by Sidney Wood
O’Bryan glared at him while he tore another piece of bread off and chewed it. “Gimpy?” he said, pretending to be insulted. “I prefer Disabled-American, thank you. Now give me one of those Cokes before I make an EO complaint.”
Sergeant Lynch grunted and pulled another can out of the bag. “Take it and shut up, already,” he said.
“Okay, I’m ready,” said Jen. Her hair was still wet, looking darker than usual, and her light hazel eyes stood out against the suntanned skin of her face. Both men swallowed and stared unconsciously until Jen threw her hands up in frustration. “Well? Are we going?"
“Oh. Yeah, of course,” said Sergeant Lynch.
“Well, yeah…I mean, sure,” added Lance Corporal O’Bryan.
Jen fought to control the uncomfortable feelings their stares brought. She didn’t know why the attention triggered her irritation, but it did. Feeling embarrassed and awkward, and more than a little angry over her lack of control, she stepped out of the room to wait in the hall.
Sergeant Lynch helped O’Bryan to his feet and supported his weight as they waked out of the hotel. They left through a side exit into a fenced alley. Jen kept slightly behind them as they made their way through the port city. Sergeant Lynch carried his service pistol concealed under his shirt, as he led them in a confusing zig-zag of side streets toward the water’s edge. Jen carried Lance Corporal O’Bryan’s pistol concealed in her own waistband. They walked as quickly as the Lance Corporal could hobble on his good leg, which was not fast.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A small white car pulled up to the front of the hotel and two men got out. One of the men looked across the street, where a man standing next to an open doorway nodded and pointed with his chin toward the hotel. The two men by the car exchanged a few words and then entered the hotel.
“The clerk said they are in room seven and eight upstairs,” said the first man in Arabic. “On the left,” he said as they climbed the lone staircase. The second man drew a handgun and held it ready.
“I’ll take the first door,” said the second man. “You take the second. We’ll go at the same time.”
The first man nodded and drew his own handgun. They stood outside the two rooms and listened. There was no sound from inside. The second man gave the first man a nod and tried the door knob in front of him. The first man did the same. Both doors were locked. They shared another look before each man stepped back and got set to kick his door.
The second man was able to kick his door open on the first try. It was a weak, light framed door, and nearly fell completely off the hinges when he kicked it. The first man had more trouble.
The first man kicked his door to no effect. The door was light weight like the other door, but it was hung in a solid frame. The lock held for two more powerful kicks. He stepped back again and threw his body weight into the door, leading with his shoulder. The door splintered and broke causing him to fall into the room. He dropped his pistol and cut his hands on the splintered wood, trying to break his fall.
He jumped to his feet and scrambled to recover his pistol. He scanned the room frantically, pointing his gun toward every corner and expecting someone to be there, ready to shoot him first. There was no one there.
He dropped the muzzle of his pistol and wondered at the two other doors he could see. One door almost certainly led to the adjoining room. “The other door must be for the bathroom,” he thought. He raised his pistol again and walked toward the bathroom. His hands felt sticky on the pistol as he adjusted his grip.
With one hand he gently pushed the door open and waited. When there was no movement or sound from inside, he reached in and flipped on the light switch. There was no one in the bathroom either, but there were signs that someone had been there recently. There was a wet towel on the floor near the tub, and a pocketknife on the counter.
The man picked up the pocket knife and turned it over in his hand. He saw then that his hand was bleeding. There were red smears on the handle of the knife as he turned it over.
The second man entered room eight without any excitement or trouble. He methodically searched the room, and he did so quickly. He heard the first man pounding on the other door, and then he heard him crash into the room with a thud. He chuckled to himself as he imagined his accident prone partner stumbling and falling into the room. The noises next door quickly subsided and it was quiet as he reached for the door knob to open the adjoining door.
Just as he was about to open the door he heard a strange noise. His hand hovered above the door knob for a second as he listened. “What is that?” he wondered. “A dog growling?”
