by Milt Mays
Red and black colors snaked through his mind, flowing beside each other like hot lava through a burning building. He backed away from the man, wiped his hand.
Run! Scream! Vomit!
What in the name of Allah was he doing? He spat out the deliciously sweet blood. He remembered his mother reading the Qur’an, adoring the way Jabril had taken to it and helped the children in the hospital. There was a deeper memory of his grandmother, a truly compassionate Muslim, who had saved a boy and a girl from the Nazis in World War II. Even the vengeful killing his father and Al Qaeda had taught him did not ascribe to this—abomination. He had to wash his hands, bathe in clear water, scrub and scrub and scrub.
Pain seized him and he stumbled, fell to one knee. A black hammer seemed to have smashed him behind his left ear, sending shocks deep in his brain. He wanted to pull out whatever it was, yet his hands were paralyzed, would not move.
Suddenly all was clear again. He must leave this place.
He found a guard’s cell phone—a bit different model than he remembered, but Americans always had something new and different. Without the typical flip-phone model he had carried for years, the dark screen befuddled him.
A slight buzz behind his left ear, not really painful, though he wanted to reach up and scratch it. Instead, he pushed his finger on a button at the top of the cell phone then moved his finger across the screen like wiping dust off a counter. Why had he done that? The screen lit up and he knew. Or rather he remembered. It was like he’d done this a thousand times before but it was only in a dream. Or maybe this was the dream and he had done this while awake. All he knew was he must use this tool and move on.
The date stared at him: 07 May 2018. Surely a mistake. Maybe a video game the soldier had been playing about the future? Without pondering, without even thinking, his fingers touched keys, flipped through icons and connected to the Internet. How simple things had become. He wanted to scratch the itch behind his left ear, but every time he started, his hand stopped and went back to the phone.
He roamed the Internet effortlessly. Why was he able to do this so easily? Another feeling of dreamlike past repetitions. No, this was not a dream. The smell of blood and sweat, the solid feel of the ground under his feet, the cell phone in his hand: All of it connected him to now. His finger was like an automaton, touching the screen, selecting sites so fast that within minutes the history of the last nearly two decades was summarized. Though it seemed like old news, it connected anew.
Over sixteen years, four presidents later, one black with a Muslim name (he had to check that on other sites, twice), and bin Laden, dead, buried at sea. Nothing at all about U.S. reservoirs bursting. Not one speck of information about a massive viral infection of the USA in 2001, except for a few scares about influenza. He studied the archives of The New York Times, Los Angeles Times. Nothing. Was it possible? All his planning, all his work and no infidel had died from the infections he’d spread. And somehow all the OPEC oil had been destroyed. Yet the Americans had developed fracking and had their own oil, though not enough to continue their automobile decadence—the price of gas sky-high. But his motherland was once more in chaos, poverty. Victims once again of the infidels.
He wanted to throw the cell phone into the wall, stomp on it. “Nooo!” It was a scream of utter desperation, but if anyone had heard it, they would have sprinted away. He did not even recognize the guttural roar that came out. But it felt right. The infidels had yet to suffer for their first torturous gutting of his homeland, and now the infidels had destroyed OPEC’s oil as well. They must pay. His father’s fits of rage at the all-night fundamentalists’ meetings seemed so justified now. All of their teachings had been true, so deeply true he felt a hot lance pierce behind his left ear. Perhaps all that had gone before was merely a rehearsal. This was his true calling. It sung in that buzz in his brain. Could the buzz, the itch, the pain behind his left ear be helping him? Warmth and joy overcame Jabril. He would live up to his name: the Sword of Gabriel. Allah’s will be done.
He rifled through all the guards’ wallets and found credit cards and cash, and another cell phone. Again he reached out and dabbed two fingers in the bloody stump of a neck and brought them to his tongue. So good. Then he spat and said a prayer and shook his head. He knew what he must do. Using the other cell phone and the Visa card from a guard named Jake Malcolm, he made an Internet reservation on a train west.
