Xenophobia (20 page)

They want us alive, was all she could think as the butt of a rifle struck her head and she fell unconscious.

“Wake up,” a gruff voice demanded. The steel cap of a boot kicked at Bower’s arm as she lay on the rough concrete floor.

Bower was groggy. Her eyes struggled to focus. The back of her head throbbed. Her hands were unbound so she reached up, gingerly touching the bloodied, matted hair on her head. A severe bruise and the sunlight streaming in at a low angle told her several hours had passed. Slowly, she sat up, her back pressed against a brick wall.

Bower looked around, expecting to be in a prison cell, but they were on the upper floor of an abandoned factory. The rooftops of the surrounding buildings were either at the same height or one story higher. Broken skylights dotted the ceiling some twenty feet above. A section of the roof had collapsed further along within the vast, desolate factory. Bower could see a gaping hole in the floor directly below the shattered roof. Whether the damage was caused by an artillery shell or a bomb dropped from an airplane, she didn’t know, but reinforced steel bars protruded from the shattered concrete. Whatever caused the damage, it had happened long ago. Rather than a factory, this must have been a warehouse, a staging area, because she couldn’t see any manufacturing equipment.

Elvis was leaning up against the wall beside her. His head hung low, but he was conscious. He must have been in an excruciating amount of pain, but he didn’t show it. He was mumbling under his breath. Fluids oozed from the bloody stump that had once been his arm. His head rolled softly to one side and Bower doubted his state of consciousness was anything that could be described as coherent. The physical and mental shock he had suffered would have killed most men. Beyond him, Bosco sat with his legs sprawled out in front of him. A bandage had been wrapped around one of his legs, stemming the flow of blood from a bullet wound. From the rushed, careless manner in which it was bound she figured he’d tended to his own injuries using his combat trauma kit.

Rebel soldiers gathered around.

“I am General Alad Humar Adan. You are terrorists, mercenaries, taken into custody by the People’s Liberation Army of Malawi.”

The general, if he really was a general, looked to be no more than twenty years old, although it was never easy to tell the age of an African. He was thin and tall. His dark skin glistened with natural oils, while his curly hair was shaved on the sides, rising a few inches above his head, accentuating his height.

He was smiling, gloating. There were at least fifty other rebels milling around. Some of them had their AK-47s shouldered, others held their rifles casually, waving them about as though they were toys as they joked with each other. They were smoking, but Bower doubted they were smoking tobacco. There was a glazed look in their bloodshot eyes.

“Do you not know me?” the general demanded, putting on a theatrical pretense at their lack of acknowledgement. “To you I am Will Smith, and this is my
Independence Day
.”

The soldiers behind him laughed.

“You see, I have done more than your Hollywood actors ever could. For me, this alien invasion is no fantasy, no movie full of special effects. I have faced the demon and defeated him. I have brought down the alien. He has bowed before my feet. Soon, all nations will come to me to learn how to defeat this alien terror.”

Adan strutted before them. His accent was clipped, betraying his local pedigree.

“To you, I am a hero. I am Laurence Fishburne. I am Denzel Washington. To you, I am Samuel L. Jackson, and do not forget the L, it is very important: L is for Leroy. You see, I am Jamie Foxx. I am all your heroes rolled into one.”

Adan marched back and forth with a small white cane hooked under his arm. He was wearing riding boots, like those Bower had once worn when conducting dressage in England, only her boots had been scuffed and worn. Adan’s knee-height boots were polished with a brilliant black shine. The medals on his chest looked like they were made from plastic, not that she was going to point that out.

“I am Caesar. I am Alexander the Great. I am Napoleon. I have defeated the United Nations. I have defeated the United States. And now I have defeated monsters from another world. I am invincible.”

Bower averted her gaze, looking down at his boots as he turned before her.

“What are you looking at?” Adan snapped.

She looked up.

Adan was facing Bosco.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Adan demanded, pulling the white cane from under his arm and pointing it at Bosco. It was a riding whip.

Adan flicked the whip through the air.

