by J. R. Rain
Tess opened a single eye and looked over at him. She smiled to herself and snuggled deeper into the passenger seat.
That evening, they were still on the road. It was cooler now, the Jeep’s top was down and Tess’s long hair blew behind her like a tattered brown flag. Jack couldn’t help but notice her carefree beauty, and kept casting her what he thought were discreet sidelong glances.
“So, what do you do back in the States?” he asked her.
“I teach mythology at UCLA,” she answered, chewing from a bag of nuts. She held out the bag and he took a handful.
“Let me guess...”
Tess nodded. “Much of what I teach is focused around the Garden of Eden. Call it an obsession.” She gave him what she thought was a discreet sidelong glance. “So, who were those people on your desk?”
“...on my desk?”
“In the pictures.”
“Oh...” Jack was silent for a moment. “My wife and my son,” he said finally.
“You’re married?” she asked, confused.
“I was.” His voice was quiet now. “There was a bomb. Two years ago.”
Tess took in a deep breath, exhaled. “Jack, I’m so sorry...”
“Their bus was destroyed.” Jack was bitter now, the memory still close and painful.
“Did they find who did it?” She asked.
“Yeah, they did,” he answered. He looked at her, his eyes dark. “I watched them get publicly beheaded.” He paused. “I think that’s when I started drinking.”
Chapter Eight
They took turns driving throughout the night, wasting no time on the long journey still ahead. The next morning, when they stopped at a gas station, Tess stretched her stiff legs while Jack finished topping off the tank. He headed around the car, moving swiftly with his cane across the hard-packed dirt. He stepped inside the station, taking off his beat-up baseball cap and fanning his face in the morning heat.
Behind the counter stood a tall, burly Persian man with a friendly face. The name on his shirt read, “Zahir.”
“Hi, Zahir,” Jack said in Farsi, paying with some Iranian notes. “Change?” he asked the man. Zahir handed him back some notes and coins. Jack noticed a TIPS jar and dropped a couple of coins inside.
“Thank you, my friend!” he told Jack with a smile. “Please come again!”
“Sure,” Jack said doubtfully.
Zahir spoke now in English, “Have a good day!”
“Likewise,” Jack told him and exited the small building. Zahir glanced down at the two pathetic coins in his tip jar. “Cheap bastard,” he muttered under his breath.
Tess was waiting in the Jeep when Jack walked out, whistling. He looked up and stopped short, jaw dropping.
“What the hell—”
A helicopter dropped from the sky. Wind and dust blew everywhere. Jack shielded his eyes as two men jumped out the side hatch, both brandishing automatic weapons.
To Jack’s horror, they ran to the Jeep, yanked open the passenger door and dragged Tess out. She didn’t go willingly—she was kicking and screaming.
Jack ran forward, yelling. “Hey! Stop!”
One of the men turned and let loose a spray of bullets with his automatic rifle. Jack dove, taking cover behind a stack of wooden crates as the bullets tore up the place.
Zahir came running out of the gas station bathroom, zipping up his fly. He looked surprised at the helicopter. Not realizing that Jack was under fire, he dashed forward, waving his fists.
“We don’t serve your kind!” he shouted.
The shooter turned on him, weapon raised. Zahir squealed and dove for cover, ending up behind the same crates as Jack.
* * *
Tess was roughly tossed into the chopper, which was full of more armed men. One of them was the tall and sickly Boris Karakov, whom Tess knew quite well. Karakov smiled at her congenially, but he couldn’t disguise the sickness eating away at him.
A more handsome man sat next to Karakov. Tess was shocked to see her ex-husband, Morrie Morgan.
“Hello, Tess,” he said to her as if he’d bumped into her at a coffee shop. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“What the devil is going on, Morrie?!” she demanded. “Where’s Ricky?”
“Your son is safe, Miss Morgan.” Karakov used a tone of authority. “For the present. Now, let me introduce you to my Head of Security.”
From the shadows of the chopper’s cabin, another man appeared. It was Abdullah, the Omanian slaver from Tess’s childhood. He gave her a wicked grin. “Remember me?”
Tess gasped, utterly horrified. She turned in rage to Morrie, who looked away, ashamed.
The chopper lifted off and flew away, kicking up dust and debris everywhere. Jack was absolutely sickened by Tess’s kidnapping. He got up from behind the crates, and once again, shielded his eyes to watch the copter whisk away.
“Some hero I am,” he muttered.
Zahir was furious. “Who are your friends?” he demanded.
“They’re not my friends.”
The two men stood in shock as they watched the black chopper grow smaller and smaller in the horizon.
Suddenly, the helicopter banked to port and turned back, heading directly toward them. The chopper grew rapidly larger, and swooped low to the ground.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Zahir said nervously.
“I don’t either,” Jack said. “Run!”
Jack disregarded the pain in his leg as the two ran hard for his Jeep. Just as they yanked open the doors, twin missiles streaked from the chopper, slashing through the air, tearing through the sky and heading straight for the gas station itself.
BOOM! The building was instantly obliterated. A black mushroom cloud rose up from the center. The Jeep rocked, nearly blown off its four wheels.