Why was he going west? Then he remembered Alex. Even though Alex had been an enemy, someone who tried to stop him from completing his mission, they had been connected. And now Jabril felt the connection again, the mental bond they’d had in 2001. But Alex had died, fallen over one thousand feet into the Arkansas River. A wave of remorse reminded Jabril that he had let his mother and aunt down. Part of him wanted to make up for that travesty.
A buzzing and stinging behind his left ear and all those memories stopped, left like an erased chalkboard from his Iraqi grade school. If this connection he felt was Alex, he must find him. Must, must, must. If not, he still must find whoever was giving him this feel of connection. It might be another mutant that would help Jabril finish the infidels. But he had to be cautious.
He roved over several Internet sites, this time cradling the cell phone in both hands as his thumbs typed search words too quickly for thought. Something about typing with two thumbs felt right, a manner of typing that reminded him of eating traditionally, sitting and using his hands. He flicked an index finger on the screen. Sites flashed by. He stopped at one site, not sure why exactly, but the ideas resonated. DNA and genetic manipulations. Viruses could change mammalian DNA. Of course! The scientist in Jakarta, what was his name, Rashid, had manipulated bacteria DNA with viruses. Or was it viral DNA with bacteria?
It wasn’t important; except the virus Jabril had sniffed up his nose, inhaled those many years ago, the one he’d hoped would infect and massacre the western infidels, that virus must have changed his DNA.
He read more, fascinated, and tapped on several related sites on epigenetics: How environment can cause heritable traits like coat color in mammals, eye color in fruit flies and longevity in something called a nematode. Some surmised the daily stress of being African American caused them to live almost a decade less than whites. The more Jabril thought about it, the more it seemed not only plausible, but the only explanation. He had been able to change his form to . . . to what? All he remembered was the strength, the speed, and healing fast. He’d been shot; the wounds had healed in minutes and he’d survived. Something else struck him: to change had required strong emotions. When he’d fought Alex over the Royal Gorge, he’d been angry, though also he’d wanted to escape. And to win. He always won, overcame those who thought they could chain him, or westernize him, like they had his homeland of Iraq.
The thoughts of what the Americans had done to his country, to his mother—starved her and killed her with lack of antibiotics—all those thoughts fused into hatred that caused small prickles to crawl up his back and flow into his hands and feet. His arm and leg muscles warmed and enlarged. A tearing pain from under his fingernails and four-inch claws erupted.
Yes! Oh, yes! This is what he wanted. Each breath filled him with pure energy. He looked at his arms and legs and flexed them, feeling the flow of blood and stretching skin. They rippled with large muscles. He flexed them over and over; the flow of blood pumped and filled the muscles, pumped and filled. He yearned to twist and pull and tear. Anything.
The four claws from under his fingernails were something new. How wonderful. He wanted to run into the streets and use his new tools, lop off more infidel heads and prevent them from reaching heaven. He would not need a sharp and heavy sword like he had used in his homeland. Now, as he looked about the headless torsos, he had the tools and weight at his fingertips. Perhaps he could find a woman, a blond. The vision of breasts, buttocks, a soft, red mouth. He started toward the elevator.
Yet, this must wait. If someone saw him like this, he would be back inside
the tomb. He thought of his mother, her prayers; and he relaxed, returning to a thin, calm Arab man, the claws retracting.
He wanted to play with this change in form, back and forth, feel the power, the strength surge through him. But there was a deeper force pushing him. He had to get moving. He’d broken out of their zoo. The keepers were surely coming for him.
In the guards’ pockets he found three sets of car keys and a pocketknife. He also took one of their handguns and padded to the elevators. Once at ground floor he found the front door. A video screen beside it showed only electronic snow. He cracked the door and peeked outside. Rain pelted his face. It was black, no lights, though there was an outline of three vehicles: a truck, an SUV and a sedan. The wind rushed through the streets in a shushing sound. A stench like a drained swamp and rotten eggs assaulted his nose. He bent and placed the handgun to keep the door ajar. Then he walked into the dark, lifted his head, and stretched out his arms. Cool rain stung and poured over his half-naked body, washing away the blood and years of the infidel’s probings. He wanted to stand there for hours. The rain lessened; he shivered and moved on.