In that instant, Bower could see the flex in the whip. From her short stint assisting vets as a teen, Bower knew the kind of injury riding whips could cause a horse. In the wrong hands, they were instruments of cruelty. On the soft skin of someone’s face they were criminal.

Blood sprayed across the wall as Bosco’s head reeled to one side.

“I asked you what you were looking at,” Adan demanded.

Bower tried to make herself as small as possible, with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched. She could hear Bosco choking on blood.

“You think you can disrespect me?” Adan cried. “You think you Americans can come here and kill our people with impunity? You think you can get away with these crimes? You murder our women. You kill our children.

“Ah, but you no longer hold a gun. No longer can you bully us, push us around. Now, we hold the guns.”

Adan turned back to his troops, holding his hands out wide as he spoke to them.

“You see, there is no land of the free. There is no land of the brave. The only bravery these men know is when they are holding a gun. They are cowards. The only justice they know is the justice that comes out of the end of a barrel. But there is no justice in Africa, there is just us.”

He laughed cruelly, turning back to Bosco.

Adan used his riding whip to raise Bosco’s chin.

“And we will have our justice. You will pay for what you have done to our land. You will pay with your blood for what you have done to our women and children. You will -”

“Stop,” Bower cried, knowing it was a mistake as the word left her mouth. She couldn’t help herself. She had to say something.

“And what have we here?” Adan asked, his theatrical anger subsiding for a moment.

“I am Doctor Elizabeth Jane Bower, with
Medecins Sans Frontieres
. These soldiers were escorting me to the UN compound when we were ambushed.”

Adan crouched down in front of her, moving her face around with his bloodied whip.

“Look at you. Look at your skin,” he began. “Why do you side with the white-devils? Why do you turn your back on your own people?”

Bower didn’t want to reply. She knew that would play into his hands, but she couldn’t help herself.

“You asshole.”

Adan laughed, “Is it only your women that can speak? Are you not men who can speak for yourselves? Has the US Army been castrated?”

The African rebel soldiers laughed at the Rangers.

“Leave her alone,” Bosco said, and Adan wheeled to face him again.

“So we have an American hero here after all. Who are you? Are you Bruce Willis or Sylvester Stallone? Or are you an old-fashioned hero? From the days when everything was black and white? Are you John Wayne, or are you Ronald Ray-Gun?”

Again, the soldiers laughed on cue.

“Get them up.”

Soldiers grabbed them, pulling them to their feet and gripping them by the arms and shoulders. On the periphery of her vision, Bower could see Elvis grimacing as he was pushed forward. He staggered, his feet barely able to carry his weight, his boots dragging on the ground.

Adan led them over to the edge of the gaping hole in the concrete floor. Chunks of concrete hung from reinforced steel bars around the shattered edge of the dark hole. Below them, on the ground floor, Bower could see a series of double bed mattresses piled up haphazardly on top of each other.

“This is the colosseum,” Adan proclaimed as Bower, Bosco and Elvis were pushed toward the edge.

The rebels were excited. They were talking rapidly with each other as they spread out around the edge of the broad hole.

Bower didn’t understand what was happening. Adan must have guessed at her confusion, as he added, “They are taking bets on how long you will last. So far, no one has survived more than five minutes against the beast.”

Looking down into the devastated lower floor, Bower could see dark stains on the concrete. Blood splatter marred the mattresses. Some of the blood was dry, but one patch looked wet as it still had a slick sheen.

“You, who are condemned to death, you will fight this day for your lives. As Caesar, I hold the power of life and death in my hand. You gladiators, you will fight, and if you win, I will grant you your freedom.”

Elvis staggered and almost fell forward into the hole. Bower grabbed at him, putting his good arm over her shoulder.

Bower still didn’t understand what Adan was asking of them, were they to fight each other to the death? They simply wouldn’t fight. She wouldn’t, Elvis couldn’t, and she doubted Bosco would buy into Adan’s madness.

“Where are you my beauty?” Adan called out. “Where is my lion? My tiger?”

One of the soldiers struck out with the butt of his gun, striking at a loose clump of concrete dangling from a reinforced steel rod running through the crumbling remains of the floor. A whip lashed out from the darkness below, cracking in the air just inches below the butt of the rifle. The motion was smooth, surprisingly quick.

