He stood up, took another deep breath, and talked to the insect. “Ok, man, whatever it is, I’m ready. Allons-y!” He blurted the French phrase unexpectedly.
A moment later, the mantis disappeared. It reappeared on the side of a dirt wall inside the cave, where Gul and Khel had spent the last several months.
Immediately, he appeared standing on the dirt next to the mantis.
He thought, Ok, I’m in. No talking out loud. Ten-four, dude. As he slowly rubbed his hands together, he saw they were shaking. His nervousness could not be eased.
With as little sound as possible, he began to walk forward, following the mantis. There was no one yet to be found.
A few steps later, he heard the voices of people speaking loudly. He could sense that just ahead, there would be a large oval shaped area, hewn from the left side of the cave. In there, six men stood.
He walked closer, and then stopped. With his heart pounding, fear and anxiety began to move throughout his body.
The mantis had disappeared, but he hadn’t noticed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to sense if there were more people in the vicinity. There were other men, with machine guns and rifles elsewhere, moving in the cave, but they were far from where he was. Strangely, his mind was unable to detect someone else hidden in the shadows, a short way from, and opposite from, where he was.
It was the hooded man, preoccupied in his own thoughts. As he kept his distance, the hooded man said to himself, For my and the dark entity’s plans, I have already given Jalel more targets, and he has acted on them accordingly. But neither he nor the entity knows that I am revealing these targets to others in subtle ways. Now, the two spies…they are of no consequence to me. But Jalel has found one of them, and that man will be another casualty of this game. As he turned to leave, he thought, This violence does not entertain me. Jalel has no elegance, no poetry in his delivery of pain and punishment.
Above him, positioned on the ceiling of the cave, the tiny, observing mantis watched him walk away and then disappear.
The longhaired man’s mind constructed the scene around the bend with the men inside. There were two lanterns standing apart, and struggling to maintain their fire, at the back end of the oval shaped area. Their flickering weak light provided a dim and bleak setting to the scene. He sensed one of the men was on his knees. On this man’s leg, a wound slowly bled, and a large patch of dried blood surrounded it. The man’s hands were tied behind his back with twine. His face was swollen, his eye sockets were cut open, and his nose was broken. The man, Malik Khel, had been bludgeoned.
The goateed man closed his eyes tightly, digging his fingers into the dirt wall of the cave, as he pitied the poor wretch. He wanted to do something to help, but fear paralyzed him.
Four other men encircled Khel. The rifleman, who had shot Khel, stood directly in front of him. With his rifle strapped over his back, he pointed a semi-automatic gun at Khel’s face. Behind Khel was the guard who had beaten him, when he was caught. The second guard who chased him was on one side and Jalel stood at the other.
Gul waited at about a step outside the circle, almost directly in front of Khel.
Speaking Arabic, Jalel told Gul that he would be needed soon. Then, Jalel shouted at Khel, “Again! Who else is a spy among us?”
With his head bent down, in a crying mournful voice, Khel said, “Brother, I am no spy. I do not know.”
The rifleman shouted, “You lie!”
Jalel interrogated, “How else did the Americans know where to strike us?!”
Khel made no sound but that of his weeping.
The guard at Khel’s right kicked him at the side of his face. Khel’s head whipped to the left, and he struck the ground, almost unconscious.
The man picked him up by his collar and sat him on his knees once more.
Blood and dirt caked Khel’s body.
“How much more do they know?!”
Teetering on his knees, Khel still did not reply.
Jalel was finished. “The time is close to reveal our own strength and power. We must not let anything prevent it from happening. Our destiny cannot be compromised by traitors.”
Slowly, Khel mustered his little-remaining strength to raise his head.
Then, Jalel commanded, “Kill him.”
The rifleman aimed his gun.
Khel’s bloody and sorrowful eyes focused on Gul. Tears once again fell down his narrow face and disappeared into his beard. He pleaded softly, “Omar, my brother, pray for me.”