“My gas station!” Zahir cried.
The chopper swung around again, this time spraying the ground with bullets.
“Hold on!” Jack shouted as he floored the Jeep. The tires kicked up dirt, briefly sliding the vehicle sideways, then shooting forward.
The chopper bore down on them from behind, swooping low again. The cargo door opened and a man holding a machine gun hung out by a harness. He took aim, pulled the trigger again.
Bullets shredded the rear, puncturing through the roof, tearing up the back seats—and most of Jack’s gear and supplies.
“Shit.” Jack realized the damage and yanked the wheel hard to the right. The Jeep sped off the main road and bounded over a dirt embankment, down into a natural ditch running parallel to the road.
“Good idea,” Zahir said, hanging on for dear life. “Maybe the helicopter doesn’t have four-wheel drive. By Allah,” he swore, “I’m going to die with this funny-looking American!”
“Funny-looking?”
“You all look funny to me,” Zahir told him.
Now the chopper was in front of them, bearing down again. More bullets kicked up the dirt in front of them, forming a straight staccato line directly toward them—
Jack jerked the wheel hard again. The Jeep roared out of the ditch and into the open desert, leaving a long dust cloud in its wake.
But the chopper easily kept pace and bullets still sprayed in front of them, slamming into the hood and fender. Steam erupted from the Jeep’s engine.
Still, Jack dodged the copter. He plunged into an arroyo, up an embankment, and finally, he turned into a narrow canyon, stepping on the gas. Too late, he realized he was coming up fast to a dead end.
White smoke poured out from under the hood, the Jeep sputtering slower, no matter how hard Jack put the pedal to the metal. Finally, the whole thing shut down with a sputtering wheeze.
Jack grabbed Zahir. “C’mon!”
The two men scrambled out of the Jeep and clambered up the steep slope. Jack used his cane as a hiking stick, but his leg held him back. Zahir helped to pull him along.
As they finally ducked into a network of caves, the chopper released one last Hell
fire missile. It zipped through the air and blew the Jeep to smithereens. A huge black and orange fireball gushed up into the sky.
The chopper turned away, disappearing over the horizon, taking Tessla with it.
Chapter Nine
They waited until they could no longer hear the helicopter, then Jack and Zahir crept out of the cave. Jack looked down at the mangled, smoking mess that had once been the Jeep. Zahir gazed into the far distance at the black clouds billowing into the sky that had once been his gas station.
“Someone owes me a new gas station,” Zahir announced.
They scrambled down the cliff face and headed into the sweltering desert toward the road.
Zahir looked at Jack’s cane a little curiously, then up at Jack. Jack stared straight forward, eyes focused on the road.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any water on you, would you?” Zahir asked.
“It was in the Jeep.”
“What about a cell phone?”
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but Zahir raised his hand to stop him. “Let me guess,” he said, disgusted. “It was in the Jeep.
Having finally reached the road, Jack and Zahir wandered down the main highway through the Iranian Desert. Both were thirsty, tired, and covered with dust.
Zahir broke the silence. “The gas station was my father’s. When he was killed in the Iraqi War, I quit college to run it and take care of my mother and sisters. The station was everything. Now, we have nothing.”
“Well, you’ve got me,” Jack said sarcastically.
Zahir rolled his eyes heavenward. “Allah, help me.”
Jack continued on in silence, thinking about Tess. Tessla.
Zahir seemed to read his mind. “So, who was the girl?”
“A friend.”
“A good friend?”
“You could say that.”
Jack quickened his pace so as to not have to talk anymore. He didn’t give a damn about his leg pain.
They continued on, neither one speaking. The sun’s sweltering heat pounded down relentlessly. Sand blew into their eyes and ears and nostrils. Both men had taken off their outer shirts and wrapped them about their heads for protection. An occasional desert critter scuttled by.
In the distance were nothing but heat waves and shimmering mirages. Zahir suddenly ran forward, grinning like a fool. “Water!” he shouted with glee. “I see water!”
Jack kept his steady pace and sighed. “It’s just a mirage, Zahir. Again.”
“No,” the man called over his shoulder, “this time it’s different! It is a beautiful, wonderful pool of cool, blue water...” He kept trotting foolishly down the road, pleading with the retreating image of water. “Stop! Come back!”
Jack shook his head. “Of all the people, in all the world...” he began, but then, Jack did stop.
He slowly turned around. Squinting, he caught something in the distance. Moving slowly, but coming closer to them.
Jack smiled for the first time that day. “I think the cavalry has arrived,” he said to himself, as Zahir was no longer in hearing distance.
* * *
A few minutes later, Jack and Zahir were riding on the back of a dilapidated wagon, pulled by a couple of scrawny horses, keeping company with other farm animals. Jack spat out a feather.
“Some cavalry,” he said miserably.
“What?” Zahir asked him.
“Nothing.”
Zahir moved closer to Jack, who shoved the Persian away. Zahir seemed to have drawn the ire of a cantankerous rooster. Man and fowl eyeballed each other.
“Why did they take your girl?” Zahir asked, not taking his eyes off the angry rooster.