In the truck he found a black duffle bag holding almost everything he needed: a football jersey with “Ravens” on the front, blue jeans that were a bit baggy, two undershirts, cotton socks, and high-top Nike basketball shoes. From the SUV he scrounged an Orioles raincoat, baseball cap, and sunglasses. He returned inside, bent and grabbed the gun, closed the door, and took the elevator down again. Once at the decapitated bodies, he reached two fingers out again to touch a neck, then pulled back.
No! This is wrong. No! No! No!
He threw all the clean clothes in a dry corner except one crumpled undershirt. He mumbled a surah over and over—Allah hum maghfirlee war-ham nee (Oh, God, forgive me and have mercy on me)—and, with the undershirt, dried and scrubbed every inch of his body. There was a flat circular spot behind his left ear, the spot that had been itching. His inspecting hand jerked away from the spot, as if on a string. He scrubbed off again and rinsed with cold water and finally felt clean, relaxed.
He donned the Ravens jersey and shoes. The jeans kept falling off. With the pocketknife he cut the electric wire from a table lamp, slipped it through the belt loops, cinched the jeans, tied a knot and started to leave.
But a force tugged him to the room where he’d been in cold storage for government prodding the last fifteen-plus years. There was something in the vault he had to see, something he was sure would be more useful than his new razor-sharp claws.
Chapter 8
Jabril entered the vault room, curious yet careful. A mouse scurried out of a broken crate in the corner, its pink eyes fixing on Jabril. Then Jabril remembered. Not only had scientists been studying him, the mice had crawled over him, his eyes, his head, his chest, taking tiny nips from him and leaving traces of their own DNA. He closed his eyes. Suddenly he was inside the mouse. He saw himself, standing above the mouse, complete with closed eyes. It was as if he had become the mouse.
He flinched and shook his head, opening his eyes. That cannot be.
The mouse scurried away, and he knew it was so. He was connected to the mice that had been crawling over him.
Out of curiosity, he inspected the outside of the vault and found the two-inch metal conduit of electrical power wires. He walked along the wall tracing the conduit to a far corner of the room. A hole the size of his thumbnail had been bored into the metal conduit—no not bored—chewed. There were tiny scratches on the metal around the hole, too wide for nails. It must have been teeth. The mice had set him free.
So he was now connected mentally to the mice and their collective mind. An insane thought. This could not be. Yet the mice seemed to be directing him to the computer terminal that occupied one small cubbyhole in the far wall of this vault room. The keyboard beckoned and the screen cursor blinked a tiny white rectangle. He touched the Enter key.
Please enter Password?
He did not have time for this. Any minute someone would be coming to find out what had happened to the vault and why none of the guards were answering calls.
Yet he needed to know his enemy and this computer was the way.
He typed J-A-B-R-I-L, and then hit Enter.
Incorrect.
Password?
He figured he had three chances before lockdown. That would take all of one more minute. Surely he had that much time.
He typed E-L F-A-H-D, and Enter.
Incorrect.
Password?
He wanted to crash his arm into the screen and throw the stupid machine out into the rain. A slight tickle behind his left ear. He smiled and typed, A-L-E-X, and Enter.
The screen went blank. He had a sudden urge to run, thinking some internal alarm had been set off and all CIA computers would be notified and the entire building would be locked down before he could get out.
The screen displayed a menu. He was in!
He was drawn right away to the menu choice of Genetically Modified Organisms. After touching the screen to choose that, the next menu held five choices:
A) Jabril
B) Alex
C) Ambrosia mice
D) Ambrosia crops
E) Other
He looked at the time display on his cell phone. How could ten minutes have passed already? Without question he must move quickly and leave.
Perusing the folders Jabril and Alex, he found nothing of interest, but then found the Ambrosia mice and Ambrosia crops extremely interesting. And the names Alex Smith and Rachel Anne Lane were all over the research. He wondered what was in Other.