He opened the door and raised his pistol. “Amon? Are you okay?” he asked. His partner was kneeling on the floor and glaring up at him through his bushy eyebrows like a wild animal. He lowered the pistol and stepped toward his partner. “You don’t look well Amon.”
Amon leapt to his feet and sprung toward the second man before he could raise the gun again.
“Amon!” he cried as his partner tackled him. He squeezed one shot off into the floor as Amon sunk his teeth into his arm. He screamed and fired another shot into the wall as he fought against Amon.
A few seconds later, the second man stopped screaming and began growling. The change was instantaneous and Amon raced out of the room toward the nearest audible or visual stimulus. The second man followed.
Doors slammed shut, only to be knocked off their hinges by men overcome with vicious and brutal rage. Screams and shouts of warning only brought them faster, and every attack birthed new attackers.
Five minutes later, there were screams throughout the hotel. Panic spread outside and onto the street as a woman, covered in blood, ran out of the hotel and attacked a man sitting in his car. Other crazed men and women, enraged beyond reason, erupted from the hotel and spread into the community, attacking indiscriminately.
Police cars screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, finding what they thought must be the aftermath of a terrible terrorist attack. There were ravaged bodies and wounded everywhere. Those that were alive were writhing in agony, as if suffering a terrible fever of some kind. Some of them had blood spilling from their mouths, making the scene even more confusing. The police and paramedics assumed they were hemorrhaging due to the mysterious fever.
The first responders tried giving aid to the victims, and the unthinkable happened. One paramedic screamed as he was pulled down on top of the woman he treated. Another didn’t want to take the time to put on his gloves before examining an injured child, and he was infected. He succumbed suddenly and ferociously attacked the woman police officer attending to a victim nearby. Policemen and paramedics began attacking their comrades, killing them with their bare hands, teeth, and nails. More shots rang out as those unaffected tied to protect themselves.
Throughout the city the same scenario played out, over and over. Sirens blared, and screams echoed from the alleyways. Gunshots rang out, and some of the infected were killed, but too often they charged through the ill-aimed bullets and the infection spread. Vehicles crashed and fires erupted, causing more panic and confusion, and ultimately, hastened the spread of the horrible disease.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Fouzia held a hand over her mouth and the other over her heart as she stared at the nightmare broadcast on live television. Aerial footage from a port city in Jordan showed the utter destruction of the previously peaceful community. Columns of black smoke rose dramatically into the air from all corners of the city. The helicopter that was filming the scene circled slowly from a safe distance as Jordanian fighter jets dropped fire bombs on their own citizens. Tears streamed down Fouzia’s face as she watched the horror unfold in front of her.
A spokeswoman for the World Health Organization was being interviewed as the footage played. She argued that, “Military action of this sort is an abomination, and an extreme overreaction to a viral outbreak they don’t understand. Doctors on the ground could have made a difference if they were only give
n a chance."
Another panelist, a retired intelligence analyst, countered angrily, “This is the next step in the evolution of Islamic Terrorism! They’ve graduated from explosives to biological warfare! This brutal action is entirely necessary in order to stop them from reaching their goals, which are, the utter destruction of America and the annihilation of Israel!”
The WHO spokeswoman said, “There is no proof that this was terrorism or biological warfare! This could just as easily be a natural phenomenon! The fear mongering and hate-speech you are using is only making things worse!”
The helicopter zoomed in on an open square, where figures could be seen running in all directions. It was utter chaos. As the camera zoomed in and focused, Fouzia screamed. People were attacking each other! Then those that were attacked, seemed to change sides and join the attackers in brutalizing other fleeing citizens. It was the most frightening thing she had ever seen.
Fouzia closed her eyes tightly and prayed for the people of Al Aqaba. “Heavenly father, please intervene. Save the innocents…" She choked as she thought of the children enduring that nightmare. “Would any survive?”