“What the fuck?” Bosco cried.

Several more blood-red, whip-like tentacles struck out trying to reach the edge of the crumbling floor.

“Ha ha ha,” Adan yelled, his voice again theatrical, although he needed not inflate their sense of fear, the creature below already terrified Bower. From the shadows, there was a rumbling, seething sound, like rolling storm clouds before thunder breaks overhead.

“You see. You are not the first to be caught by the great General Alad Humar Adan.”

Bower’s legs shook. Bosco looked pale. Elvis groaned, mumbling, “No, no.”

Troops jostled for the best positions around the hole, looking into it from all angles. They pointed and called, crying out with glee and yelling with excitement. Money was changing hands in fistfuls as several impromptu bookies moved among the troops, collecting loose notes in a helmet.

“But I am magnanimous,” Adan announced, handing his riding whip to one of the soldiers standing next to him. Bower got the feeling the general had given this speech several times before. “I will not send a man to his death unarmed. No, that would not do for sport. I am fair. I am just.”

Adan pulled a revolver from a holster on his hip. He flipped the gun to one side, opening the cylinder block, exposing six chambers.

“Do you see this?” he asked, emptying the bullets into his hand. “This is a 44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. This handgun could blow your head clean off your shoulders. So, you’ve got to ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”

Adan made like he was going to hand the empty gun to Bosco but then tossed it carelessly into the gaping hole. The gun clattered across the concrete, coming to a rest in a pool of fresh blood.

The soldiers roared with laughter.

“I give you a chance, a fair chance. If you can kill the beast, you go free.”

Adan held up a single bullet. He dropped the bullet in Bosco’s outstretched hand as the rebels cheered. Bower could see Bosco weighing the bullet, tossing it slightly in his hand.

“No,” Elvis cried, pushing down on Bower’s shoulder as he straightened up to face Adan. “This is madness.”

Bosco touched him gently on his good shoulder.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” he said, smiling as he clutched the bullet. “I’ll see you in hell.”

One of the soldiers moved up to Bosco, nudging him with his AK-47. Bower could see Bosco thinking, lining up the soldiers training their rifles on him from either side. He was out of options. It was jump or be pushed.

Bosco had no choice. He turned, facing Bower briefly, and winked as he launched himself out across the hole in the floor. Leaping out as far as he could, Bosco fell heavily on the mattresses some twenty feet below, catching them on one side and rolling onto the concrete floor.

Bower was horrified. She watched as Bosco got to his feet. He limped to where the gun lay. Beneath her, the alien creature screamed like a wild animal, thrashing and striking at the concrete. Although she couldn’t see the creature’s body, she could see dark red tentacles moving through the shadows on the edge of the dim light shining into the darkened first floor. The rebels yelled, chanting something in their native tongue.

Bosco had the gun. She could see him loading the pistol, slipping his one bullet into an empty chamber and moving it in place. He cocked the gun and pointed it into the shadows.

He looked calm.

Bower was shaking. She could feel her left leg lifting off the ground as it shook within her boot. An intense sense of fear gripped her mind as the worst of nightmares unfolded before her.

Bosco backed away from the darkness, staying in what little natural light fell through from the upper floor. He was near the mattresses. He spun one way, then another, pointing the gun out straight before him. Bower couldn’t hear the monster over the noise of the rebel troops yelling, but Bosco seemed to be turning based on sound, spinning one way then the other as he hobbled on his wounded leg. For the creature to move that quick must mean it could cover a hundred yards in just seconds, far faster than a man or land animal on Earth.

Bosco pointed his gun down, as though he were aiming at something low to the ground on the other side of the mattresses, and then spun around with the gun thrust out at chest height.

The creature was stalking him, looking for an opening. Like a lion moving through long grass, or a shark circling in murky waters, the alien appeared to be weighing up its options, using the shattered crates and concrete supports for cover as it lurked in the darkness. From what she could see, the monster was trying to disorient Bosco, trying to confuse him.