thumping noise approach, he looked to his left and saw a large, open-backed, four-wheel-drive truck coming. Its sound system was pounding and its many lights ablaze. 'Dear Gods, don't let this be for me.' he groaned.

  The truck screeched to a halt in front of George and a young, Middle Eastern man jumped out of the passenger side. He was black of hair and had a deep olive shade skin. His was face lean and angular with a slender aquiline nose, his eyes were so dark it was impossible to assign a colour.

  'Mr Horrendo?' the man asked in a thin, but recognisable, Iraqi accent.

  'That's me. Call me George.' he replied.

  'Okay Georgie, I'm Younis. Jump in!' The young man urged him.

  'Thank you, and that's George, NOT Georgie!' he snapped, the hours of travel were fraying his nerves.

  'Okay, whatever, dude. Just get in the truck.' Younis laughed, patting George on the back.

  The young man had some Western education and the culture had, sadly, rubbed off, too. George climbed up in to the truck and Younis slid in next to him.

  'This is Mohammed.' Younis gestured at the driver.

  Mohammed nodded at George, glancing over the sunglasses he, for some reason, was wearing at night. He smiled broadly, revealing one tooth capped with gold, among a rack of chipped ivory.

  'Hello, I'm George.' he said, shaking Mohammed's hand.

  Mohammed smiled and nodded again, sending his chubby cheeks in to a wobble of enthusiasm.

  'He no speaka da eengleesh.' Younis interrupted, with a roaring laugh which Mohammed joined; seemingly out of habit. George laughed along and nodded politely.

  The truck sped off with the music still pounding and George couldn't help feeling uncomfortable. He'd spent most of his life trying not to be noticed, even on stage his face was always shaded, just in case. Now here he was, in a brightly lit truck with its engine roaring, the tyres screeching and a sound system that required several extra batteries in the back.

  'Any chance we could turn that down a bit?' George motioned a
t the sound system.

  Younis looked serious for a moment. 'Okay-okay, my friend. Down to business uh?' he chuckled. Younis leant forward and turned down the volume. 'You bring the money?' he asked as he looked up.

  'Of course, it's in the bag. You'll get it when we get across the border and meet up with Ahmed.' George replied.

  Younis sucked on his teeth, clearly he was hoping to get the money up front. 'No problem but I need to see it now' he insisted.

  Given the situation, George felt it was best not to argue too hard about this and reached down in to his bag and pulled out a bundle of cash. 'I've got several more like that in the bag. Happy?' George enquired. If he wasn't happy it was too bad.

  Younis's eyes lit up at the sight of the cash and Mohammed swerved in the road, trying to get a better look. 'Okay Georgie, let's get this done.' Younis grinned broadly and turned up the music. A dreadful fusion of rap and Middle Eastern music belched forth and Mohammed put his foot down, just to add to the already excessive noise.

  After a long journey north, they pulled off the main road and headed down a smaller track. The plan was to cross the border somewhere west of the Iraqi settlement of Rhawdata. After a while they left the track and started driving off-road, the desert was rocky and uneven but Mohammed seemed to know where he was going. The lights were now dimmed to a minimum and the music was turned right down.

  'We're nearly there, just keep quiet and let me do the talking.' Younis explained, speaking in a hushed voice, even though there was little chance anyone else was listening.

  'Not a problem.' George assured him, slipping his hand in to his bag and resting his fingertips on the hilt of his knife.

  They drove on like that for several miles but at a slower, more cautious pace. Eventually, they came to a stop, turned off the lights and waited. A few minutes later, George observed a pair of headlights flash twice, Mohammed had seen them too and mimicked the signal. The headlights of the other vehicle came on again, this time they stayed on and began to get nearer. A border patrol vehicle pulled up in front of them after a time, parked across the front of the truck. Two men in uniform got out and one positioned himself behind his vehicle pointing an assault rifle at the cab of the truck through the dust cloud freshly stirred up by their arrival.

  The second man approached the passenger side window. Younis lowered the window and acknowledged the man. The man peered in through the truck window and began to speak to Younis in Arabic. George was a good reader of Arabic but was unpracticed in the conversational form of the language, which varied wildly. However, it was clear from the words he could pick out, and the frequent motioning toward him, that the officer had not expected them to be carrying a Westerner. It seemed strange to George that this man had presumed he was a Westerner if he wasn't expecting one, he was dressed no less like a local than the other two. The discussion became more heated and quickly evolved in to an argument, which came to a head when the man pulled a hand gun from his belt and thrust it in to Younis's face. Younis stopped arguing and told the man to stay calm, motioning with his hands wide open.

  Younis turned to George, 'He doesn't like that we're taking a Westerner across, he says he wasn't expecting it and he's demanding more money.' he told George.

  'How much?' George sighed.

  'Another five thousand.' Younis clasped his hands together.

  George reached in to his bag, this was just the kind of extra expense he was expecting. Bribery was as culturally endemic here as it was in most countries of the world. He felt around for a while then slowly pulled out five bundles of crisp fifty dollar bills, careful not to do anything too quickly and initiate a gun fight they couldn't win.

