Authors: Erik Williams
“The thing in the ground?”
He nodded.
“It's a tomb,” Mike said.
“No, it is a prison.”
“How did you know this prison had been found?”
“We had a man on the crew of diggers. He reported the progress of the sewer line to us. He was not sure if it would get close to the prison. When he did not report this afternoon, we knew we had to come here in force. The prison cannot be opened.”
“Why? What's in the prison you don't want out?”
The insurgent did not answer.
Mike decided to use the truth instead of the knife. “Well, you're too late.”
“What?”
“This prison of yours was opened this morning.”
The man's eye widened. “Then it is free.”
“What is free?”
The man shuddered. “I know not its name, but it is evil, imprisoned in the days before man.”
“Imprisoned evil?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“It is true.”
“And how do you know this?”
“The knowledge has been passed down from generation to generation.” He lifted his shirt, wincing as he did. Tattooed all over his stomach was the same cryptic language carved into the surfaces of the tomb. “I am a Guardian of the Prison. And I have failed. Kill me, please.”
“What language is that?”
“It is the language of the Jinn,” the man said. “It was written on me as a child as a reminder of my responsibility. Now it is a testament of my failure. Will you kill me?”
Mike looked over his shoulder at the pit and then back to the survivor. “You're telling me that was a prison for a genie?”
The man nodded. “A great demon.”
Mike shook his head.
This is ridiculous,
he thought and rose.
As he did, the blood rushed from his head. The world seemed to spin around him. He closed his eyes until the dizziness abated.
The whimpers of the insurgent brought him back to the present. Mike looked the wounds over and then at the amount of blood the guy had lost. He wouldn't last much longer no matter how much treatment he received.
Mike lifted the Beretta and fired two rounds through the insurgent's head, giving him the death he'd requested.
The Marines ran up. One said, “What the fuck? Why'd you do that?”
“Because you couldn't,” Mike said.
He turned and tried to walk away. He took a few steps, stumbled, and collapsed in the sand. The world around him blurred before he passed out.
J
ibril, the ship's cook, stood outside the refrigerator, waiting for Yusuf. The large round man paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together. Yusuf wanted to order him to stop but noticed the gooseflesh covering the cook's forearms and bit his tongue. Better to calm him down first.
“Jibril,” Yusuf said, “how are you holding up?”
Jibril stopped rubbing his hands together and looked at Yusuf. He smiled but it appeared halfhearted. Then Jibril held up his hands. They shook.
“It is just a skeleton, yes?” Yusuf said.
Jibril nodded. “I am more concerned with what I may now have.”
Yusuf nodded. “I see. Well, how do you feel?”
“Dizzy. Short of breath. Nervous.”
“Do you feel like all of your skin and muscles are about to fall off?”
Jibril shook his head.
“And has any of your skin or muscles fallen off?”
Jibril shook his head.
“Then I think you will be just fine.”
“But what if it takes a while for the symptoms to occur? What if there is an incubation period?”
Yusuf smirked. “You read too many books, Jibril. Besides, if there is the threat of transmission, we all would be in trouble.”
“Why? I am the only one who encountered the skeleton.”
“Yes, but someone had to put the body in the refrigerator, correct? Which means it was exposed to our spaces and air?”
Jibril shivered and said a prayer.
Yusuf chuckled. “Jibril, have you considered the possibility that there is a rational explanation for this?”
“It is a skeleton, Captain. Someone died and was put in the refrigerator so we would not smell it. What happened in Basra is now happening here.”
“Were there reports of people turning to skeletons in Basra?”
Jibril shrugged. “I only heard of the chemical weapons. But there are chemical weapons that can do that to a man.”
“Are there? What are they called?”
Jibril looked at the wall as if he would find the answer there. “I do not know. But I am sure there are.”
“Ah,” Yusuf said and patted Jibril on the shoulder. “Let us examine the facts before we panic. If we panic first, then the crew will panic. And then we will have problems like we saw in Basra.”
Jibril nodded.
“So, why did you come down here?” Yusuf asked.
“I sent my assistant Sayid to fetch some figs. When he had not returned after twenty minutes, I decided to look for him so I could kick the shit out of him. When I walked into the refrigerator, I found the crate of figs all over the floor. Then I saw the skeleton.”
“And where is Sayid?”
Jibril shrugged. “I have not found him yet. I have people looking, though.”
“Shall we go in, then?”
“Captain, it is in there and it is not bothering anyone. Maybe we should just assume it is unsafe. Why not just keep the refrigerator closed? We have other refrigerators to draw food from.”
“We need to know who it is,” Yusuf said. “If it is a crew member, then we know we have a problem. If it is just a skeleton someone brought on board, then we can relax.”
“Relax?”
“Yes, if someone brought it on board, we can breathe easier. I said there is probably a rational explanation.”
“That does not sound rational. Why would they do such a thing? And where would they get one?”
“Iraq is full of skeletons. And why people collect grotesque things only Allah knows. Perhaps they thought they could sell it.”
Yusuf reached out and gripped the handle and opened the refrigerator. The cold air hit him, and he walked in without hesitation.
Jibril stayed in the passageway.
The first things Yusuf saw were the figs. They dotted the floor everywhere. The crate that had held them had broken upon impact. Then his vision settled on the skeleton, crumpled on the floor, its arms stretched out in front of it. The lower part of the jaw had separated from the rest of the skull and lay to one side. Teeth were strewn about. All around the skeleton was dust of varying shades of brown and red.
This is not a joke,
Yusuf thought. The clothes, nothing more than a shroud now, looked familiar. Yusuf squatted and reached toward the pockets of the deceased. Then he hesitated, his hand halfway there.
What if it is infected?
he thought.
Well, then you are already doomed.
