“Why don’t I?” Nevada repeated. She showed Candice the safety catch. “Safety’s here, right by your thumb. Keep the safety on at all times. Do not take the safety off until you’re literally about to shoot someone.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Magazine release is next to the trigger.” Nevada thumbed it, slid the magazine out, then popped it back in. “Still leaves one in the chamber, though, so it can still shoot. Shit like that is why you treat every gun like it’s loaded, all the time. I don’t want to see you goofing around with one of these things, acting like it’s a water pistol, okay?”
“Are we gonna talk about it?”
Nevada came up short, paused a moment, then barreled forward. “We can talk in the car. It’s gonna be a long drive.”
“Maybe I wanna talk now.”
“Right now you have to know how to shoot. Second rule: never aim at anything you don’t intend to shoot, and never shoot something you don’t want dead. Forget about the Lone Ranger shooting guns out of people’s hands, winging them, kneecapping them—that’s bullshit. Aim for the center mass. You can be off by a foot and still hit something they’ll miss having.”
“Have you ever thought about it?” Candice asked.
“Thought about what?”
“That they might be following us?” Candice wrapped her arms around herself. “Khamsin could’ve tracked us to that camp, which means they could follow us here—”
“We won’t be here much longer,” Nevada interrupted.
“That’s not the point , Thea.”
Nevada grabbed Candice’s right hand, wrenched it out of her self-embrace, and forced the Browning into it. “You wanna feel bad, feel bad on your own time. You need to know this stuff. I’m expecting you to watch my back.”
“That’s what it’s all about, right? Your back?”
Nevada forced Candice’s hand up. “Two sights. You have the front sight at the end of the barrel and the rear sights at the top of the grip. You line them up, nice and level, and wherever they’re pointed, the bullet’s going to go. Front sight right between the rear sights. Only all the sights are on top of the gun and the bullet comes out below them, so whatever you want to hit, aim at the top of it. Bullet’ll drop.”
Candice shoved the gun down. “Can you give me something here? Please?”
“What do you want to hear? That it’s not your fault? It’s not. Khamsin did it. And if they did it because we went there, then I took us there. So blame me. But you didn’t do anything. I dragged you along.”
“Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I let myself get dragged along and that’s bad enough.”
“Fine!” Nevada cried. “You’re a horrible person. Congratulations. We can eat at Chick-fil-A. But if they do come, it’ll be a lot more useful to know how to shoot them in the face than to tell them how bad you feel about everything.”
“You’re a wanker,” Candice said. Her throat felt huge, like she was choking back tears without knowing it.
“If you’re going to insult me, please use a real curse word and not one of your made-up Harry Potter words.”
Candice hiccupped a sob, then smiled despite herself. “You’re a bitch.”
“Thank you,” Nevada lifted the Browning again. “Focus on the front sight. Use the pad of your first knuckle to pull the trigger—not the tip, not the crease.” Candice wiggled her forefinger through the trigger guard, laying the pad of her finger against the trigger. “That’s good, but don’t touch the trigger unless you’re firing. Put your finger outside the trigger guard, right here along the slide.” Candice did. “Good. Keep it there. Line up your shot—first can on the left.”
Candice obligingly stood as she’d seen Nevada do, holding the gun out in front of her like it was a knife and she was warding off some home invader.
“Deep breath,” Nevada said. “Hold. Aim.”
Candice did. Her sights lined up three in a row, hovering over the can. The barrel projected out from her; it could’ve been a blade she was thrusting into someone’s chest.
“Good. Now what I want you to do is squeeze the trigger—pull it all the way back—then slowly release the pressure.” Candice opened her mouth to protest, but Nevada was quick to speak over her. “The gun won’t fire more than once no matter how long you hold the trigger down. It’s semi-automatic—it won’t fire again until you release the trigger and it resets. You’ll hear a click.”
Nevada put her fingers into her ears. Candice guessed that meant it was time for her to shoot.