Gul’s eye focused intently on Khel. His usual kindly and joyful appearance was gone. There was a great, heavy pain in his chest. As his lips quivered, he began to silently weep. He had no means to reverse what was about to happen.
The shot echoed throughout the hollowed chambers and caverns of the cave.
Khel collapsed down onto the blood-drenched, dirt floor.
Then, the four men walked out, with Jalel being the last one to leave. He ordered Gul, “Clean this place.”
Gul quickly ran to his knees, beside his friend, and raised Khel’s head onto his lap. Carefully, with quivering fingertips, he wiped Khel’s face, and combed his hair back.
Leaning Khel’s head back, Gul compassionately looked into his friend’s lifeless face. Then, he kissed the top of his head.
As he wept, he whispered, “Malik, your soul be in peace with our Christ.”
The pain in his chest became unbearable, and he couldn’t breathe.
He wrapped his arms around Khel’s limp body and pressed it against his chest.
His lungs gasped for air in a painful rhythm.
Omar Gul wept a mournful, woeful, silent cry.
The light of the lantern closest to him painted formless figures on his back. After a few moments, it began to quickly flicker between light and darkness. Then, with a last flash of brilliance, it gracefully dimmed, and then burned out.
* * * * * * *
Witnessing Khel’s death had shaken his core. With his eyes tightly shut, the goateed man stood and silently wept for a long time. Covering his face with his hands, he knocked his head repeatedly on his apartment door, seeking to feel something other than the pain in his heart.
After a while, he finally stopped.
Whispering, he pleaded, “No. Please, no.” With his face still buried in his hands, he asked, “Why do you want me to do this?”
He didn’t expect an answer, and there was nothing but the silence.
Backing away from the door, he walked into the kitchen.
Slowly, he opened the refrigerator door. Grasping the handle, he stood in front of it for a long moment. Then finally, he opened it and reached for a can of beer.
After closing the door, he walked his hunched frame to the kitchen counter, and set the can down. But then, he pushed the beer aside. With his head sunk down, he stood there, saying nothing, thinking nothing.
Then, something made its presence known. As before, it was not a voice, not a word, not a feeling, but a thought, an external thought. It asked, “Who are you in this world?” The thought did not make his body tremble, as it did before, but this time it was soothing.
With his head down, he remained motionless. Finally, he asked, “Who am I supposed to be?” He waited long for an answer, but it didn’t come. Then, he said, “I don’t even know.” He continued, “I can guess…I’m doing stuff no human can do. Am I even human?”
Raising his head, he then turned around to lean his back on the counter. In despair, he said, “There’s a husky hooded guy who’s telling me to go places or else he’ll kill people. And by the way, he’s already killed people. There’s another guy tossing women off of rooftops. There’s the FBI sniffing at my door.”
He paused, and then said, “There’s a bug playing Lassie.” He scoffed, “Actually, that bug is probably my best friend these days.” After closing his eyes tightly, he reopened them and said in disgust, “Sad, huh?”
He began to walk, but in no particular direction, saying,
“A long time ago, my wife and son die in a strange accident.” Motioning with a hand, he added, “Now, I pass out over here and start getting these strange dreams.”
He stopped walking. “Then, there’s this guy…” His voice quivered, and he began to weep. “…there’s this guy who gets beaten and killed.” Wiping the tears from his face, he said, “Right in front of me.”
Then, in a tearful question, he asked, “And why do I feel that he died because of me? I should have done something…I could have stopped it. Why didn’t I stop it?”
As he breathed in deep, he tried to regain his composure. Walking once again, he reached his couch and drop down on it, and then slumped his head in his hands.
Soon, the crying stopped, and he became completely silent.
Several minutes later, he asked, “So, who am I in this world? So, what is my role in this world?”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then a response came, “Someone has been sent.”
He stood in sudden anger, snarling, “I don’t need someone. I don’t need anyone!” Defiant, he pronounced, “I’m not doing this! I’m no hero. I’m no spy. I’m no helper of the downtrodden.”
Irritated, he began to walk again. “I’m no healer. I can’t even heal myself. Much less help myself or stop myself from drinking!”
