by Daniel Wilde
At that moment, despite his pledge of loyalty to the Führer, and despite the love he felt for his family, Günter’s only thought was to save himself. He crawled away, slowly, and with blood from both his crushed knee and his mangled left hand staining the sand and rocks below him.
Through the commotion of battle, and the hasty, unmeritorious retreat of his frightened comrades, and indeed the entire Panzerarmee Afrika led by Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, Günter found himself unquestionably lost and cut off from any person from whom he might expect kindness or sympathy. His wanderings ultimately led him far from the German Army and their English enemies. Almost subconsciously, he felt for the vial still secreted in his pocket, remembering Himmler’s warning.
Two days later, on November 6, 1942, while Günter hid in the stifling confines of a small outcropping of rock—the only place he could find that provided shelter of any kind—the British Army finally drove the Germans westward from Egypt back into Libya.
Later, Winston Churchill said of this victory: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end, but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” After the conclusion of the Second World War, Churchill wrote: “Before Alamein we never had a victory. After Alamein, we never had a defeat.”
July 4, 2093—Dr. Shift Bader
It was my watch, and it was hard to stay awake. I was so tired. We were all tired. We’ve been on the run for days, hiding out, trying to rest when we can. But no one could sleep tonight, at least not soundly. We lie awake, or half awake, night after night, listening for sounds of pursuit.
Standing there by the window, desperately trying to keep my eyes open, I sensed another presence almost within reach. Without thinking, I swung my weapon around in that direction.
“It’s me,” Anta whispered, and I remembered to take a breath. It was two a.m., time to change the watch.
“Ok,” I mumbled, exhausted, as I stood to face her.
As Anta came closer, to take my place, I realized again how much I care for her, maybe even love her. We met just six months ago, but we’ve been through so much together, and depended on each other so often, it seems like much longer.
Her short, black hair hung straight tonight, but slightly messy. Her dark skin left only the whites of her gray eyes visible in the night. I sensed, rather than saw, a tired smile and realized I was staring at her lips—again. I tentatively moved toward her.
Anta squeezed past me to sit on the chair beside the motel window. I watched her train her eyes on the dark landscape outside, her familiar scent filling my head. She reached for my weapon and our fingers touched. I let go and pulled away, finally turning away from her, drifting to the couch to try to rest.
I didn’t know how long I’d been down when the sound of breaking glass crashed into my dulled senses. Anta’s startled cry roused me further and I was instantly wide awake. I rushed to her, fear coursing through me. Her clothing and hair had been showered with glass fragments from the broken front window. My attention was divided between concern for her safety and the fear of the possibility that this might be a full-on attack.
“Is it them?”
Angel’s excited whisper surprised me, even though I knew she was fascinated by the Skins. She and Street had glided into the room when they heard the crash, silent as ghosts.
“Yes!” Anta whispered, beginning to lose control of her emotions. “And there are hundreds of them!”
I discretely confirmed Anta’s report from a position beside the window, careful to stay concealed behind the curtains. Street checked the back through the bathroom window.
“They’re out back, too. We may have to fight our way out again.”
This situation seemed impossible considering where I was, and what I was doing only six months earlier. Such a short time really; but man, it seems like forever ago.
Six Months Earlier—December 30, 2092—Dr. Shift Bader
“Hello,” I said. The may who looked out at me from the Holo was aging, with graying hair and bags under his eyes. He looked like a man who’s seen bad things and then some. His skin was splotchy and the pores on his nose were much bigger than I cared to see this close up.
“Good evening Doctor Bader, I am Abasi Chalthoum, Egyptian Minister of Health and Population. My secretary should have announced me.”
“Yes, he did; although he didn’t provide me with any context for our conversation. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Your reputation, Doctor. My superiors request your services. They would like you to join a small expedition to investigate some recent reports of peculiar, but isolated deaths in one of the Bedouin tribes in northern Egypt, near El-Alamein.”
“I see. Actually, I understand, but I don’t see. Why me?”
“Again, Doctor, your reputation. You have been made known to our government as an expert in archeological anthropology. Your study in contagious diseases, and the impact of epidemics on the course of human history, is what attracted us to you. Of course, your father’s work right here in Egypt, at the University of Cairo, has certainly not hurt your reputation among my colleagues.”
Minister Chalthoum was wise to bring my father into the discussion so early. I’ve always had a difficult time staying away from the things in which my father was involved. My father died when I was only four years old, leaving mom to take care of me and my little sister, Arilee. But before his death, he studied historical biological agents and events during the great wars of the early- to mid-twentieth century. I found his work interesting but elected a different course of study. My sister says it’s because I’m a “stubborn arse”.
At the University of Colorado, I majored in archeological anthropology. I studied under the wise tutelage of esteemed professors like Doctors Abrahm Goldstein and Maricia Nerond. It wasn’t so much the history of the events of humankind that captivated me, but the works of human hands over the millennia. These brilliant anthropologists found a way to make even the old, mundane research of prehistoric cave tools and 14th century American Indian dwellings come alive.