  He passed the money to Younis, who handed it on to the officer's free hand. He looked pleased with his take and his thick black moustache betrayed a smile but then his face changed back to anger and he began demanding that Younis get out of the truck. Younis complied and the man grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down the side of the truck, out of sight. There was a lot of shouting of threats and verbal posturing and Younis acknowledged each threat in turn and offered no resistance.

  The door of the truck swung back shut and George noted that he now had a clear view of Younis and the officer in the wing mirror. The man had put away his gun and had his hand on Younis's shoulder in what looked like a friendly gesture. George looked on out of the corner of his eye, careful not to let Mohammed know he could see; he saw the officer give two of the cash bundles back to Younis, which he gratefully pocketed.

  The conversation ended with phrases like 'And don't try that again!' and Younis returned to the seat next to George, slamming the truck door behind him. 'You were lucky, my friend, it could have been much worse.' he said.

  'Lucky indeed. A good thing I had you here to negotiate for me.' George replied with the irony of his words biting only himself.

  The border guards got back in their vehicle and drove past the truck in another cloud of dust, which billowed up from the ground and in through the window Younis had neglected to shut. They all choked on the dust for a few moments, as Younis hurriedly closed the window. Talk about 'after the horse has bolted' George thought to himself.

  Once they'd restored their composure, Mohammed started the engine and once again they were on their way. The border was only a couple of miles away and they made it there in good time. Surprisingly, they went unchallenged on the Iraqi side, perhaps because Ahmed had more influence in his own country. After a while, they turned east and now George could see the dim grey glow of the sun approaching, soon it would be day and the heat would add itself to the discomfort of the dust. They crossed over one main road and re-joined the road they had started out on back in Kuwait, some way North of Rhawdata. This was the road to Basra.

  The sun was over the horizon but, thankfully, the truck had air-conditioning. The desert soil turned from a dirty grey colour to a near beige shade now. As they approached Az-Zubayr this was superseded by well irrigated, green fields, growing rice and beans and types of wheat, and with the occasional white oxen wandering among them.

  George began to recognise some of the landmarks, it had been almost thirty years, and several wars, since he was last here but some things hadn't changed that much, the odd house here or a mosque there.

  They pulled off the main road again and wound their way around the outskirts of Basra, trying to stay clear of as many road-blocks as possible. They were heading for Ahmed's home to the Northwest of Basra, it was a haven from war, or any other kind of troubles. People knew better than to inspire Ahmed to anger; he was a good man but powerful and could allow no slight to go unpunished if he wished to remain that way.

  It was late morning when they finally arrived at Ahmed's. It was much the same as George had remembered, a little less greenery around the old, flat-roofed, three storey building, and his neighbours were more distant, but the building was in good shape. The one major addition to the property was a tall, mudbrick wall, which had been erected right the way around the property, with a pair of large, sturdy-looking, black-painted steel gates.

  Mohammed took the truck off the track and pulled up at the entrance. A man emerged from a nearby booth and walked up to them, he greeted Younis with a broad smile and a grasping of hands. Younis told him he'd brought the old man's guest and the man chuckled and said something along the lines of 'We'd better not keep him waiting then'. The guard went over to the gates and unlocked a hefty padlock and went back in to the booth. Moments later the gates began to swing open and Mohammed guided the truck in.

  The driveway was dry and the dust followed them in as they drove up to the house. The house itself was quite old, dating back to the post First World War period, when the British were still in that part of the world. The windows were covered by closed shutters, painted a pale blue colour, the paint had started to crack and peel in places. The stonework, too had taken a battering from the dust and wind, the corners looked less crisp than they'd been thirty years earlier.

&
nbsp; They arrived at the main door, positioned centrally on the front face of the building. The large double-doors were painted blue to match the shutters but more care had been taken to keep the paint job clean and fresh. George followed Younis out of the truck, dragging his bag behind him. Mohammed stayed in the truck and drove off taking the truck down the side of the building to the rear.

  'Come, the old man will be waiting for you.' Younis stretched out an arm and beckoned with his hand.

  They both walked up to the doors and Younis led him in to an entrance hall. It was cool and airy in here, with high ceilings that would have allowed a lot of light in through the large windows, had the shutters not been permanently closed.

  'He'll be in his study, as usual.' Younis remarked and walked off to the left.

  'A creature of habit.' George added.

  They walked through the old building with its ceiling fans and marble floors and delicately woven, Persian rugs; passing through the sitting room which was furnished with heavily carved wooden seats with green padded leather upholstery, sat next to tall lamps with lacy shades.

  The door to the study was open but Younis knocked regardless. A familiar, but liberally gravelled voice responded from within, 'Ah, Younis, my boy. Well, where is he?' the voice asked.

  'Right here, grandfather.' Younis motioned for George to come in and join them in the study.

  He shuffled up to the doorway, bracing himself for Ahmed's reaction.

  'George?' he said. Ahmed could scarcely disguise his surprise at George's appearance. It had been over thirty years since he'd last seen him, and yet, George appeared to have aged barely ten. In reality George and Ahmed were of a similar age, they'd played together as boys when Master Giovanni had brought George to stay, while he 'took care of some business' further north. Since that time, George and Ahmed had been reintroduced on a regular basis. Last time they saw one another, Ahmed and he were about forty but George still looked as though he were in his mid-twenties, annoying but not unbelievable. Now George appeared in his mid-thirties and Ahmed had aged naturally in to his seventies.