Medora Wars (4 page)

“Yes, but it’s unusual that these countries all coincidentally would’ve built enormous EMP generators in roughly the same time period. I’ve no idea where some of them would even get the money. Hell, we spent about four hundred and eighty billion on ours just to barely cover the radius of D.C. proper, San Francisco, and Chicago. I’m concerned that there is a concerted effort going on here between countries. The European countries make sense because they can easily afford to build one, and they just want to protect their capital if there’s another outbreak. These other countries… it just makes me uneasy that they are so well prepared for another outbreak of the virus, as if they’re anticipating it. China has eight of them alone.”

“Yes, I see your point. Dr. Stark?” Rambert slightly swiveled his chair to face Stark.

“Yes?” Stark looked up from some papers he had sprawled on the desktop.

“Your thoughts?” Rambert said.

“Uh . . .” Stark paused and looked over at the window. “Wait, what was that sound?”

“Hmm,” Houser said, who was seated next to window. “Yeah, I heard something. I don’t know, it sounded like someone threw a pebble or something at the window.” Houser rose from his chair to peek behind the blinds at the window. Moving the blinds, he crouched. “There’s like a tiny crack here at the bottom of the window. Has that always been there?”

“I’m not sure. We better get security in the room. Why don’t we exit out of here, gentlemen?” Rambert got to his feet, went to the wall, and flipped the lights on. Turning to the room, he saw that everyone had stood up to leave except for Secretary Houser, who had fallen to the ground.

“Secretary Houser?” Rambert spoke loudly to him as everyone else had congregated around the doors. Houser was lying on the ground with his shoulders slumped downward, making his pot belly plump out. His eyes were unfocused, and the lower corner of his lip began to droop.

“What the hell?” Stark said, stepping forward, moving a chair out of the way. “Are you okay?”

Houser exhaled briskly and moved his shoulders back into the floor until his neck began to lift, after which he gave a strong jerk, so that the back of his head knocked violently on the ground. Opening his mouth to speak, his tongue loosely unfolded over his lips and dangled for a moment with a large drop of saliva stretching down.

Stark backed away from the table. “I think we need to leave.”

“Okay, let’s help him up,” Rambert said, moving toward Houser.

“No, he needs to stay right there, and everyone else needs to go.”

“What?” Rambert was about to argue when a group of six secret service agents appeared at the threshold. “Everyone, out of the room, now!” One of the agents grabbed Rambert by the elbow and forcefully yanked him from the room, with the rest of the group quickly following.

As they turned down the hallway, the agent turned to Rambert. “Mr. President, some sort of drone plane has been spotted in the area, and is believed to have been in close proximity with the White House. We need you to come with us and evacuate the premises immediately.”

“Is it one of ours?” Mayberry asked.

“No, it has just been shot down.”

“A drone has just been flying around D.C. and we don’t know about it until it’s at our front door?” Rambert asked.

“Mr. President, let’s go,” the agent yelled.

They rushed out the room, leaving Houser alone with several agents.

“Reg, what was wrong with him?” Rambert asked Stark.

“I don’t want to answer that yet.”

Chapter Three: Seoul, South Korea

Malik sat cross-legged on a wool rug. Occasionally, he rolled his palms across the surface to feel the coarse texture of the fabric, and to let the dirt build up on his finger pads. The sweat behind his knees was starting to bother him, but he kept moving his palms back and forth over the dank rug, ignoring the small tickling feeling on his skin. Closing his eyes, he focused on the low humming sound that came from a radiator in the corner of the room. Its hum was pleasant, and his mind grasped onto the essence of the sound and drew into it, shedding all other thoughts. He stopped moving his hands and let out a long breath while focusing deeper on the sound.

His consciousness assimilated into the humming, and he felt his being moving steadily up and down with each breath. He felt as if all of his soul was now perched in his mouth, ready to escape into the air, and become nothing with the humming radiator. He then forgot about the radiator and opened his eyes to the small window placed low in the wall. The window showed a wall of brown bricks, ten feet away from the building. Each brick stared back at him, showing him their empty spaces, and hidden energy. Each brick was a universe swallowed up into another fractal universe without end. For a sliver of a moment he felt the thin line between his animate body and the inorganic world disappear, as he could understand the nature of his existence in only a visceral, non-communicable way.