Of course, nobody can fully escape their roots, unless they never really had any to begin with, and I did. Over time, I became more interested in my father’s line of work. Perhaps it was because I felt some desire to learn who I really was as well as who my father was. I was determined to carry on his work, despite the arcane and archaic nature of the research. It was a little tedious at times.
As I began my career, I looked for ways to diversify my work and keep it fresh. I finally branched into the anthropological subspecialty of the historical biological and chemical works of man. As a result, I’m an anthropologist by choice and a viral and bacterial historian by fate. I know, pretty boring. My nieces think I’m lame. I’m glad I don’t have kids of my own—I’m sure I’d be a real letdown.
“Minister Chalthoum, I may not be the right person for this job. I’m no Indiana Jones—not even close.”
Minister Chalthoum didn’t laugh. It seemed he didn’t know who Indiana Jones was—gasp! Or, worse, he actually did. Dr. Jones probably wasn’t a hero in Egyptian lore if the old movies were any guide.
“Doctor Bader, it is not bravery or heroism that we desire from you; it’s your knowledge. You alone seem to have the qualifications that would be of the greatest service in this matter. You have come highly recommended by your father’s colleagues and your superiors at the University. And, my government intends to pay you very well for your services.”
Oh. Money. That changes everything!
“When do I leave?”
“We’ve already arranged for your transport. A hovercar will be at your home to collect you and your bags at 8:00 AM on January 2.”
Ooooo-kay. They assumed my participation in this little venture. I guess my reputation—my greedy reputation—does precede me. “I’ll be ready. Thank you.”
“Thank you Doctor!”
January 2, 2093—Shift
The airport at Apion (formerly, Alexandria), Egypt, is a modern
structure with all the latest technological advances. Despite its sophistication, we still had to wait on the tarmac for the C5 port to become available due to the high level of air traffic at the airport. I spent most of the three and a half hour flight from Boulder, Colorado to Apion watching the on-board news for any reports of these so-called “peculiar” deaths in Egypt. Nothing.
I don’t know if the silence is because the deaths occurred in one of the few remote places left on Earth, or because the government, as they tend to do, is attempting to control panic. I have a growing suspicion that what I’m about to learn is going to be unpleasant. And the generous advance Minister Chalthoum wired to my bank account two days ago leads me to believe that this task is going to suck. Maybe I’ll die. I’m not superstitious. I’m not even very religious, despite my Christian upbringing. In any event, I couldn’t sleep on the plane. I hope that doesn’t bite me in the backside later.
Other than not being able to sleep, the only problem on the flight was the unenergetic, almost robotic flight attendant, with gobs of makeup plastered to her face; and who, unlike her colleagues near the back of the plane, seemed to find little enjoyment in her work. She actually spat on me when asking me what I’d like to drink. Uh, I’ll have a little bag of peanuts to go with that saliva, thank you. Anyway, I’ve flown all over the world, and in recent years, I’ve made many trips to various places in the Middle East, including Egypt. Of all those flights, I can’t recall a single occasion where more than a dozen seats were empty, or where the passengers and crew were in anything but high spirits. The same was true today, with the exception of my flight attendant.
Air transportation is just so inexpensive and so fast now that nearly any person, on any budget, can afford to fly to nearly any place on Earth. Airplanes are so large that even smaller commercial craft hold 800 people or more. Thanks to international security and peace, restrictions on travel through foreign airports has relaxed so much that only one form of identification is necessary to travel to every country but Cuba; whereas, by 2026, twenty-five years after a tragic terrorist attack in New York City, travel to foreign countries was severely restricted, and security measures, with extensive background checks and screenings, were necessary just to travel between the various states within the United States of America. So, of course the plane was full. They always are.
So I didn’t sleep on the plane; but we landed anyway, and eventually, we were allowed to get off. I walked out of the C5 Port at the Apion airport and was greeted by a small assembly of aging, yet distinguished looking ladies and gentlemen wearing dark business suits and sunglasses. They looked like they came straight from an old mafia vid.
“Good afternoon Doctor Bader! I’m Minister Chalthoum,” a man said, walking up to me with outstretched hand. He was clearly the oldest of the group and I recognized him by the bags under his eyes. I took his hand and shook.
“These are my colleagues,” he said, briefly waving in the direction of the men and women to his rear. “And this is my daughter, Dr. Anta Chalthoum.” He bowed slightly, extending his hand toward a young woman who seemed highly out of place among the group. I wondered how this woman, Dr. Anta Chalthoum, could possibly be the daughter of the Minister. She was exotic and beautiful, and he was . . . well . . . not.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I replied, smiling widely at Doctor Chalthoum and ignoring the others.
Dr. Chalthoum looked to be about 30 or 31 years old and tall, only two or three inches shorter than me. She was dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain white button-up top with the top two buttons unbuttoned. Whoa! I thought as my focus drifted away from what her father was saying.