He wanted to print the entire file, or save it to a flash drive, but nothing was available. Before he could think, his fingers tapped on keys and the website was emailed to Stratos, whatever that was. Though he didn’t understand this, he was calmed by it and moved on.
Now he needed a car to get to the train and beyond. He grabbed the duffel bag and went back upstairs and opened the front door a crack, peering outside. False dawn brought light enough to see colors of the three vehicles. The red truck was out—too flashy. The black SUV would be roomy, but the Nissan Sentra seemed the best: A blah gray color was less noticeable, and it surely got better gas mileage. Gasoline was very expensive. He wished he would have checked the gas level when he’d searched the car before. All three keys were in his pocket, so if the Sentra had no gas, he could easily change vehicles.
No other cars moved on the road. No people. He ran. The building door slammed shut behind him. He stopped and looked back and realized he’d forgotten to jam the gun under the door. There was no going back now. He ran to the Nissan, yanked open the door, jumped in and slammed the door shut. He turned the key and closed his eyes. “Alla-hu Akbar.” Please have gas in the tank. The engine turned over and purred. He opened his eyes. The tank was one-third full. “Alla-hu Akbar.” God is indeed great.
There was a map and driving directions feature on the cell phone. Fifteen years had made life so easy. It took him no time to find directions out of the city, as if he had done it before. Driving down the first road, he rolled the window down and tossed out the other two sets of keys. The city had been pummeled by waves and wind, so he had to jag around downed power lines, drive down alleys around flooded roads, detour around abandoned cars—all adding time. At a fallen tree in the road, he beat the steering wheel in frustration, turned the car around and found another road. Despite all his detours, he was able to get to the edge of town.
An uneasiness crept into him. Why could he manage a cell phone and the Internet so well without even thinking, not to mention know where and what to do so easily? He knew the answer lay behind his left ear. Someone was controlling and tracking him.
He found a gas station and filled up. Now for a Radio Shack. One was open about three miles north. In minutes he found the materials he needed and drove five miles west of the train station, not far from the tracks, close to a huge billboard which read “Clausewitz Volkswagen.” He parked and s
at in the car making a portable electronic bug detector. The battery-powered solder gun took longer than a plug-in, but pretty soon it was finished. A decade and a half had not taken any memories. The Afghanistan training remained intact.
He stared out the windshield remembering the terrorist training, the reason he had come here so many years ago. Across the railroad tracks was a rundown playground in a very poor part of town. Young mothers sat on a bench, laughing at their children playing, just as in Iraq—a childhood still fresh in his memory. These women had no right to enjoy their children. It was their military, their country that made the embargo that had killed Jabril’s mother. A dark-haired boy of perhaps four years fell off a swing and ran to his mother. She bent to him and brushed off his hands, kissed his cheeks, hugged him. That child had no right to live, and he would die. His mother would die. They would all die. Soon.
In a nearby convenience store he went to the bathroom, stood on the toilet and inspected the heating ducts. No hidden surveillance cameras. He stripped off his clothes and ran the portable bug-detecting machine over his entire body, behind his left ear twice. Two bugs: one in his armpit, the other next to his anus. Behind his left ear was quiet. Clever, those Americans. He concentrated on his hand. One long, razor-sharp, curled claw grew from his index finger. He cut out the bugs and pocketed them. The sharp pain from the cuts passed quickly; the wounds healed in minutes. The claw retracted. How glorious. After cleaning up and dressing, he exited the bathroom.
The guard’s phone he had, Jake Malcolm’s, was likely traceable. Jabril perused the convenience store for a throwaway cell phone. Why were they so expensive? More than he had ever remembered, with an extra charge for something called 4G. And the clerk said that was not even the best. 5G was best, but only the very rich and the government had that. Jake Malcolm’s cell phone probably had 5G, but he had to get rid of it, though not yet. He had a plan for that phone in his pants pocket, though he could not quite itemize it right now.