She took a deep breath, holding it as she aimed, just as she had done before. This time she squeezed the trigger. There was a loud crack as the slide jumped back, the whole gun pushing against Candice’s grip—then the plastic bottle she was aiming at jolted in place, knocked nearly horizontal as the bullet punched through it and slapped into the sand behind. The sand burst upward where it’d been hit, a crude circle rippling a few inches out from the impact.
The sound echoed through the empty desert like rolling thunder.
Candice released the trigger as she’d been told, heard a click, and lowered the gun. Half of the bottle had been torn away. Sand seeped over the jagged edges, disconcertingly like blood as it trickled inside.
“Good,” Nevada said, taking her fingers out of her ears and flicking off a bit of wax. “But if you’re really defending yourself, you’ll want to fire two or three times. That’ll put anyone down.”
Candice nodded tersely. She felt a little better, somehow. Like the gunshot was a scream she couldn’t let out any other way. “I hope they are following us. I hope they catch up with us. Because if they do, they’re mine.”
“Oh no,” Nevada said, shaking her head. “We split ’em fifty-fifty.”
That night, Candice slept in the Land Cruiser. The bench seats looked like they could seat a dozen—more than enough room for her and Nevada. And it wasn’t like she could sleep in Usama’s tent. There was one bed, and he slept in it with his wife and three youngest children.
Nevada didn’t snore, but Candice still couldn’t sleep. The very serenity of her slumber pinged Candice all wrong. She thought of herself sleeping that peacefully and felt nauseous.
In the middle of the night, she pulled on her boots and outerwear, then stepped outside with her blanket wrapped around her as a shawl. The night was cold, but it felt hot—the sweat of the day turned rancid and slimy under her clothes. Walking away from the camp, Candice crouched behind a sand dune to use it as a windbreak. The temperature became reasonable. She could hear jackals yipping and laughing in the distance as they searched for prey—the wind making the tents breathe with its pressure—and the peculiar quiet of loneliness, resonating at a frequency as stripped and barren as the sands themselves. She felt like the only person on Earth… the only one who cared.
Uncapping her canteen, she poured out a small quantity of water onto a washcloth, then ran it under her clothes. It was probably doing little more for her filth than smearing it around, but the cool water felt good. Even the electric tingle of the wind over her wet flesh felt nice. Like something a living person would feel.
She heard Usama’s footfalls approaching from behind, the sand barely seeming to mind his weight. It didn’t crunch, but rather was softly smothered under his feet. He set a coat around her shoulders, its heavy down shielding her from the cold far better than the blanket, then sat down beside her.
“The desert is cold at night. The fool curses the wind, while the wise man finds a fire.”
Candice shrugged equitably. “No fire to be found.”
“I was not speaking literally,” Usama said gently. “That was more of an aphorism. In this case, I would be more referring to space heaters.”
“I was being a bit metaphorical myself.”
“Ah.” Usama nodded. “Perhaps I should improve my English before we speak with this much subtext.”
“I could be more direct.” Candice lay back, catching her head on top of her hands and staring up at the
stars. In England, with all the lights, they left people alone, but out in the desert, the stars crowded the sky and demanded to be seen. The night sky was a black diamond and it was sparkling everywhere. “I spent my entire adult life in Britain. Never saw anyone shot or stabbed or anything. Then I come out here and I am knee-deep in blood. And I can’t help but think—what if they’re right about us? What if we’re barbarians?”
“What if we are?” Usama looked at her, his glasses reflecting the moonlight to become a second and third moon. “What if all of us are responsible for this killing? What if you were, Candice Cushing, my kandake ? What would you do if somehow it were all your fault?”
“I… I don’t know.” The stars seemed sharp now, like spikes hanging overhead. She supposed that’s what they were—spikes of light from a billion miles away. “I suppose I’d try to make up for it. Help people.”
