by Paul Sussman
‘What is happening?’ shouted Girgis.
Meadows ignored him. Striding over to the glass chamber, he ordered Usman out. The Egyptian didn’t move, just stood there staring down at the stone, transfixed, a confused, vacant sort of look on his face. Meadows repeated his command, twice, each time with increasing urgency. Then, with a helpless flap of the arms he motioned to one of his colleagues, who hit a button. The airlock hissed, closing and sealing, leaving Usman locked inside.
‘I’m sorry to have to do that, Ms Kiernan,’ Meadows began, ‘but I can’t risk—’
‘Fuck him,’ interrupted Girgis. ‘What about us? Are we in danger? Is it safe?’
Meadows stared at him, shocked by the Egyptian’s lack of concern, then slapped his palm against the front of the protective box.
‘This is three-inch-thick, multi-walled carbon-nanotube-reinforced leaded glass. Which is to say there’s nothing getting out of here that we don’t want to get out. So to answer your question, yes, we’re perfectly safe. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for your colleague.’
Usman had started to sway back and forth, one hand clasping the rock for support. He was mumbling to himself, eyes glazed as though he had fallen into a stupor, apparently only half aware of what was going on.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with him?’ asked the thickset man. ‘Is he drunk?’
No one answered. Usman continued to sway, his free hand coming up and pawing at the zip of his radiation suit, trying to get it undone.
‘Ana harran.’ His voice echoed through the intercom. It sounded woozy and disorientated. ‘Ana eyean.’
‘He says he’s hot,’ Flin murmured, translating for Freya. ‘He doesn’t feel well.’
‘What’s happening to him?’ she asked, horrified and fascinated at the same time.
Flin shook his head, unable to answer. Usman lurched, regained his balance, got a hold of the zip and started to strip off the suit, fumbling it down over his body and off, revealing blue trousers and a white shirt beneath.
‘Ana harran,’ he slurred. ‘Ana eyean.’
He tugged the shirt off as well, and the trousers, leaving him standing there in just his underpants, socks and shoes. It would have been comical were it not for the fact that he was clearly now in serious distress, his chest heaving as if he was struggling for breath, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
‘Ha-ee-yeebetowgar,’ he moaned, pawing at his thighs and belly. ‘Ha-ee-yee betowgar.’
‘It’s really hurting,’ translated Flin.
‘Oh God,’ whispered Freya. ‘I can’t watch this.’
But she continued to do so, as did everyone else in the room, morbidly hypnotized by the scene that was playing itself out within the glass quarantine chamber. The printer chattered ever more furiously, the blipping and bleeping grew more clamorous as whatever forces were gathering did so at an accelerating pace. Despite Meadows’s assurance that everything was safe, Girgis and the other Egyptians moved back from the chamber. Unlike Kiernan, who had gone right up to it, pressing one hand against the glass while with the other she fondled the cross at her neck, eyes glinting with excitement.
‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Come on, baby, show us what you can do. Stone of Fire, Voice of Sekhmet. Come on, come on.’
Usman was now stumbling around, moaning in pain, rubbing his eyes, tugging at his ears.
‘Ana haragar,’ he groaned. ‘Ana larzim arooh let-tawarlet.’
‘Christ,’ murmured Flin underneath his breath. ‘He says he’s going to be sick, needs to …’
Usman doubled up and dropped to his knees, right in front of Kiernan. A trickle of watery vomit spilled from his mouth, his white underpants turned a pale shade of brown.
‘He’s shat himself!’ laughed the thickset man. ‘Look at that! The dirty idiot’s shat himself!’
