Stupefying Stories: August 2016

by Sarah Read

  The thing that rose from amidst the corpses was an abomination—hunched and twisted. A spray of tangled black hair framed its cruel features. Its mouth was a red slash between protruding jaws meant for gulping and tearing. Sunken yellow eyes glared from beneath heavy brows, glittering with hunger and hate.

  Words forced themselves from the thing’s mouth, a guttural miasma of butchered sound that hung in the air like mustard gas. It took a moment for Oppenheimer to recognize the rasping speech as a corrupted form of Arabic.

  “Adil, ADIL!” Oppenheimer’s hiss propelled the wiry Egyptian translator to his feet. “What did it say?”

  Adil clutched his hands to his chest in a supplicant’s pose, warding off his fear with whispered prayer. “The ghul wish to know why you reveal it.”

  Oppenheimer took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke tingled and burned, curling through his lungs, calming him. “Tell it I require the location of Suleiman’s Vault.”

  Adil translated the scientist’s words into Arabic. The ghul snarled something, cracked lips peeling back from a double-row of jagged fangs.

  “It say it will feast upon our flesh,” Adil moaned.

  “It is the one who should fear death.” Oppenheimer drew forth a curved, silver knife. He brandished it at the beast with more confidence than he felt. “You recognize this, don’t you? How many of your kind did Arnouphis slay with this blade?”

  The ghul fell to its knees, prostrating itself in hideous caricature of worship. It scrabbled at the bloody ground and moaned acquiescence in a voice like shattered glass.

  Oppenheimer spoke a few arcane words, keeping the dagger between him and the beast. Freed from the mystical bonds the ghul folded in on itself, body shriveling and twisting until it was a jackal once more. It spun and trotted off into the night. Oppenheimer sprinted back to the jeep, clothes flapping in the breeze. He shouted for Adil, but the wiry Egyptian’s answering prayers were not addressed to any human agency. When he called again, Adil made a warding gesture in Oppenheimer’s direction and backed away with hands raised. Oppenheimer drove off into the night, headlights jittering as the jeep’s tires bounced over scattered bodies.

  He followed the ghul until the hardpan gave way to packed sand. The sun rose bloody, its angry glow staining the desert sky a dull red even as it boiled away the evening chill. Finally, the creature stopped and lifted its paw to indicate a rocky outcrop some hundred meters distant. The sand was too thick for the jeep, so they continued on foot.

  As he picked through the rocks, it became apparent the outcrop was no natural phenomenon. Giant sandstone blocks, cracked and scoured by the desert wind, lay in a half-buried jumble. The architecture was a riot of styles—shattered towers dotted the outer ruins, the familiar onion domes of Ottoman architecture giving way to toppled Almoravid minarets and Sassanid arches. The ghul lead him through a gallery of worn columns that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Valley of Kings, and down a flight of stairs into a plaza built in a style the American did not recognize.

  It was there he found the door.

  The heavy stone slab bore carvings in a hundred languages, a riot of Arabic, Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, interspersed with Egyptian pictographs, Sanskrit, Cuneiform, and even older tongues, all repeating the same warning. They warned away those lusting for power, for fortune, for fame, but Oppenheimer ignored them. He did this not for himself, but for the world. Deed before creed.

  Manley, Serber, Rabi—they’d laughed at him when he left the Manhattan Project, fools still hoping to wring victory from the atom. Oppenheimer saw that it wasn’t possible, that their research would never yield the weapon they wanted. He had turned to other avenues while they continued their fruitless inquiry.

  Now they would see he’d been right all along.

  The ghul cocked its head at the American scholar as he laid his hands upon the stone. He didn’t need to reference the book for this incantation—it had been burned into his memory over a thousand sleepless nights. It, and the promise it brought, had carried him through all the ridicule, the questions, the challenges.

  The words came as they had back in Berkeley, back in Chicago. They came as a prayer, recited so often they had lost all meaning. Oppenheimer would not have even known he was speaking, save for the dull rumble of the door.