Making his way back to the kitchen counter, he leaned his hands against it. After standing for a while, he then concluded flatly, “I’m not doing this. I’m on vacation. I told you before. Vacation! I’m on vacation!”
Then, came a gentle question, “From what?”
Beating both his hands down, he growled emphatically, “From life!!”
His breathing became fast and deep, filling his lungs with the energy of his anger.
Quickly, he let his anger engulf the room.
The counter started to shake, then the cupboards, the plates, and the dishes inside them also trembled. The room began to quake, then the building, and then the ground under the building.
He tightly closed his fists and clenched his jaws. All the cells of his body fired electricity, flexing every muscle. His body was rigid in his rage.
Lost in his anger, he didn’t know that his world was shaking.
Many seconds went by, as the quaking continued, and the earth beneath shook in its foundation.
Then, suddenly, all movement stopped.
He had calmed down.
His body loosened, and his hands opened.
With his head still down, he closed his eyes.
He felt a deep pain in his soul, from a hollow, black chasm of emptiness at its very heart. He was lost, and he thought that there was no one to whom he could truly turn. He was sliding down an abyss, and he felt there was nothing that could stop his desperate plunge.
In a soft whisper, he asked, “Will I ever come back?”
One more whisper followed, “Will you help me come back?”
* * * * * * *
In the darkening evening, Special Agent Katrina Etelson’s flats could be heard clicking over the asphalt, as she crossed the street. Her dark pantsuit almost blended completely into the background of the black road.
With her head slightly angled down, her hands began to arrange her red hair into a tight braid.
She was in a neighborhood, in a suburb southwest of Baltimore, Maryland, making her way to the front door of Mrs. Ackerman, the woman kidnapped from the D.C. hotel.
As she reached the driveway of the blue and white two-story house, Agent Etelson finished her braiding and dropped her hands to her sides. Then, she strode through the concrete walkway, to the front door. When she reached the door, she searched for the doorbell. Finding the lit button, she pressed it and waited.
The light beside the front door turned on, and Agent Etelson lifted her eyes and briefly gazed up at it.
Then, the voice of a woman, from inside the house, called out, “Who is it?”
Etelson promptly responded, “Mrs. Ackerman? It’s Special Agent Katrina Etelson from the FBI.”
The door unlocked, and then cautiously opened.
Mrs. Ackerman’s nervous face peered out from the narrow opening. The poor woman had been scared, and on edge, ever since the attack. With a faint smile, she greeted, “Hi, Agent Etelson. How are you?”
“Sorry to bother you this late, Mrs. Ackerman. But Agent Stevens and I were headed up to the Baltimore field office, and on the way, we were talking about your case,” she explained. “There are some things we need your help on, in order to clear up some questions. And since your home was on our way out, we decided to swing by.” She added apologetically, “And again, I’m sorry about this late time. If it’s a bad time or an inconvenience, we can schedule something in the future instead.”
“Well, no, it’s not a bad time,” Mrs. Ackerman replied, “My husband’s coming home soon anyway, and he’d be glad to meet you. So, where’s Agent Stevens?”
Etelson smiled, “Well…I’m forcing him to drive. And he started getting a bit tired, so he decided to drop me off and make a quick stop for some coffee, at that coffee shop back at that strip mall.” She pointed behind her with her thumb. “He’ll be here shortly.”
“Ok, come on in then, please.” Mrs. Ackerman stepped aside and opened the door wider.
Agent Etelson walked in. She noticed at an arm’s length away on her left was a tall, brightly lit floor lamp. A few steps away further left was an opening leading to the kitchen. Just to her right was a wall and stairway, leading to the second story. Throughout the house, all the lights were turned on.
Mrs. Ackerman closed the front door and locked the deadbolt.
Agent Etelson turned around to face her.
A shadow on the wall, cast by the bright lamp, caught the agent’s attention. She glanced around to see all the lights turned on in the house.
