Collision

by Peter Cawdron

  Beneath the false floor of the cruiser, Dad’s stowed several firearms—a hunting rifle, a shotgun, and a handgun, all illegal in China, but out here in the west no one cares.

  The Neanderthal lays the body gently in the back of the four-wheel drive, and I marvel at the clash of cultures. I’m interacting with an entirely different species of hominid. It seems silly, but I grab my cellphone and take a selfie with him, not that he’d know what a selfie is—but he doesn’t seem to mind the attention of a quick hug and glances at the tiny black box I hold at arm’s length. I fire off the photo along with the x-ray images, sending them to my dad via email, saying, “You’ll never guess who I bumped into.” I doubt he’ll understand what he’s looking at, but I can’t keep this to myself. Wait until he hears about this adventure.

  Oh, I wish the tribesman could talk. Mentally, I’m retracing every interaction, knowing I’ll be quizzed by anthropologists. They’ll want to know every little detail, particularly as with each passing moment he becomes more acclimatized to interacting with modern Homo sapiens.

  I open the rear door and the Neanderthal climbs in. He’s fascinated by the suspension, and rocks up and down, feeling the vehicle sway gently beneath him. He laughs. I smile, and reach around, helping him put on a seatbelt. He examines the belt with intense curiosity, playing with it, and noting how it retracts when released. He repeats this over and over, fascinated by the invisible mechanism that pulls the seatbelt taut.

  “What are we going to call him?” Chen asks as we climb in the front of the cruiser.

  “Àixīn,” I say, turning to look at our esteemed guest from what seems like another world.

  “He who cares,” Chen says, translating the Chinese into English. “I like it.” I thought she would. As tempting as it is to give our Neanderthal tribesman an American name, or perhaps name him after someone that discovered the remains of his kind in the Neander valley deep within Germany, our hominid friend is Chinese and deserves a local name. And besides, from what I’ve seen, he has levels of empathy beyond what some humans have. He really does care.

  I start the engine, saying, “Hold on, Ax,” and he laughs from the backseat, still bouncing up and down and rocking the car.

  Not knowing how much exposure he’s had to machinery, I ease the Land Cruiser forward slowly. Pebbles crunch beneath the tires. It takes a full minute before we leave the parking lot as I want to give him time to adjust to the sensation of motion. I shift my rearview mirror so I can see him. His face has lit up with the excitement of adventure. Grunts and pseudo-vowels drift through the air, vaguely reminiscent of chimps at a zoo. Chen is laughing. Like me, she has a sense of how utterly ridiculous it is to take a Neanderthal for a drive in a car. If I could, I’d drive straight to the UCLA campus, and walk Ax into a lecture on hominid evolution. Oh, what a riot, and I seriously consider making for Beijing’s Academy of Science, but I want to see Ax among his own kind before the juggernaut of international researchers rolls into town.

  Although the road is largely clear of vehicles, I have to keep my eyes on the traffic and avoid the temptation to watch Ax in the mirror. He has his hand pressed against the glass, and is peering out the window, fascinated by the small town rolling by outside. Shanghai, with its endless skyscrapers, would blow his mind.

  We take the main highway south. Like desert roads on all continents, it’s as straight as an arrow. Mountains rise up to the east, but to the west, there’s nothing but salt flats stretching as far as the eye can see. My sat nav tells me the Xinjiang desert extends for over five hundred miles, curving out of sight below the horizon. Nestled in the foothills to the south is Lop Nor. It’s easily thirty miles from the main road, along what looks like a dirt track.

  Ax amuses himself with the junk on my backseat—newspapers, shirts, a tennis racket, frisbee, and a bunch of other things. Chen and I talk about America. She wants to go there one day, and it’s strange to hear her speaking with reverence about things I take for granted, like shopping malls.

  “What do you miss about America?” she asks.

  After thinking about it for a few seconds, I say, “The people. I guess I miss junk food—donuts and burgers, coke and ice cream, but they’re just things—stuff. I miss going to movies and shopping malls too, but what all of these have in common is people. We do everything together in the US. Hanging out at a nightclub, or going to the beach—it’s always with someone, and that’s what makes it special, I think.”