Usama turned onto his side, his arm under his head as he looked at her. The two moons of his eyes held no judgment, no expectation. They seemed to see only what she was. “And is that not what a good person would do anyway?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Usama scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle out into the wind. “Some of this sand could’ve come from a meteor, once as far away as the furthest light in our sky, and some of it could’ve been vomited from deep within the Earth. But now, all of it is only sand. And only a fool would try to sort sand into this row or that. Some people say that men should praise God so he won’t cast them out. I believe we should do it because it is good for men to praise God. Do not sort the sands, Candice. Just walk on it while you look at higher things.”
Reaching into his pocket, Usama brought out an amulet. Hanging from the leather cord was an elaborately detailed metal casing. “Before you came here, I went to see my sheik and told him of your troubles. He wrote a verse of the Qur’an on a piece of paper inside this. I gave hijbat just like it to your mother and father before they left. It will protect you.”
Candice accepted it when he handed it to her. “What verse?”
“Surah Al-Ma’idah, verse 100. ‘Not equal are the evil and the good, although the abundance of evil might impress you.’”
With the rising of the sun, a fine mist of sand was revealed, hanging over the desert like a veil. Every grain the wind could pick up glinted like a shard of crystal in the newfound sunlight. The sand soon darkened the sun itself, turning it from yellow to orange to red, like a bloodshot eye.
They breakfasted outside the tents. Usama built a fire and held a frying pan over it, pouring batter into the skillet. Before it could fully turn into a pancake, he added something like shredded beef jerky and a few pinches of insane-smelling spices. A baby camel, trying to nurse, accidentally grasped at the udder of a camel who hadn’t birthed it. The unaffiliated adult returned the favor, nipping at the baby and sending it racing around with a distressed bellow. Usama laughed as he watched.
“You know why camels live in the desert, of course?” he prompted. Candice and Nevada looked at him in confusion. He took a deep breath and said portentously, “On the day of Creation, the camel looked into a lake and saw itself in the water. And it was so embarrassed to be that ugly, it went and hid itself in the desert!” He laughed again, so joyously that Candice joined in and even Nevada smirked.
Candice burned her mouth on her pancake. The next time her tongue made a sweep, she felt a bump rising on the roof of her mouth and knew she wouldn’t be able to stop tonguing the bloody thing until it finally went away.
“Hey, Gramps,” Nevada said. “Ever heard of someone called Tendai?”
Usama stopped laughing, stopped smiling, stopped making any expression whatsoever. He took a handkerchief out of his vest and extravagantly used it to mop up his lips and hands before finally wiping the sweat from his brow, then returned it to his pocket.
“There are ill omens which should not come before a long journey. Speaking of things such as this—there are few omens so black.”
“Grandpa, please,” Candice said. “It’s important.”
“Very well.” Reaching into the sand, Usama started pouring handfuls of it onto the fire to douse it. “Many years ago, there was man named Stephen Obanna. A colonel who attempted to seize control of the government but did not succeed. Fleeing their judgment, he revived an old evil—the Zuni tribe.” Usama focused his gaze on Candice as the fire finally went out, leaving only smoke between them. “You have heard of them?”
“Stories from my parents,” Candice nodded. “On Halloween. Or… when I wouldn’t behave…”
“They didn’t tell you the half of it, I assure you. Even now, it is not something to be spoken of when one has care for another’s ears.”
“Okay, am I missing something?” Nevada asked. “What’s so bad about the Zuni?”
“They were voracious slave traders, long before the white man showed up,” Candice explained. “They would wage war endlessly on other tribes, taking in new members with ritual mutilation of the lips and ears. Then you add in religious indoctrination and drug addiction—anyone they captured would be turned into shock troops to continue their war.”
“They flourished under the colonial powers,” Usama continued, “supplying an endless influx of slave labor to the Europeans. But eventually they grew too demented even for those cruel overlords. The tribe was put down and disbanded, scattered to the four winds—until Obanna revived them. And the old ways.”
Usama ran a hand across his forehead. He’d started sweating again.