  With a boom like thunder the stone shattered, filling the air with the dust of ages. The ghul gave a startled shriek and fled back into the ruins. Oppenheimer let it go. With a deep breath, he stepped into the chamber beyond.

  The room was dark and cold, daylight seeming to recoil from its shadowed recesses. It was smaller than he expected, perhaps twenty meters square, carved straight from the bedrock. Oppenheimer wrinkled his nose. The weight of years had soured and thickened the air, and it slipped across his skin with a touch that was almost oily.

  A puddle of congealed darkness crept along the far wall, a shadow with no maker. It looked upon Oppenheimer with eyes of smokeless flame, eyes that had seen nothing but night for millennia. It had many names: Ifrit, Jinn, Shaitan, Gallu, Genie. It was the last of its kind, and it was going to win this war for the Allies.

  “You have shattered the vault. Speak, man, and ask of me your services so I may be free of this world.” Its words were creeping dread, conjured from blackness and spoken with the voices of the dead.

  “The book promised three wishes.”

  “Services.” The ifrit glided forward, coal black skin glistening in the half-light, its every move singing of fear and death. “I am not omnipotent, nor am I your slave. I cannot create, but I can destroy. I can lay the works of man to ruin and write your name in fire so bright that future generations will scream it in their sleep.”

  Oppenheimer drew back as unconscious dread prickled his skin. This was the test, what the door had warned of—the temptation to use the creature for personal gain. Oppenheimer lit another cigarette and drew the stinging smoke deep into his chest. This was the test, and he would pass it.

  “Ifrit, you will come back to America with me to be presented to the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They will determine how you are to be employed in the service of the American people.”

  “So be it.” The ifrit gave a crocodile smile. “I will accompany you to your home, but know this, o’ man, it was you who freed me. It is you alone to whom I am beholden, and it is to you alone I will speak.”

  Oppenheimer swallowed his trepidation. He was doing the right thing.

  The ifrit closed its eyes, its form wavering like a desert mirage before fading from view. Only its voice remained, whispering in Oppenheimer’s thoughts.

  “I await your command.”

  August 23rd, 1944

  “Doctor Oppenheimer, genies don’t exist.” Senator Blackburn blotted at his expansive forehead with a light green handkerchief. Oppenheimer stood, wincing at the pain in his knees. Summer humidity and the stress of the last year had combined to conjure an terrible ache in his joints.

  “As I said before gentleman, they do exist—well, they did exist. Most left the world once their services were complete, but one remained, sealed away for all time.”

  “And you found it?” Blackburn sighed, they’d been over this before.

  “Yes.”

  “And brought it here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why can’t we see it?”

  “Janni appear only to those to whom they are bound. They are invisible. All of the literature supports this. The word jinn itself is derived from the Arabic root verb ‘j-n-n’ meaning to hide or conceal. Even the Qur’an states—”

  “Doctor Oppenheimer, this committee isn’t interested in etymology or theology. We deal in facts, solid, quantifiable facts, and you have yet to show us any.” Doctor John Manley’s exasperated voice crackled through the room’s tinny speakers. A physicist like Oppenheimer, Manley advised the project committee in matters of weapon research.

  “Say the word, and I will scour the disbelief from these fools.” The jinn
’s voice was thick with cruel promise, oozing like partially-clotted blood through Oppenheimer’s thoughts.

  “I’ve told you before, the ifrit won’t manifest unless I command it to.” Oppenheimer took a nervous sip of water. It was tepid and tasted of ash, as had everything since he’d freed the jinn. “I won’t waste a command that could potentially spare millions of lives just to satisfy this committee’s curiosity.”

  “Spoken like a true liberal.” General Dawson leaned into his microphone as he spoke, his accusations booming like artillery salvoes. Dawson was the third voice of opposition on the committee, but where Blackburn questioned his story, and Manley questioned his arguments, the General questioned Oppenheimer himself. “There is still the matter of your Communist sympathies, Doctor.”