Dr. Chalthoum’s eyes were slate gray, but bright and vibrant. She had long, dark eyelashes that could probably swat a mosquito if she blinked at the right time. She was not made up like so many women around the world, including Egypt. It was very unusual to see naked beauty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a single ponytail in the back. She wore a black armband on her upper arm containing the single word, in white lettering, قاتل, meaning “fight” or “combat”. I knew that the name “Anta” meant “goddess of war”. What kind of woman is this? I wondered.
I was mesmerized.
I stared at her, too long. A low “cough” from Minister Chalthoum reminded me that I had looked at his daughter long enough—well past the period of appropriateness for a man hired by her father to participate in State business. She noticed. I saw it in her eyes, and saw a slight upward curve of her sensuous lips; yet, she didn’t look away. In fact, I think she was using her amazing smile and long-lashed, mosquito-swatting eyes to flirt with me. She was clearly used to being gawked at. I shouldn’t have given her so much attention, but who am I kidding?
January 2, 2093—Dr. Anta Chalthoum
Wow! I thought. This guy is hot—for a professor! I’d probably have gotten both of us into serious trouble if he’d been my professor at University. Not too tall, maybe six feet or six foot one. Short hair, and some facial hair. So he’s probably not too stuffy. He’s pretty tan too. Maybe he is an “Indiana Jones”. Dad said he made that reference during their Holo so I looked him up. Nice!
Dr. Bader looks good for an old man. Alright, he’s not old; probably in his mid-thirties. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.
When dad told me that he was hiring an American professor to join me in this expedition, I was worried that I’d be stuck with some old, wrinkly, boring grandpa. This one might be boring—time will tell—but he’s certainly not old and wrinkly. Too bad he’s my colleague. Can I date a colleague?
January 2, 2093; Later—Shift
Following these brief and informal introductions, I was led, with Dr. Anta Chalthoum by my side, through the main concourse of the airport’s international wing. We traveled through a set of inconspicuous, metal, double doors, then climbed a plain circular, outdoor staircase. After reaching the top of the metal stairs, we walked out onto a quaint little roof-top terrace overlooking the dirty airport tarmac below.
The terrace looked like some kind of private sanctuary for people with special privileges—like pilots, wealthy business executives, government leaders, movie stars, and the mobsters I was with. I was invited to sit with the others, around a large, ornate, glass table, with imbedded digital maps, charts and pictures spinning around on the clear surface.
Dr. Chalthoum looked at me. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.” Really? She just met me and could tell I was pale? I was feeling a little dizzy looking at the spinning pictures on the table. I once rode the tea-cups at Disney World. Once.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just taking it all in.”
The air was cool, but not cold. There was a stiff breeze carrying the smell of jasmine, or maybe it was just french fries. I couldn’t tell. The sun was warm on my skin, making me wish I was here to relax and not to listen to the mafia. I don’t know what Apion’s weather is typically like in January—much different than Colorado I’m sure—but it felt very nice on that roof.
There were small trees and shrubs along the edges of the terrace and in various planter boxes placed strategically throughout the space. In summer months, they would have provided some valuable shade. It was nice, and quite unexpected at a place as common and boring as an airport.
Having settled into our rooftop conference room, Minister Chalthoum made formal introductions. Each member of the Mafioso was a professor at Cairo University, assigned to the Ministry of Health and Population under Minister Chalthoum. For the next two hours, Minister Chalthoum attempted to moderate this intimidating assemblage, as they bombarded me with what they had learned over the past few days. We looked in detail at maps, charts, data tables, research notes, and some gruesome pictures that, when considered collectively, detailed a “peculiar” set of circumstances indeed.
Two of the professors, Dr. Shehata and Dr. Biljon, took turns interrupting each other in an attempt to educate me on the latest news. I tried to focus, but between their accents and their c
onstant interruptions of each other, it was tough. Plus, I couldn’t stop peeking over at Dr. Chalthoum—the way the breeze pushed her blouse against her . . . anyway . . .
Ultimately, this is more or less the story I heard: a local tour guide in El-Alamein accidentally stumbled upon (but not literally) two dead human bodies in the dunes southwest of El-Alamein on December 25th while I was at home with my sister and her girls opening presents that Santa left under their tree. The pictures I was shown were apparently taken with an old cell phone camera during a real bad sandstorm. Either that or someone took a knife to the camera lens while bored.
The belief is that the tour guide took the pictures, but that hasn’t been verified yet. Minister Chalthoum contacted me within hours of his receipt of the photographs, which was just a few days after the pictures were taken. From the condition of the bodies, the ministry assumes the people contracted a disease of some kind. When asked how they came to that conclusion, all they could agree upon was that they couldn’t agree on anything; but that was the one conclusion they couldn’t rule out.
The photos were hazy with the blowing sand, but depicted two males, obviously-deceased. They appeared to be desiccated, but nearly-perfectly preserved on the exterior—although partially unclothed and slightly bruised and decayed. They were unlike anything I had ever seen. Through close-up photos of gaping cuts or bites in the torsos, we could see near-empty body cavities. Only bones remained. It looked like the two people had died as a result of being devoured from the inside, like someone stirred up and then scooped out their guts with a big spoon.