The door to the garage opened and Najid rushed in. He ran to Fouzia and fell to his knees in front of her. “I was listening on the radio! Don’t watch it my love!” he said as he kissed her face and hugged her tightly. “Please, turn it off. It will only upset you.”
Fouzia hugged her husband and buried her face in his neck. “What if Jena is there?” she sobbed. “What if she is trapped in that…hell?”
Najid lifted her face to meet his eyes. “Jena is safe,” he said. He took the television remote and switched it off. “I am the doubter, remember? Not you. I’m not guessing, Fouzia…I feel it, my love,” he said with a forced smile. “She is alive, and we will see her again." His lips trembled as he spoke.
Fouzia’s heart melted seeing her husband put on a strong face for her. She kissed him softly and hugged him close. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she prayed. “Thank you for giving me such loving husband. Please, watch over our daughter wherever she is. Bring her home safely to us, Lord. No matter how long it takes; please, just bring her home to us." She knew Najid was praying in a similar manner, and she knew God was listening.
They spent the evening close to each other. They avoided the news, and anything to do with the crisis in Jordan. Instead, they passed the time reading books, listening to soft music, and praying together. Physical touch from her husband was the greatest comfort to Fouzia as the night matured. When they finally fell asleep, they were in each other’s arms.
Late the next morning, Najid went outside to collect the mail. Among the normal advertisements, credit card offers, and coupon flyers, was a beat-up and worn white envelope sent from somewhere in the middle east. It had been mailed weeks earlier, but it had no return address, and their last name was spelled wrong. It was addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Amadee.”
Najid puzzled over the envelope for a moment and then slipped it between the folded coupon flyers and other mail. He tucked them all under his arm and returned to the house. Najid dropped the mail on the kitchen counter and placed a coffee mug under the Kuerig machine’s spout. He put a k-cup in the receptacle, closed the lid, and pressed the blinking blue button for a large cup. While the coffee poured into his waiting cup, Najid retrieved the envelope and looked at it again. He turned it over and inspected it from all angles. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and he was hesitant to open it. “Should I wait and open it with Fouzia?” he wondered. “Should I wait to call her, and open it first, in case it is terrible news?”
The Kuerig droned as the pump engaged to suck more water into the machine. Najid slapped the letter onto the counter and retrieved his now full coffee mug. He took a careful sip of the hot liquid, and rather than revisiting the letter, he left the kitchen. He went to the living room and switched on the television. He turned the volume down low to avoid waking Fouzia, and sat in his favorite recliner. The news was still headlining the Jordanian crisis. New reports were calling the tragedy the result of sectarian violence and avoiding any mention of outbreak or contagion. “Interesting…” thought Najid. “The story has changed dramatically from yesterday and they are working hard to downplay the initial reports. Obviously, there was some truth to them. It’s pathetic how blatant the deception is."
The same WHO spokeswoman from the night before was being interviewed by another news agency. When asked why the WHO was deploying to Al Aqaba, she said, “We are mobilizing to Al Aqaba to provide aide to the survivors of government brutality and a propaganda war, that incited unnecessary panic and caused the tragedy we all witnessed yesterday. There is no threat present, other than war planes that drop bombs on innocent women and children.”
Photos of collapsed buildings, toppled monuments, and multitudes of bodies covered by sheets and blankets were shown in the background as she spoke. “It should be known that the warplanes the Jordanians used to firebomb their own people were sold to them by the US military,” she added, not bothering to disguise her distaste for the western superpower.
Najid flipped through the channels and sipped his coffee. He heard the tearing of paper behind him and looked to the kitchen. Fouzia was unfolding the contents of the battered white envelope and staring at the writing intently. “Fouzia?” Najid called. “Do you know who the letter is from?”
His wife ignored his inquiries as she read the letter. Her heart began beating faster and joyful tears came flooding from her eyes, so many that she worried she would ruin the letter. “Najid!” she shouted, finally. “Our daughter is alive!" She waved the letter in the air and jumped up and down in excitement. “Come! Read it with me!”