  “Russia is our ally, and what’s more, I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist Party.” Oppenheimer’s rebuttal sounded weak after Dawson’s loud allegations. Damn, he needed a cigarette.

  “An ally of convenience. Don’t think for a moment we’ve forgotten the Dreikaiserbund or the Great Purge. Do you deny that you solicited funds for the Republican cause during Spanish civil war?”

  “I did it to oppose fascism, not support communism.”

  Dawson snorted, eyes hard and dark in his heavily-lined face. “Do you deny that your close friends and family are all active members of the Communist Party? Your wife Katherine, your brother Frank, your students at Berkeley, even your cleaning lady.” With each name, Dawson drew a manila folder from his briefcase and slapped it down on the table.

  “Do you deny that before you left the Manhattan project you described yourself as, and I quote: ‘A member of every communist front organization on the West Coast?’”

  Oppenheimer’s knees felt weak, his breath came in whistling gasps. Knowing what was coming, he held up a hand to forestall Dawson, but the General didn’t relent.

  “Do you deny that before her suicide, your former mistress Jean Tatlock was a writer for Western Worker, a known communist publication?”

  Oppenheimer collapsed into his chair, hands patting the front of his suit in search of the crumpled pack in his breast pocket. The committee watched without expression as Oppenheimer lit a cigarette with the quiet desperation of a man going to the gallows.

  Jean. Her face swam up through his thoughts. She was crying, mascara bleeding from her eyes, her lips red and puffy. When she spoke, it was with the voice of the jinn. “On the night I killed myself I tried to call you. You were sitting in front of this committee. They stopped you then, and they’re stopping you now. Why do you let them?”

  “I should have been there.”

  “Answer the questions Doctor, do you deny—”

  “That’s enough, John. Doctor Oppenheimer isn’t on trial here.” Brigadier-General Leslie Groves stood to address the committee. The support was unexpected. Oppenheimer and Groves had worked together briefly on the Manhattan project, but they’d never been friends. “Whatever his sympathies may be, he’s a valuable asset to this country.”

  “He’s a danger to this country,” Dawson said.

  Senator Blackburn scribbled a few notes on his legal pad. “Enough. General Groves is correct, we are here to determine the validity of Doctor Oppenheimer’s claims, not plumb the minutiae of his personal life. Doctor, you have come before this committee six times in the last year claiming that you have a super weapon. However, you cannot show it to us, and you refuse to demonstrate its capabilities.”

  “With all due respect Senator, a single demonstration may mean the difference between victory and defeat. I can only use it three times. I’ve presented the committee with theological, historical, and even geological evidence. Surely it is enough to at least warrant preliminary deployment.”

  “I don’t care how valuable Groves thinks you are. I’m not going to waste men’s lives pandering to your delusion!” Dawson said.

  “General Dawson is right, Robert.” Doctor Manley ran his fingers through sweat-slicked blonde hair. “You have to understand how implausible this all sounds.”

  Senator Blackburn nodded. “I’ve heard enough. Doctor Oppenheimer, you have failed to present sufficient evidence to satisfy this committee. I’m afraid we’re going to have to rule against providing you access to the United States military.”

  “Senator, if you would just—”

  “This matter is closed. Meeting adjourned.” Blackburn’s gavel fell like a headsman’s axe.

  It was over. Two years of testimony, answering questions about his past, his political beliefs, his sanity. Oppenheimer had freed the jinn to save lives, to make a difference, but the war ground on while he struggled in a web of bureaucratic red-tape. All for nothing.

  Oppenheimer’s heart hammered in his ears. His tie was too tight. Sweat prickled along his back and arms, but he was so cold. Faces swirled around him as he slumped to the ground, a swirling kaleidoscope of muted sound and color. Someone slapped him, but he barely felt it. Oppenheimer’s vision narrowed to a pinprick of light, one tiny star adrift in an ocean of night. It winked out, and he was alone. No, not alone, something was in here with him. It didn’t speak, didn’t move, but he knew it was there, waiting.