  Chen nods. I know she’s looking forward to the bright lights of Vegas and seeing the Statue of Liberty in New York, but it’s the people that make America great.

  “Everyone’s friendly. Not that people aren’t friendly here, it’s just different. It’s like we can be both optimistic and pessimistic at the same time. Both happy and serious. Fun loving and focused.”

  Chen says, “That makes no sense.”

  “Ah, now you’re getting the idea,” I say, smiling. “Americans don’t make sense. That’s the whole point. Whether you’re in LA or Louisiana, New York or Nevada, you’ll never find any two Americans alike. And don’t expect us to make sense. There’s only one thing we all agree on—we love freedom. Beyond that, we come in all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds.”

  “There are too many guns,” Chen says.

  “There are a lot of guns,” I concede. “But it’s not like Hollywood. There’s no shootouts at the O.K. Corral.”

  “I think I will like America,” Chen says with studious consideration. “I want to see the Grand Canyon, and Washington D.C.”

  “What do you want to see in Washington?” I ask, expecting to hear her say The White House.

  “The museums.”

  “Ah, the Smithsonian museums. Yes. I hope you like walking, because there’s lots of different museums. They’re all on the National Mall. I remember going there as a kid on a school trip. My memory is of airplanes hanging from the ceiling and my aching feet.”

  We continue talking idly, alternating between Chinese and English, depending on the subject. After an hour, I pull off the highway, and the pace slows drastically as we drive down into a dried up riverbed.

  “We’re going off the road?” Chen asks with some concern as the track disappears among loose rocks.

  “Yes,” I say, pointing at the location we need to reach on the sat-nav. My trust in the marvels of technology is unwavering. Chen is not convinced.

  “But the road,” she says, pointing back at the smooth, concrete highway behind us as though it provides some semblance of security.

  “Roads?” I reply, smiling and trying to lighten her mood. “Where we’re going, we don’t need no—” and I gesture for her to complete the phrase, but she stares at me like I’m insane.

  “It’s from a movie,” I say in my defense.

  “An American movie?” she asks, as if there are any others. It’s easy to forget Bollywood, the British Academy, the Australian, French, Italian, and Chinese movie industries. All that there is in this world is Hollywood.

  “We don’t need,” I repeat, leading her on and trying to get her to finish the phrase.

  “Cars?”

  “No. We need cars. What don’t we need?”

  Chen’s confused. She looks around as though the answer lies within the Land Cruiser.

  “Maps?”

  I laugh, pointing at the riverbed in front of us.

  “Roads?”

  “Yes. Do you know what movie it’s from?”

  “Terminator?”

  “No.”

  “Titanic?”

  “No, but they didn’t need roads either.”

  “Is it from a space movie?” she asks.

  “Kind of… In a really obscure space-timey kind of way.” I’m trying to give her a clue. “Chen, if you’re going to visit America, you have to learn about our fairytales. Our movies are as much a part of our culture as Shakespeare is to the British, or Hans Christian Anderson is to the Danish.”

  “The Martian,” she says. �
�Matt Damon. He had a car on Mars, but there were no roads.”

  “Close enough,” I reply, laughing and realizing an 80s movie reference is probably a little too obscure for a rural Chinese nurse in the 21st century. “Tint the windows red, and this could be Mars.”

  “Yes, it could.”

  A dust storm blows over the mountains. Darkness descends, and visibility drops to a few feet. What seemed like a good idea back at the hospital is looking decidedly stupid. Sat nav convinces me we’re still on course, so on we go. I slow the Land Cruiser to a crawl, not wanting to hit any rocks or ride into a gully. The engine is working hard on the rough terrain.

  We drive over a dune, and the wheels sink in the soft sand. I get out of the vehicle and brave the storm to lower the tire pressure so they get more grip. Fine dust swirls around me, sticking to my hair and catching in my eyes. I need a bandana in order to breathe, but even then, grit gets in my mouth and up my nose as the wind howls past.