Releasing all focus, he uncrossed his legs, and let his back fall to the floor. A barrage of everyday thoughts flooded into his mind. Frustration seeped in as he crinkled his brow and looked up at the ceiling. It was if he instantly lost all benefit to his meditation. He thought about where he was and the complete lack of communication that he had been receiving from anyone. The only contact that he had for the last two weeks was a young child who came and brought him groceries once every few days, who wouldn’t tell him his name, or where he came from. The young Korean child in no way looked like his son, but he always thought about him every time the kid came by to drop off grocery bags. Every thought that reminded him of his home brought in another flood of memories from his close, yet remote, past. A small capsule of grief opened up in his belly each time the boy came. Malik always followed the boy’s visits with a meditation session that would calm his nerves. After a few moments, he would remember what he was doing, and the grief would subside into a peaceful nothingness.

“All of these are illusions.” Atash would say in Arabic, pointing simultaneously at Malik’s chest, and also at a dozen rocks that were set at their feet. They would sit cross-legged, opposing one another, as Atash would speak deliberately. For the first several months, Malik constantly resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man. He found his pontifications about existentialism reminiscent of an annoying freshman trying to impress his professor by quoting Thoreau.

“All of these are illusions,” Atash said again, pointing to several rows of oranges laid out at a market stand.

“If everything is an illusion, then why even point it out? If everything is an illusion, then nothing is an illusion, because there is nothing to compare it to,” Malik responded.

“Malik, I never said that everything is an illusion, only the things that we desire,” Atash said back.

“If I’m an illusion, and you’re an illusion, and all the oranges are an illusion, then nothing is an illusion,” Malik replied, walking away from the oranges.

It had been two weeks since Atash had spoken with Malik on the phone. The conversation was brief and without content. Atash only spoke in ambiguities about a reckoning for Seoul and the beginning of the great realization for the rest of the world. So many times had Malik wanted to yell bullshit at Atash, throw open the apartment door, and call the CIA for a plane out of South Korea.

“All of these are illusions, Malik,” Atash said once on a hilltop, overlooking the Nurek dam.

Thirteen months into the operation and Malik found himself being less annoyed at Atash. He was often swallowed up in the green depths of the Vakhsh River that swelled before the dam, creating a pristine lake flanked by yellow hills that reminded him of the backs of two dogs lying still. He eventually looked forward to the hike up to that same summit every two days with Atash, who would explain what he thought the world was, as the two fasted for a day, and slept without clothes on the open ground beneath the immaculate Milky Way.

Atash would speak, and Malik would listen, watching his eyes as they glistened with energy. After a while, the dam only became three colors in his mind: the dull blue of the sky, the pale yellow of the hills, and the green of the lake. He had told Atash that he wanted to bring oil paints and a canvas, but Atash forbade it, stating that it was a trapping of his old self, and would only drag him back to the life that he had come from.

“Tell me about your son, Malik,” Atash said on the summit.

Malik looked back at him and hesitated. “Why?”

“So you can rid yourself of the obvious grief that he causes you.”

Surprised by Atash’s insight, he spoke, “When he was born, I didn’t suddenly have all these feelings of love that came rushing in. People would ask me what it was like to be a father, and I would just tell them what they wanted to hear: that it was wonderful. I didn’t really get it at first, and in fact, it took a few years before I understood.”

“Understood what?”

“What it means to love a son. He was beautiful, and I loved him very much. He’s dead now, and there’s nothing else to say,” Malik said.

“What color are the hills behind me?” Atash looked forward as a strong wind blew his beard sideways.

“Yellowish. Yellow with dried grass.”

“No, they’re not yellow. They aren’t even a color. Color is not real.”

“Would you stop with this?”

“Listen to me. All your eye is seeing is light waves at a certain frequency—your brain is the one who decided it is yellow. The color is just a false construct of your brain. This is how your grief over your son is, Malik. It is an illusion, and it is false. The only facts are that your son was once here, and now he is gone. You made up all the rest.”

“It still feels the same regardless.” Malik looked over at the dam below, unsatisfied.

“Have you been with me this long and your mind is still trapped in that box?”

“I don’t know.”

“Death is not the end of anything. It is a transformation into something else. Nothing more,” Atash said.

“Is that why it doesn’t matter if we kill people?”

“I’m beginning to doubt your devotion.”

“I wish I knew exactly what our cause was.” Malik had learned that expressing doubt made him more believable as an earnest follower.

“You will in the future, and you will embrace it.”

“I hope so.”

“I believe in you, just like God does.”

“Why would God want us to kill people?” Malik asked.

“God doesn’t want us to kill people. We just say that he does to make it easier to teach. God is nothing more than a metaphor to help us grasp concepts that are otherwise incomprehensible. Killing is a mercy to both those that die and those that are terrified by their deaths. It is a motivation to them. It causes them to pause and reflect in a preparation for their own deaths. We must always spread fear to the world or our work will be for nothing. We will be monsters to the world, yes. It is the sacrifice that we must endure as soldiers. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let us begin our fast, Malik.”