  April 2nd, 1945

  The hospital room was bright and cold. Buzzing artificial light illuminated the smoke stained walls. The air was thick with the stench of antiseptic, a stagnant cloud of faux-sterility that barely masked undertones of corruption and excrement.

  “You have to understand, Robert. The boys in Washington have a hard time believing you can do what you say.” Brigadier-General Leslie Groves rocked forward in his chair, tanned hands steepled in front of his face.

  Oppenheimer grimaced at the General’s comment. No matter how much he pleaded, the ifrit wouldn’t reveal itself. It still spoke to him, though, mostly taunts and lies. When he responded it appeared to others as if Oppenheimer was talking to thin air.

  He couldn’t blame them for thinking him mad.

  Groves sighed. “Manley and Serber are getting promising results from their experiments with heavy water. They could use a physicist of your caliber.”

  Oppenheimer squeezed his eyes shut. So this was the reason Groves had come to visit him. Not to hear his arguments but to try and convince him to rejoin a doomed project. Germany was on the brink of surrender, but the Japanese hung on, every tiny Pacific island watered with the blood of brave young men and women. It wasn’t too late, not yet. He must do something. He had to take the ifrit’s power into his own hands. They’d given him no other choice.

  Oppenheimer rose up on his elbows, metal bed creaking as he moved. “Set up a test site for me, somewhere far away from people. I’ll need bunkers and observation gear.”

  The General scratched his moustache. “I’ve been given wide discretion with regards to research and development. If you would consent to come back to the Manhattan project, I’d be able to—”

  “You’re going to need a proving ground at some point in the future anyway. I promise it will be worth the time and expense. If it isn’t, I’ll rejoin the project without complaint.”

  That got Groves’ attention. “Let me make some calls.”

  May 7th, 1945

  Dry wind blew across the New Mexico hardpan, the warm sirocco whispering promises of another stifling summer to come. Oppenheimer inhaled. He’d always loved the desert. Dry leaves and sticks crackled in his lungs as the indrawn breath dissolved into wracking coughs.

  Groves slapped him on the back, the General’s heavy, well-meaning hand jarring Oppenheimer forward. He braced himself on the lip of the bunker window and scanned the crowd. Manley, Serber, Rabi, and a dozen other scientists mingled with an equal number of military and political observers, all come to see if the mad physicist could actually back up his claims.

  The ifrit was there too—it was always there, watching, waiting. “They have come to witness your power.”

  “Not mine, not mine.” Oppenheimer whispered under his breath.
The ifrit was baiting him, trying to provoke an angry retort that would further cement his reputation as a madman. Two years with the creature had made him wise to most of the jinn’s tricks. Most of them.

  “What was that?” General Groves leaned in, the air around him heavy with the smell of boot polish and Old Spice.

  “Nothing. I’m ready.” Oppenheimer turned back to the view, hiding his pained expression. Groves nodded to one of his aides, who announced that everyone should don their blast goggles.

  Oppenheimer ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Jinn, I have your first task.” He pointed to the distant marker. “Give these doubters a taste of destruction. Show them, now.”

  Oppenheimer held his breath, unsure as to what would happen. All were silent as the seconds ticked by. A cough came from the back of the bunker. Oppenheimer flushed. What if the ifrit really was just a figment of his imagination?

  The radiance of a thousand suns lit the horizon, so bright that even with the goggles Oppenheimer had to shield his eyes. A silent maelstrom of fire and light scoured the ground, leaving nothing but smoking glass in its wake. The sound followed seconds behind the explosion, a terrible boom that rattled bone within flesh and set teeth chattering.

  There was another noise as well, a staccato rumbling, barely audible amidst the thunderous roar. The tone was familiar, but Oppenheimer couldn’t place it. Blood filled his mouth, and he realized he had bitten his cheek. The dark cloud grew, reaching towards the sky, a gallows tree spreading branches of ash and smoke.