  After an hour, the storm lifts and we ride over the dunes into a valley set between imposing cliffs. Ax gets excited. He pounds on the window, pointing to one side and alerting us to an outcrop of rocks. Part of a cliff face has collapsed, leaving a distinct pile of boulders scattered across the desert. The Land Cruiser is sluggish in the soft sand, but once I hit firm rock, it’s easy to negotiate the valley and drive toward the outcrop. Dozens of dead trees rise out of the rocks and sand like abandoned telegraph poles.

  “This must be one of the grave sites,” Chen says as we come to a halt and climb out of the vehicle.

  Some of the poles have partially exposed coffins at their base, but most of the mummified bodies are wrapped in leather hides. Without touching what’s clearly an archeological artifact, I crouch down, examining one of the few exposed bodies. Shrunken skin clings to a deformed skull. The few strands of hair I can see have a reddish tinge, and I’m left wondering if this was the person’s natural color, or if time and exposure to the elements have damaged the hair.

  The rear door to the Land Cruiser slams, and I jump in fright. Ax has the body of the old man. We watch as he climbs the dune and lays the body at the base of a pole, all the while chanting and singing as he did in the hospital. He unfolds the leather and aligns the body so it’s facing in the same direction as the others. To my horror, Ax pulls out a knife and eviscerates the old man, driving the blade along the man’s stomach, emptying his intestines and bowels onto the sand. Chen vomits. I turn away, unable to watch.

  “Oh, I wasn’t ready for that,” she says, and the reality of what transpires at gravesites such as this is made abundantly clear. In order to mummify these bodies, all the soft tissue has to be removed to prevent rotting. It seems obvious enough, but seeing the process enacted is nauseating.

  We make our way down the dune, unable to watch the gruesome task, but still hearing the ghostly wail of the Neanderthal on the breeze. Back at the Land Cruiser, we sit in the sand, resting in the shade and leaning on the rear wheel.

  “Not what I was expecting,” I say, handing Chen a bottle of water. She rinses her mouth and spits to one side.

  “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  Whatever burial rites and preparation are being undertaken, it’s over in less than an hour. Neither of us dares look until the chanting stops, and even then, we peer cautiously over the hood of the Land Cruiser, expecting to see the steep side of the dune drenched in blood, along with organs discarded on the sand. To our surprise, the area is clean. The old man’s body lies nestled against the pole, while his innards must have been buried nearby and carefully concealed. Regardless of how repugnant this is to us, it’s clear Ax treated the old man with respect and enacted what is undoubtedly a meaningful ceremony. After seeing that, though, I’d like to be cremated.

  I greet Ax with a bar of soap, a bottle of water and a towel, and gesture for him to wash down his bloody arms, saying, “Clean. You need to be clean.” He seems amused by my concern with cleanliness. I bury the towel with my boot. There’s no way I’m taking it back with me.

  “So what now?” Chen asks.

  I gesture to the mountains, asking Ax, “Where are you from? Where do you live? Your people, where are they?” Ax may not be able to speak, but he understands at least the rudiments of the Chinese language. He points at the sky, well above the clifftop. I’m confused. He’s trying to say something, and is animated, but I’m not sure why. Slowly, a dark shape appears in the distance. The sound of rotor blades beats at the air, echoing off the canyon walls.

  “Not good,” Chen says.

  A Chinese military helicopter circles us before descending, kicking up a wall of sand as it hovers a few feet above the desert floor on the far side of the Land Cruiser, well away from the burial site. A loudspeaker bellows something about staying still, but the voice is garbled and mixed with static.

  Chen calls out over the sound of the helicopter. “I don’t think these are his people.”

  “Yeah, they’re a little too sophisticated for Neanderthals,” I yell in reply, appreciating her levity in the tension of the moment. We’re not on military land—not as far as I know. We haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to fear, and yet my heart pounds in my throat. There must be some kind of misunderstanding—a mistake, and I rapidly rehearse what I’ll say to the commanding officer. He or she is going to want to see ID, and proof of our residence at the hospital. I’m nervous about the false floor in the Land Cruiser and the hidden firearms.

  Soldiers jump from the helicopter. With desert fatigues, helmets, thick goggles, and camouflage paint on their cheeks, they look inhuman. Ax picks up a clump of wood, brandishing it like a baseball bat. He marches forward with his head slightly bowed and his teeth clenched, ready for war, only this is a fight he won’t win.