“She wasn’t my girl,” Jack answered. “And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how we met.”
“I wouldn’t have believed that a heat-seeking missile would destroy my gas station this morning,” Zahir countered. “Try me.”
Jack glanced at the man. Zahir got up and sat on Jack’s other side, solving the rooster problem, for him anyway. Jack gave the rooster a poke with his cane, shoving it back. He looked over at Zahir, tired. He shrugged. “What the hell...” And Jack began his strange tale.
* * *
It took Jack a while, especially with Zahir interrupting with questions and clarifications. By the time he finished, it was late afternoon and the horse-drawn wagon was entering the town of Abztul.
Abztul, a city left untouched for centuries of world progress and industrialization, rested at the base of an extinct volcano—the same volcano Tess had mentioned earlier, known as the Mountain of God.
Here, sheep outnumbered people. Nomads and shepherds were the norm, practicing their simple way of life as they had done for thousands of years. Ancient stone fortresses dotted the area, along with mosques and fluted minarets. A massive clock-tower marked the center of the town. The outlying homes were made of mud and brick. The great volcano, however, dominated the landscape.
Jack finished his story. Zahir stared at him openly. “The Garden of Eden?”
“Yep,” Jack said.
“For real?”
Jack looked up to the infamous volcano outlined by the clear, blue sky beyond. “Who knows?”
But Zahir was still astounded. “Someone destroyed my gas station because of the Garden of Eden?”
“Apparently,” Jack answered.
“Someone owes me a new gas station,” Zahir said again. “By Allah, I will rebuild Zahir’s Petrol and Goat Milk!”
“Catchy,” Jack said.
As the horse-drawn wagon lumbered into the town, the driver became increasingly nervous. Pedestrians stopped and openly stared at the approaching wagon. The driver turned his head and spoke rapidly in the local dialect.
“What’s he saying?” asked Jack.
“He said this place is cursed,” Zahir looked nervous. “That the residents here do not associate with outsiders. That some claim these people belong to an ancient cult.” Zahir glanced around. Everyone gawked at the two men, and most were frowning.
“On second thought, I don’t need a new gas station. Let’s go back.”
Jack sighed. “Calm down, Zahir.”
But Jack did notice that the driver was now visibly trembling as they traveled deeper into the small town. Jack looked around, not only at the people, but at the surprisingly clean streets.
“Looks okay to me,” he said.
“Famous last words,” Zahir shot back.
The driver dropped them off at a dimly lit coffee shop. The sun was just beginning to set as they stepped down from the wagon. Jack turned to the driver, but the man was already snapping his reins, getting the hell out of there. Dust billowed up behind the cart.
Jack and his newfound friend, Zahir, stood alone in the center of the strange village.
Chapter Ten
Rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more steadily. Jack and Zahir dashed into the coffee shop.
The old place could have literally been lifted from the pages of history. Lit by gas lanterns, wood-burning stoves in the background, the shop itself was made of stone and mortar. To Jack, it felt cozy. Outside, wind and rain now howled against the broken shutters.
They sat at an old wooden table and ordered the local drink. All around them were nomads and farmers, all wearing crude, homemade clothing.
“We’re being watched,” Jack commented quietly.
Zahir’s eyes slowly swept the room. Indeed, all eyes were upon the outsiders.
“Maybe it’s because you’re a foreigner and you look funny,” Zahir suggested.
“I don’t look funny.”
Zahir regarded Jack, looking him up and down. “With your blond hair and hairy forearms, they probably think you wandered in from the mountains. A hairy, white ape-man.”
Jack ignored the odd description. Instead he said, “Let’s get out of here before things turn ugly.”
The American and the Iranian polished off their drinks, and Jack left behind a small wad of bills on the t
able. As the two travelers headed toward the main entrance, a handful of burly men stepped away from the counter and blocked the door.
“I think this door is closed,” Zahir stated the obvious.
They turned and headed back the other way, moving quickly now through the suddenly hostile coffee shop.
Jack and Zahir stepped out a back door into an alley. Zahir glanced nervously around the spooky alley and grabbed Jack’s arm. “I think I liked it better inside,” he said.
Jacked removed the man’s hand and moved determinedly forward, his cane clicking on the ancient cobblestones. “This way,” he said, not waiting. Zahir hurried to catch up with him.
As they headed through the dark alley toward the dimly lit street, a crowd of men appeared from around the far corner, blocking their way. Jack grabbed Zahir and pulled him back the way they had come.
However, now more men blocked their path from behind. They stopped, trapped in the alley. Jack glanced up to scan the ancient, two-story building next to them. The worn, roughened brick structure seemed to offer plenty of handholds.
“I hope you can climb, Zahir.” Jack didn’t wait to find out. He shoved his cane into a belt loop and both men grabbed hold of the protruding rocks in the wall and started climbing.
The men crowded below, watching them ascend. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, or even particularly violent. They simply watched the duo climb, craning their heads up.
Zahir was talking to himself. “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look...” But he looked down anyway, instantly dizzied by the view. Zahir faltered, started to lose his grip. “Jack!”