‘Iner-wer iner-en Ra iner-n sedjet iner sweser-en kheru-en sekhmet … ’ intoned Usman groggily, heaving himself to his feet again and just standing there, his face and belly pressed up against the inside of the glass, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Thirty seconds passed, the electronic feedback dampening slightly as though whatever process was causing it was starting to dwindle and calm. Then, suddenly, shockingly, two things happened in swift succession. A deep, sonorous pulse rang out. Seeming to come from within the stone itself, it reverberated like a magnified heartbeat, causing the entire building to tremble even though the sound itself was not particularly loud. At almost exactly the same instant there was a blinding burst of light – also from within the stone – like a flashbulb going off although far brighter and more intense. It lasted only a fraction of a second and the amber tinting of the glass protected them from the worst of the glare. Even so, they were all momentarily blinded. Arms came up and covered eyes, the printer and monitors fell silent, the computer screens and lamps cut out, plunging the room into darkness. There were shouts, movement, Girgis’s voice demanding to know what was going on. Then, as abruptly as they had shut off, the electrics came back on line. The monitors and computers rebooted, the halogen lamps flickered back into life. There was a pause as everyone blinked and adjusted, then screams and the sound of retching.
‘Oh my God,’ choked Freya, clasping a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God help him.’
In front of them Usman was standing in exactly the same position as he had been before the flash of light, still pressed up against the inside of the glass, still in his underpants, socks and shoes. The one difference was that his skin had gone. His body – limbs and face and torso – was now a glistening, slippery patchwork of tendons, muscles, bones and fatty tissue. Horrifyingly, he still appeared to be alive, for a bubbling growl welled up from his throat, his lidless eyes swivelling back and forth behind his spectacles as he tried to work out what was going on. He mumbled something and tried to take a step back, but the front of his body from the waist up – belly, chest, right cheek – seemed to have fused to the glass. He tried again, his eyeballs rolling furiously, his ribs heaving up and down as he fought to draw breath. Then, lifting his raw arms – how he found the strength Freya couldn’t begin to guess – he placed his hands flat against the front of the chamber, gritted his lip-less teeth and pushed, forcing himself away from the glass. There was a moist tearing sound and he tottered backwards, thick shreds of flesh remaining glued to the chamber wall. For a brief, sickening moment they glimpsed his jawbone, colon and what might have been part of his liver. Then there was another throbbing pulse, another burst of light and everything went black again.
‘We’re out of here,’ said Flin, grabbing Freya’s arm and propelling her through the first of the curtains hanging across the chamber entrance. As he did so Kiernan’s voice rang out from the darkness behind.
‘Do you see what it can do! Oh my Holy Lord, it’s a miracle! A beautiful miracle! Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God! Thank you, Lord, thank you!’
As soon as they emerged into the courtyard, the shadows now lengthening as the sun dropped west, they started to sprint. Freya was fighting back an irresistible urge to vomit. She no longer cared what happened to Girgis and the others or about avenging her sister’s murder. She just wanted to get out.
They didn’t take the direct route back through the temple. Instead they left the yard by a side gate and zigzagged their way through a labyrinth of passages and galleries and colonnades in an effort to bypass the flak-jacketed guards at the front of the building. Eventually, more by luck than design, they emerged into the second of the giant courts through which they had passed earlier, the one crowded with an array of different-sized obelisks. They paused to catch their breath, listening, making sure they weren’t being followed and then ran on. They had just passed through the pylon at the head of the court into the first and outermost quadrangle when the curious pulsing sound again reverberated behind them, exactly the same volume as it had been back in the chamber. The entire temple complex seemed to shudder.
‘We’ve got to get out of the oasis!’
cried Flin, waving her on across the court, stumbling on the uneven, moss-covered paving. ‘Whatever they’ve started, this is just the beginning of it. We have to get out!’
‘What’s going to happen?’ Freya shouted, powering along beside him.
‘I don’t know, but on the basis of what we’ve just seen it’s not going to be pretty. And that’s before you even start factoring in all the curses that are supposed to have been laid on the oasis.’
Thirty minutes ago Freya would have dismissed this last comment with a snort of derision. After the events in the chamber, she took them very much at face value.
‘Come on!’ he cried. ‘We’ve got to move!’