Noticing what Etelson was doing, Mrs. Ackerman smiled and said nervously and sheepishly, “Sorry…I’ve been freaked out lately. I’m not sure what to do to protect myself. I’ve been walking around the house, with all the lights on, all the time lately.” Then, she added, “And I’ve been carrying this.” In her right hand, she tightly gripped a pair of large, sharp scissors. As she lifted them up to show the agent, her wrist revealed the circular symbol tattooed on her skin.
Agent Etelson smiled compassionately and said, “It’ll take some time. It’s natural that you’re scared.” She shifted her eyes from Mrs. Ackerman’s face down to the symbol.
For a long moment, Agent Etelson seemed frozen, as she stared at it. Then, suddenly, her expression changed. Triggered by the scent dispersed from the tattoo, her soft, compassionate facade morphed into a stern, cold, determined visage.
Surprised and shocked, Mrs. Ackerman gasped. Not knowing what was happening, she took a half step back. Her heel struck the bottom of the front door.
The bright floor lamp projected on the wall the image of Mrs. Ackerman’s hand fearfully rising, with the scissors in its grip. Then, swiftly, the shadow of Etelson’s hand flew up and grabbed Mrs. Ackerman’s wrist. Joining the shadows, Etelson’s other hand slowly rose into the air, and from it, three long, slender, whipping tentacles tore out from the palm and extended high above the two women.
Mrs. Ackerman’s head whipped to the side, to see the horrifying sight of the thrashing tentacles. As she tried to pull away, the door immediately behind her kept her from going much further. She started screaming for help. Vigorously, she pulled her arm away, but Etelson’s grip was much too strong.
The slithering tentacles curved down and began their approach towards the base of Mrs. Ackerman’s neck. From their narrow ends, sharp diamond-like tips began to form.
But the terror in Mrs. Ackerman did not prevent her from thinking quickly. Her free hand jumped to the other to snatch the scissors. With a backhanded swing, Mrs. Ackerman whipped her hand across her body and plunged the scissors into Etelson’s cheek, tearing through the replica of skin and bone.
Strangely, the blood that fell from th
e torn skin immediately reverted into tiny crystal-like stones, falling and scattering over the wooden floor, with pinging sounds like falling pebbles.
Terrified by the sight, Mrs. Ackerman screamed, and the sound echoed against the floor and walls of the house.
Etelson’s head whipped to the side, forcing her body to lean in that direction, and almost making her lose her balance. She released the wrist, and then the three appendages retracted back into her palm. An instant later, Etelson heard the muffled sounds of Mrs. Ackerman’s feet thumping over the carpeted stairs, and racing up to the second floor.
Mrs. Ackerman dashed inside of the master bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Frantically, she lunged to the phone, picked it up, and ran into the bathroom. Panting, she locked the door and sank down with her back against the closed bathroom door. As one hand’s quivering fingers pressed the numbers for 9-1-1, her other hand gripped the scissors, which strangely had no trace of blood.
Recovering, Agent Etelson straightened her body. Her fingers rose to the wounded cheek and touched the deep long gash. The tear began from her ear and sliced down into and completely through her mouth. A finger reached in and examined the depth as it sank into her face. Slowly, she opened her mouth to a wide and unnatural gape, and then calmly closed it.
But the bloodless damage caused her no pain. The deep gash revealed tiny dark pigmented crystalline structures underneath and throughout the bare replica of tissue. As her finger examined it, the crystals’ smooth multi-faceted surfaces reflected the bright light coming from the floor lamp.
Then, from ear to mouth, her face began to heat up, slowly fuse, and then repair itself. The crystals melted into each other and closed the gash back into a smooth flesh-like surface. As the wound healed, Etelson’s eyes glowed with a fiery red heat. Afterwards, the cool of her green eyes reappeared.
A moment later, Etelson focused her attention back to her prey. She turned to face the stairs, and with measured steps, she began to make her way up to the second floor. The scent of the symbols called to her, drawing her up from below. When she reached the master bedroom, she turned the knob and swung open the door. Glancing one way then another, she found no one. She walked in.
RB 01 Through Flesh & Bone Page 26