Malik had kept the lights off most of the time while he was in the one room apartment studio in Seoul; the darkness relaxed him and helped his focus. There was little in the apartment to keep him occupied other than meditation and a deck of cards that he found wrapped up in a pillowcase. It had been several days past the date that Atash said he would call him. It had also been more than a week since he had his one and only conversation with the Sirr. He heard only the garbled voice from a speech modulator asking Malik to simply describe a waterfall. Malik attempted an impromptu poem describing cascading water and churning froth, to which the Sirr remained silent for a moment, and then replied with the deep tone of a voice modulator:

As the riverhead fractures,

So must we.

It is the pooling waters,

We will preach.

Confused and annoyed, Malik had never heard from the Sirr again, but he did find himself reciting the words as he paced the floor. Malik often felt alone, but he had managed to find contentment in the apartment at times, and he wasn’t sure why.
I should be miserable, but I’m not
, he thought staring at the bricks outside the window
. I should feel abandonment, but I feel infused with purpose now, and I think I know why.

After meditating for another hour, he leaned over on his side, on the dirty carpet, staring at the bricks. His eyes grew heavy, and he fell asleep for a while before hearing a quiet knock on the door sometime during the early morning. Rocking himself to his knees, he arose, and went to the door. Malik felt a rush of frustration leave him as he saw Atash standing in the doorway.

“Malik, how are you?” Atash asked.

“I am well, brother.”

“Are you happy?”

“No, I am content.”

“That’s right. Do you know why you are content?”

Malik looked at Atash’s brown eyes, which glimmered with patience. He began to think Atash had always known everything about him all along.

“I was actually just thinking about that,” Malik said.

“And what were you thoughts?” Atash smiled.

“This whole time you’ve been telling me that so many things are an illusion, including my… emptiness.”

“Yes… Shall I come in?” Atash gave another smile and stepped into the apartment.

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry, please come in.” Malik moved out of the way and closed the door behind Atash, who sat down on the bed.

“Go on, Malik.”

This whole time I thought I was carrying my grief with me, and that it was the cause of all unhappiness, but it wasn’t grief at all.”

“No?”

“No, it was anger. I’ve been angry this whole time that my son died. I’ve been angry with myself, at God, the world, and everyone else. I haven’t been sad. I’ve been only angry. I always thought this anger came from my own… hatred for myself.”

“So why are you suddenly so content after sitting in this rotting apartment for the past few weeks by yourself?” Atash continued smiling.

“I’ve never known what to do with all my anger or that I should do anything with it at all. And now I know. It’s the reason I’m here. I can now funnel my anger into something beautiful. I can use it to change the world and to help my fellow man. That is why I’m happy, because my anger has purpose, and if my anger has purpose, then so does my son’s death.”

“That… is beautiful. I’m so happy to hear you say that. Do you know why?”

“Why?” Malik asked.

“Because later this morning, everything begins. We will awaken this city and then the world. It’s all starting.”

“Today?”

“Yes, and I came here to either take you along or to kill you.”

Malik stepped back as Atash kept his gaze on him. “What do you mean?” Malik asked.

Atash unwrapped the front part of his robe and produced an Uzi, which he set on the bed next to him. “I was going to shoot you because I wasn’t sure if you truly had forsaken the CIA, or if it was just a trick of yours to earn my trust, but I believe in you now, Malik. I really do. Those were honest words you shared.”

“They really were.”

“Has Mayberry tried to contact you in the last few days?”

“No, they haven’t received any new information from me.”

“I want you to call him in an hour and tell him exactly what I tell you. Listen carefully.”

“I will.”

*****

Malik looked at his palms as they bumped up and down with the rocking of the truck. He couldn’t remember the last time he bathed, and then laughed at himself for even thinking about it. He was in the back row in the bed of the truck that was covered by a green canvas. He counted six men lining the interior, and two in the front seat. Malik didn’t recognize anyone else in the truck besides Atash, and from the scant conversations among them, the men appeared to have come from at least five nationalities, mostly in the Middle East and Africa from what he could tell.

Malik leaned over and lifted the bottom of the taut canvas next to him, and saw a cement wall running beside the truck, with light from the sunrise peeking over. He had no idea where they were going, and kept trying to find comfort in the fact that Atash was aware of everything, and kept him ignorant to best prepare him. As he looked at the sunrise, he felt a calmness come over him, dispelling the constant chatter that usually occupied his thoughts.

The truck slowed, came to a stop, and then picked back up as it drove over a couple of humps in the road. After another moment, it came to a full stop, and Malik heard the ignition turn off with the driver door closing in front. The back of the canvas opened, and Atash slipped his head in, and smiled. He drew the entire back cover off, releasing sunlight into the back of the truck.