They reached the first pylon, the one at the very front of the temple complex, and started through, its trapezoid towers rearing above them, a sea of tree-tops spreading away into the distance ahead.
‘What if there are more of those men?’ she called, remembering the shadowy figures she’d seen lurking in the undergrowth as they made their way up the valley earlier. ‘The guys with the sunglasses.’
‘We’ll deal with that when it happens. Let’s just get down—’
There was a blur of movement and a squat, brawny figure stepped out from a niche in the pylon wall and slammed a ring-covered fist hard into the Englishman’s face, splitting his lip and knocking him to the floor. An identical figure emerged from a niche in the opposite wall, tripped Freya and sent her sprawling down beside Flin, her forehead cracking on the paving, her palms grazing on the bare stone.
‘Hello, Eengleesh,’ said a gruff voice. ‘You go home?’
‘You go grave,’ came another, eerily similar voice.
Laughter, and then the feel of rough hands hoisting them to their feet.
The moment the lights had come back on in the chamber and Freya and Flin’s absence had been noted, Girgis had sent the twins after them, which was a shame because after two days pissing around doing bugger all things had finally started to get interesting, what with Usman getting barbecued like that. Funniest thing they’d ever seen, fucking hilarious. But Girgis was the boss – for the moment at least – and so off they’d gone, heading straight back through the temple so that they’d reached the front of the complex ahead of the two westerners. Taking up position inside the entrance gateway, they’d pounced the moment their quarry had appeared, giving that poncey Englishman a bloody good thumping, which he’d had coming for a while now.
They hauled the pair of them to their feet, the Englishman wiping blood off his chin and jabbering at them, first in what they assumed was his native language, then in Arabic, some shit about inscriptions and curses. They gave him another couple of punches and dragged him and the girl back into the first of the giant courtyards where they made them kneel side by side while they discussed how best to get rid of them. Bullet through the head? Slit their throats? Stamp them to death? This being their last job before retirement they wanted to make sure they got it right. Went out on a high.
‘I vote we put them in with Usman,’ said the one with the torn earlobe.
‘I don’t think they’d let us,’ replied his sibling, clearly disappointed by the fact. ‘In case, you know, stuff got out. Nice idea though.’
There was a booming thud as another of those weird pulsing sounds echoed around the temple, the ground quivering underneath their feet. Barodi, or whatever the hell his name was, waved his hands frantically, banging on about curses again, forces that couldn’t be controlled. They kicked him in the balls – try that for a force! – and he slumped down, gasping. The girl screamed and threw a punch at them, so they gave her a good slap as well. Silly pig. Ugly pig. Thin. Way too thin.
They backed off a couple of steps and resumed their discussion while in front of them the Englishman slowly hauled himself back onto his knees.
‘You have to believe me,’ he pleaded, helping the girl up as well, checking she was OK. ‘This is just the start. We have to get out of the oasis. You can do whatever you want once we’re out of here, but if we stay we’re dead. You understand what I’m saying? We’re dead. All of us. You too.’
They tried to ignore him, but he kept on at them and in the end they concluded a bullet through the head would be the best thing after all, if only because it would be the quickest way of shutting the prick up. Decision made, they took another couple of paces back and pulled out their Glocks. The Englishman wrapped an arm around the girl and drew her protectively against him while continuing to rant.
‘You want to take him or the girl?’ asked the twin with the flattened nose.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with you!’
‘Easy either way,’ replied his brother.
‘This whole place is going to blow and you’re discussing who’s going to shoot who!’
‘I’ll take him, then,’ said the first twin.
‘Fine by me,’ replied his sibling.
‘At least let her go!’
‘Count of three,’ they said in unison, lifting their guns. ‘One … Two …’
‘You ignorant fucking shitbags!’ he spat. ‘So much for Red Devils always looking out for each other!’
‘Three.’
No shots. The twins stood there, arms still extended, guns pointing, a faintly quizzical expression on their faces.