  “No,” I cry, rushing to grab him. The transformation that comes over him scares me. He’s lost in a burst of anger. His eyes are wide. His nostrils flare and his muscles flex as he screams above the roar of the helicopter. I pull at his arm, but he’s so focused, so consumed with rage, he doesn’t realize I’m trying to hold him back. I run in front of him, stumbling in the soft sand and waving the soldiers off, yelling, “Don’t shoot. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand.”

  The soldiers take up defensive positions, spreading out on either side of the helicopter with their rifles leveled at us.

  “Please,” I yell, still trying to block Ax from advancing, but he’s too strong.

  Shots ring out, breaking like thunder over the beat of the rotor blades. Bullets pepper the Land Cruiser. I force myself in front of Ax, forgetting about my own safety in my zeal to protect him. Don’t they know? He’s too precious. He’s out of place in the modern world. He must survive.

  Bullets tear past my head with the crack of a bullwhip.

  The bullet that strikes me feels like the sting of an angry hornet, slamming into my sternum with a thud. Another clips my shoulder. Shock grips me. Blood seeps through my shirt, and I fall to my knees in the sand, clutching at my chest. I’ve been shot. How could I be shot? Me? How can I go from being alive and vibrant and healthy one second, to moments away from death the next? Muscle spasms ripple across my chest, but I’m perplexed. Dying isn’t painful. It’s more of a dull ache, sapping my strength.

  Ax is hit. He falls beside me, collapsing face first on the dune. Chen has been struck on the side of her neck. Her frail body lies sprawled on the sand. Her legs twitch. Guilt washes over me. Chen died because of me. That I’m dying as well is irrelevant. She shouldn’t have lost her life to my folly.

  Soldiers run in toward me yelling, still pointing their rifles as though I pose some kind of threat, but I can feel my life draining away. My knees sink into the sand. The sounds around me fade along with the sunlight. Darkness descends. Hands grab at me, pulling me, but I’m beyond caring. I’m losing my hearing. My feet go numb and my muscles turn to mush. I collapse in a heap, sliding down the sand dune.

  Chapter 03: Collision

  Darkness gives
way to light.

  There’s noise. Warmth. Rocks. Sand.

  My mind is foggy, my thinking hazy.

  “Drink some water.”

  My eyes flicker. Chen cradles my head in her lap, lifting me so I can sip from a cup.

  “Wha—How?” I ask through parched lips. My chest aches. My rib cage feels as though someone’s been pounding on it with a baseball bat.

  “Tranquilizer darts,” she says, holding up one of the tiny mechanical hornets. “You took two of them.”

  My head throbs. I try to sit up, but the cavern seems to swirl around me, and I reach out, taking hold of the rock face to steady myself.

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ax sits in the corner of the cave, hidden in the shadows. He has his legs crossed and is rocking back and forth mumbling. His faint repetition is vaguely reminiscent of a Buddhist chant. He’s afraid.

  Rusting iron bars stretch from the ceiling to the rocky floor, trapping us in the rear of the cave, but they’re set almost a foot apart. Chen could slip through, perhaps even I could make it between them, but Ax couldn’t, not without breaking a few ribs. A heavy chain has been wrapped around a hollow, rusted door lock, with a shiny, brand new padlock holding the chain loosely in place—not what I’d expect from the military.

  I drink some more water, which helps clear my head. I creep toward the bars, wanting to see around the corner of the cave. Lights hang from electrical cords strung together and evenly spaced along the ceiling.

  A guard stands to attention beside a solid steel door leading out of the cave, but he’s unarmed—no rifle slung over his shoulder, no sidearm.

  “What’s going on?” I call out, deliberately speaking in English rather than Chinese, and reinforcing my Western appearance, hoping that will help us gain some leverage. “I demand to speak to someone in charge.”

  Without moving his head, the guard looks at me, squinting a little, and then ignores me, looking straight ahead again. There’s a camera mounted high on the ceiling near the door. A soft red LED indicates it’s on, so I appeal to the dark glossy lens.