“Okay, an African warlord with his own personal death cult,” Nevada prompted. “So far, so horrible. Where’s Tendai come in?”
“I will come to that,” Usama assured her. He didn’t seem to relish the prospect. “With his Zuni legions in tow, Obanna traveled from country to country, claiming to fight for God, for country, for freedom. But in his chaos, all that could be seen was… hate. Then the woman you spoke of came in. No one knows where she came from, but she beguiled Obanna, seduced him. It was like they fed on each other, two horrible parasites draining what little good remained out of one another. She convinced Obanna that he was a living god and became in turn his high priestess. They say she knew dark magic—old, forbidden rites that made her followers invincible in battle. It seemed the Zuni would sweep over all of Africa like a dark tide, but then the man Obanna was killed. Some say the Americans did it with a drone strike, others that Tendai killed him—some even say that God Himself could not stand his wickedness another moment and struck him dead. The Lady Tendai disappeared, with all her followers, and has not been heard from since. And you will not find anyone, not even the most foolish of men, who is not grateful to let that name be forgotten.” Usama dusted his hands of sand. “I also understand that there is an American actress of the same name who gave a very bad performance in the last Spider-Man movie.”
“Yes!” Nevada cried. “Thank you!”
“It seems to me she treats the Spider-Man very badly. I’m not at all sure why he would be into her.”
“ Preach! ” Nevada cheered.
Candice got up and stretched the kinks out of her back. “Are you done? Can we go now, or would you rather complain about… I don’t know, Daredevil?”
“What’s to complain about?” Nevada asked innocently.
Candice held out her hand. “I’ll start the air conditioning.”
Nevada tossed her the keys. “Don’t mess with the radio, I’ve got the presets just the way I like ’em.”
Candice rolled her eyes and moved out.
When Nevada went to follow her, she found an umbrella blocking her path. Usama was holding it in her way.
“That new?” Nevada asked. “Way to accessorize.”
Usama set it down. “I will enjoy going on this journey simply to spend time with my granddaughter. But there still remains the matter of your price to be paid.”
“Look, I’m flattered, but you’re not my type. I don’t go in for May-leap yea
r relationships.”
Usama canted his head. “I have heard you speak of Khamsin. You believe they pursue you?”
Nevada rolled her shoulders. “That’s one theory.”
“I have heard of their treatment of women. It is a shameful thing. I… cannot imagine my granddaughter going through that.” Usama picked the umbrella up again and staked it in the ground. “You must promise me that if it comes to it—if there is no hope—you will not allow Candice to suffer that fate.”
“Yeah, of course,” Nevada said blithely. She held her jacket away from her holstered pistol. “Why do you think I carry this bad boy?”
“Anyone can kill an enemy. I mean for you to prevent suffering. If the moment comes when they have her—do not let them take her.”
Nevada kept a grin on her face, but it was distinctly humorless. “You seem like the hands-on type. Why not do it yourself?”
“I care for her too much. She’s my blood. Astaghfirullah . But to you, she’s just another life. And life is cheap for you, isn’t it?”
After a moment, Nevada nodded. “Yeah. Strictly dollar store.”
Nevada felt an almost sexual charge as she started the Land Cruiser’s ignition and moved them out. Ever since Candice had relayed that news report, she’d felt the walls closing in, but back in the driver’s seat, she felt independent again, unfettered again. It was an American thing, she decided, being behind the wheel of a car. You could be on the highway to hell, but at least you had your foot on the gas. And she was so close—to Candice, to the treasure. So close and so far away.
But it wasn’t a quick drive, even without traffic. The dunes loomed up as high as hills, and as Usama cautioned, they could only be summited carefully. A shifting patch of sand could bog down the tires or slip out from under them entirely, sending the Cruiser into a deadly roll. But going slow and steady wasn’t an option either—it took real speed for them to make their way up a steep dune.
Candice Cushing and the Lost Tomb of Cleopatra Page 12