Yusuf reached into the pocket and found a wallet. He removed and opened it and found the identification of the corpse. He recognized it as belonging to one of his crew.
“Now we have a problem,” Yusuf said.
S
emyaza had found an empty fan room to hole up in and rest. The body he now possessed, the one that had belonged to Sayid, was strong, but the soul it had held was not. Semyaza had overpowered it easily and thus would not require much time to recover. Hopefully, the flesh would hold up longer this time as a result.
As Semyaza studied the memories of the man, he learned why the fight had not lasted long. Sayid had wanted to die. All of it was there, his whole sad life. His struggles, his failures, his total contempt for all those around him. Except for his family. The one thing that had kept him going, even at the end, could not motivate him to fight even a little. Sayid had been broken and Semyaza was better off for it.
In his search for an isolated place to rest, Semyaza had not seen any other dead bodies. He had not heard the sounds of violence. He had not felt the chaos his battle with the soul brought.
I was right,
he thought.
The shorter the battle, the less damage to those around me.
He would hold on to this vessel even longer than the last. And those around him would not kill each other, providing him with an ample supply of bodies until the ship reached its destination.
Y
usuf walked out of the refrigerator and closed the door behind him.
“Well?” Jibril said.
“He was a crew member.”
Jibril put both hands over his mouth. “Allah, be merciful.”
Yusuf started to reassure his cook when an announcement came over the ship's communication circuit.
“Shipmaster, please contact the wheelhouse.”
Yusuf put a hand on Jibril's shoulder. “Stay calm. Please.”
Jibril nodded.
Satisfied the cook would remain in control of his faculties, Yusuf walked over to the bulkhead across from him and picked up a ship's telephone and dialed the number for the wheelhouse.
“Wheelhouse,” a voice said after the third ring.
“This is the captain.”
“Please wait, sir, the second officer wants to speak to you.”
A moment later, Feisal was on the line. “Captain?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“We have completed our transit of the Shatt al-Arab and entered the northern Arabian Gulf. We have increased our speed to twenty knots per your orders.”
“Thank you very much for the report, Feisal. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Captain.” Feisal was silent a moment. “We have found two more bodies.”
Yusuf closed his eyes. “Where?”
“Right above refrigerator unit number one, in a crew berthing.”
“Skeletons?” Yusuf said.
“No, Captain. They are . . . whole. They killed each other, according to those who found them.”
Yusuf's chest felt tight and his stomach contracted. Was this how it had started in Basra?
“Very well. I will go up and see them. Tell those who found them to remain there.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Yusuf hung up the phone and turned back to Jibril. “Two more deaths.”
Jibril was sweating now. He wiped his forehead and mumbled prayers. Yusuf wanted to do the same, to pray for mercy and beg that what had happened in Basra was not now happening on the
al-Phirosh
. But he could not. As the captain, he had to exude calm and confidence, no matter how scared he was.
“Jibril, I want you to turn over your duties to your steward cook and report to medical.”
“I can still perform my duties.”
“I know you can. But I want you to get checked out. Just in case. I will as well, once I examine this latest scene above us.”
Jibril nodded. “I will turn over my duties. If I show no symptoms, may I return to work?”
“I expect you to.”
“Thank you.”
Jibril started to walk away when Yusuf reached out and grabbed him by the bicep.
“Do not mention any of this to anyone, understand?”
“They will find out. There will already be rumors.”
Yusuf nodded. “Let them speculate for the time being. But if one of the crew confirms anything before I do, we will have panic throughout the ship.”
Jibril was quiet for a moment and then said, “I will stay quiet.”
“Thank you, Jibril.”
Yusuf watched to make sure the cook walked down the passageway and turned a corner toward medical. Then the captain found the nearest ladder and made his way up to the crew berthing with the two dead bodies. As he did, Yusuf managed to squeeze in a short prayer, asking his crew be spared the brutality witnessed in Basra.
M
ike stood in the middle of the highway, facing Basra. Greg McDaniel was to his right, hands in his pockets, looking in the same direction. He appeared just as he had when Mike had seen him in the car.
Black smoke rose from the city and turned the sky the color of pitch. Dead bodies lined both sides of the highway leading into Basra. Surrounding them, instead of desert or marshes, was a vast ocean. Now the road seemed more like a bridge to Mike, leading to a mystical island of death.
“You can't kill this one, Mike,” Greg said.
“You told me that already.”
In the ocean, heads bobbed. Their white eyes, the color of milk, stared at Mike. Their hands rose from beneath the surface and stretched out toward him, but he was far from their reach. Did they want him to help them out of the water or to pull him in?
“I just want you to know what you're going to face.” Greg pointed at the Beretta in Mike's shoulder holster. “That won't help you.”
“And what am I going to face?” Mike turned from the bobbing heads. “Some obscure chemical weapon? An airborne hallucinogen?”
“A demon.” The voice came from Mike's left. He pivoted and found the insurgent he'd killed facing him, two round holes in his forehead. No blood, though. No brains either. Mike saw the ocean through his head.
“Right,” Mike said. “A demon. Or was it a genie? And that wasn't really a prison but a bottle, correct? Will he grant me three wishes when I meet him?”
The insurgent smiled. For some reason, it made Mike's heart beat a little faster. There was knowledge in that smile, and it bothered the hell out of him.
“It will kill you.” The smile broadened. “And there will be no mercy in it.”
Mike looked away, unable to take any more of the smile. “Nonsense.”
“Mike,” Greg said, “you can't kill this one.”
“But it's what I'm good at.”
“Don't succumb to vanity.”
“It's not something I'm proud of.”
“Yet you never fail to embrace it.”
Mike said nothing.
“And get a handle on the self-hatred, too. When you face this, you need to control both.”
“Stop relying on my skills, and stop thinking about myself. Got it.”
“Don't be a smart-ass.”