Najid leapt from his chair and raced to the kitchen table, where they sat down and read the letter together.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Amadee, my name is Dustin. I consider myself a friend of your daughter. I want you to know that Jen is alive and well as I write this letter. She’s the toughest woman I have ever met, and I can only imagine y’all are good people, because she is also one of the kindest people I have ever met. Your daughter wants to come home to you, more than anything. She talks about you all the time. I wish I could say that she’ll be coming home soon, but things aren’t that easy. I’m going to help her anyway I can, so that she comes home to y’all safe and sound. I promise you that. The problem is, some bad people have made her out to be something she isn’t, and now she’s kind of on the run. I can’t tell you where she is, or even where I am right now. It wouldn’t be safe to do that. I can tell you that your daughter definitely has the Lord on her side though. He has his hand on her, thats for sure. Pray for her, and if you get a chance, maybe for me too. I’ll write again when I can. - Dustin”
They read the letter over and over. Fouzia hugged Najid so tightly that he laughed and patted her arm to let her know it was hurting him. “She’s alive!” Fouzia cried.
“Of course she is, my love” Najid answered with a genuine smile. “Should we call Agent House and tell him about the letter?”
Fouzia stopped smiling and gave him a stern look. “Don’t you dare, Najid,” she said. “This is our lifeline to Jena. If we share it with him, he might cut it and we’d lose her again.”
Najid nodded and smiled at her again. “Perhaps we’ll get another letter soon,” he said. Fouzia’s smile returned as well. They turned back to the letter and read it again, together.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The city was ablaze as the merchant vessel pulled away from the pier and into the Gulf of Aqaba. Jen stood on the deck with Sergeant Lynch, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and gunshots. The boats captain nearly left them behind when the trouble started in the city. Luckily they arrived just as he was firing up the engines and untying from the pier.
They were about two miles away from the port city when they began hearing the explosion and saw the jets shrieking overhead. “What is happening?” asked Jen, frightened.
Sergeant Lynch shru
gged his athletic shoulders and said, “Beats me. Nothing good, that’s for sure." He swayed with the rocking of the boat and Jen bumped gently into him. He was planted firmly on the deck and seemed to move naturally with the ocean.
Jen was having trouble mastering that particular skill. The next swell set her bumping into him again, and she grabbed his tattooed arm for balance and laughed, “I’m sorry! I don’t have my sea legs yet I guess."
“You’re doing just fine, Jen,” he said with a grin. “I’m not complaining anyway.”
Jen blushed and turned toward the door to the main cabin. “I think I’m going to go inside and check on Nathan." Sergeant Lynch nodded and she went inside.
“What the heck am I doing?” she asked herself. “The world is falling apart and here I am just making it harder for him to focus on what’s important." She placed her hands on either side of the ladder-well, and climbed down into the lower deck where their living quarters were located. The living quarters were rows of three-high racks of hammock type bunks, lining each side along the bulkhead. Jen’s bunk was on the top about half way down, on the starboard side. O’Bryan’s bunk was the bottom bunk in the same rack.
“How are you holding up Marine?” asked Jen as she knelt down beside his bunk. She had to lean down and cock her head sideways to see him fully. There was just enough space between bunks for a grown man to lay on his back. If O’Bryan turned on his side, he would bump the sagging hammock of the bunk above him.
Lance Corporal O’Bryan smiled and gave her a thumbs up. He winked his one good eye, which made Jen snort with laughter. “How’s Sergeant Lynch holding up?” he asked. “I worry that he is blaming himself for all of this. Has he said anything to you?"
Jen shook her head.
“Maybe you can get him to talk about it,” said O’Bryan. “Just try not to smile. I don’t think any man could put his words together when you do that." Jen punched his arm, but she blushed anyway.