‘You support El-Ahly?’ they both asked simultaneously.
‘What?’
Barodi looked ashen-faced, confused, his arm still wrapped around the girl.
‘You said Red Devils always look out for each other,’ said one.
‘Why would you say that unless you supported El-Ahly?’ put in the other.
‘Are you an Ahlawy?’ they chorused.
He couldn’t seem to work out if they were toying with him or not, playing some sort of sick joke. Beside him the girl was trembling, her eyes darting back and forth in shocked bemusement.
‘Are you an Ahlawy?’ they repeated.
‘I’m a season ticket holder,’ he mumbled.
The twins frowned. This was unexpected. And troubling. They lowered their weapons slightly.
‘Where do you sit?’
‘What?’
‘In the stadium. Where do you sit?’
‘You’re about to kill me and you want to know where I sit to watch football!’
The guns came up again.
‘West stand, lower tier. Just above the touchline.’
The twins exchanged a look. A season ticket holder. And in the west stand. Just above the touchline. Impressive. Although he could be bluffing.
‘How many League titles have we won?’
The Englishman rolled his eyes in disbelief.
‘Is this some sort of fucking—’
‘How many?’
‘Thirty-three.’
‘Egyptian Cups?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘African Champions Leagues?’
He counted on his fingers, the girl kneeling there beside him, wide-eyed and bewildered.
‘Four,’ he said. ‘No, five!’
The twins exchanged another glance – the guy certainly knew his stuff. There was a pause, then, just to be sure:
‘Who scored the winning goal in the 2007 Cup Final?’
‘For God’s sake! Osama Hosay, from an Ahmad Sedik cross. I was there. Mohamed Abu Treika gave me a complimentary ticket after I took his sons round the Egyptian Museum.’
That sealed it. Orders or no orders, foreigners or not, there was no way they were going to take out a fellow Red Devil. Especially not one who’d done a favour for Mohamed Abu Treika. They lowered their guns and slipped them back inside their jackets, motioning the westerners to their feet, muttering a grudging sorry, didn’t know you were Devils, no hard feelings, maybe catch you at a game some time. They all faced each other in embarrassed silence, then, as yet another of the deep pulsing sounds echoed around the temple complex, Barodi started pulling the girl backwards before the pair of them turned and broke into a run. As they reached the gateway at the fr
ont of the temple the Englishman slowed and shouted over his shoulder.
‘Entoo aarfeen en Girgis Zamalekawy. You know Girgis supports Zamalek, don’t you?’
And then they were gone, out through the gateway and into the oasis beyond.
‘Did he say Girgis supported Zamalek?’ asked one of the twins, horrified.
‘That’s exactly what he said,’ replied his brother, equally shocked.
‘We’ve been working for a White Knight?’
‘A Zamalekawy?’
They looked at each other, uncomprehending. Apart from their turd of a father there was nothing in the world they despised more than a Zamalek supporter – scum, all of them, lowlife scum. And now they’d been told they were working for one. Had been for the last decade.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Girgis?’
‘We’ll deal with him back in Cairo. Teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.’
‘Wanker!’
‘Wanker!’
They scowled and were about to set off towards the main gateway when the brother with the torn ear suddenly reached out and grabbed his brother’s arm.
‘We could take a bit of that gold with us,’ he said. ‘You know, from the big pillar thing.’
He pulled a flick-knife from his pocket, clicked it open, made a sawing motion.
‘Strip it off, sell it in Khan el-Khalili.’
‘It might be an idea,’ agreed the other.
‘Buy something nice for Mama.’
‘Open another torly stand.’
‘Make the whole thing worth it.’
They hesitated, the courtyard trembling as yet another booming pulse filled the air. Then, with a nod, they turned and started trotting back through the temple complex, discussing gold, and torly, and how they’d like to squeeze every Zamalek supporter in the world into that glass tank, flick a switch and watch them fry.