Amanda's Story (3 page)

Khalib watched the security team escort Dr. Ja'amal to his tent with little surprise. The small man had been much too willing to share his feelings about the powers beyond his station. He shook his head and returned to his rounds. He would walk the perimeter of the compound until the sun came up, protecting his nearly one-hundred colleagues as they slept. He didn't mind his sentry duties as much as the religious indoctrination that would follow. Like every other morning, he would pretend to listen as the Imam droned on about duty and jihad, nodding his head at all the appropriate points and praising Allah for his beneficence. Khalib believed himself a good Muslim, but to his mind that did not require him to be martyred, or to kill those who did not share his belief. He was here to play a part, nothing more. All the activity above ground was a ruse to deceive the Americans into believing that this was a small, inconsequential training camp, not worth much attention, and certainly not a biologic weapons laboratory. So they ran around in the desert, pretending to shoot and blow things up as ineptly as possible every time a satellite passed overhead. Khalib smiled with the thought that there were only a handful of real weapons in the entire compound, and most of them were carried by the security force that remained hidden.

He rounded a corner and decided that he needed to sit for a while and perhaps get something to drink. He had an uncomfortable buzzing sensation in his head and was uncharacteristically fatigued, both certainly due to dehydration. The water in his canteen had a funny salty taste, and each time he took a sip of it his mouth tingled. Hours earlier he had poured what remained of his daily ration into the sand. It wasn't unusual to have problems with their water, and for the last week they had been using a small tanker truck for their supply. The bitter and salty aftertaste was an indication that they were getting down to the last of it, and he hoped that some tea would mask it. He turned back the flap of the mess tent and was greeted by silence. Normally at least half a dozen men would be busy preparing breakfast for the compound. Khalib glanced at his watch, found that his estimation of the time was correct, and after a moment of confusion walked through the tent and into what passed for a dining hall in the middle of the Libyan Desert. A large central aisle was framed by six rows of long metal tables arranged along both sides of the pavilion. A figure with his back to Khalib sat at the second table; he watched the figure struggle with something and then recognized his grunting.

“Good morning, Habib,” he greeted his countryman and tent mate. Habib did not respond, but continued to struggle until he finally screamed and frantically stripped off his tunic. By the time Khalib had reached his friend he was on the ground scouring his chest with sand and rocks. Within moments his skin was raw and bleeding. “Habib, what are you doing?” Khalib grabbed the smaller man's hands and restrained him.

“It burns,” he screamed in full voice. “It burns, it burns …” he continued, and Khalib wrapped his arms around his friend and forced him back up to one of the benches. Habib's right arm came loose and he started to tear at his face, all the while screaming. Khalib noticed blisters and deep scratches on the back of Habib's hands and arms as he pried his friend's fingers out of his face.

“I need some help,” Khalib called; he was a big man, but so was Habib. “Have you burned yourself?” he asked his friend, who had begun to wail and thrash inside his grasp. “Somebody help me,” Khalib yelled even louder. Flashlights and then dark figures began to appear, but none of them approached the pair of struggling Pakistanis. “Come, somebody, grab his arm,” he yelled, and despite the fact that most would not understand his language, his need was evident. “What's wrong with you dogs?” Khalib demanded, and then followed the beams of their flashlights to the bloodstained sand just outside the tent. Another man lay on the ground, his head almost severed from his body, an expression of horror frozen on his upturned face. The figures began chattering away in some foreign language, and then, first one, and then all of them, fled, leaving Khalib alone with the struggling Habib. “What have you done, my friend?” He asked the wailing man, noticing more blood and at least two more corpses.

Habib suddenly stopped struggling, and his insane gaze was replaced with terror. “Khalib,” he said plaintively, “you have to help me.”

“Tell me how, my friend.” Khalib relaxed his grip on Habib's wrist.

“You have to kill me. The desert demons have found me. They're inside of me,” Habib finally said, with a tortured but clear voice, and the blood in Khalib's veins froze.

When Khalib was a small boy, his grandfather and uncles took great joy in terrifying him with stories of demons in the desert who could devour a man's soul in the blink of an eye. It took Khalib years to realize that his family was using him only for sport, but the fear had taken root. He tried to exorcise it by sharing some of the stories with Habib and their three other tent mates on dark quiet nights, but instead of dissipating, the fear seemed to strengthen with each tale.

Unconsciously, he relaxed his grip even further and Habib sprung from his grasp, running and screaming into the darkness. Khalib stood but did not follow his friend, who was clearly beyond any assistance he could render. He began to pray as a short burst of gunfire came from the opposite side of the camp, and then a second salvo much closer. He heard feet running towards him, and suddenly lights were flashing on all over the compound. He squatted down below a bench and worked his way back to the empty supply tent. It was clear that they were being overrun by something, and as he wedged himself between the tent wall and some crates he tried to convince himself that it wasn't demons.

Demons are a child's fear. A man killed those men, and it couldn't have been Habib,
he told himself without conviction. It was possible that Habib had been out looking for something to drink, just as he had, and witnessed someone killing the kitchen staff, the violence unhinging the mind of the gentle Habib. Now the murderers were running through the camp, slaughtering anyone they found. Khalib reached for his weapon and pulled it between his knees, using it for support as he squatted. He was one of the few who were armed and could offer a degree of protection.

Nine months you have walked in the desert and have never found a trace of demons. Get up, you coward!
he demanded of himself, but his heart prevented his legs from responding. He knew—as well as he knew the love of Allah—that it wasn't invaders that were killing his comrades; it was something that couldn't be stopped by bullets.

More gunfire, closer still, followed by screams of joy and insanity, told Khalib that it was time to move. It wouldn't be long before they found him and either made him into one of their own or into one of their victims. He had to make his way to the desert, at least until the sun came up; demons respected the dawn and feared the sun. He kicked his leg out to stand but found that his balance was off. He slowly climbed the stack of crates, using his arms more than his wobbly legs, until he was safely on his feet. He waited a second more, and when his balance had fully returned he quietly slipped out of the tent into the cool night air. The buzzing in his head was louder, and a sudden thought riveted him to the ground. Demons can pass from person to person through a simple touch, and he had certainly touched Habib. Could he be possessed already? After a moment's consideration, he rejected the idea; his thoughts were his own and his intentions were to flee, not to kill and destroy. Perhaps the demon was too busy controlling Habib to pass through to him. It was a lucky break, and one that was unlikely to be repeated.

He retreated into the shadows of a nearby tent, resolving to shoot anyone who got near him. Most of the compound's lights were on, but there were enough dark spots to get him into the desert and safety. He plotted his course, and just before sprinting to the next dark spot he saw a phantom float effortlessly through the air directly in front of him. It was nearly translucent, but Khalib could still make out a body draped in a fine silk robe that rippled behind the specter, blood-stained arms with sharp talons, and a head covered in long, flowing black hair. It had the snout of a dog, its teeth sharp and exposed, its tongue black and lolling to one side. The eyes bright red and alert as it scanned the path ahead. If only his long dead grandfather could see this, Khalib thought, pressing himself into the canvas
. Then he would be the one scared.

He waited a full minute before sprinting to the edge of the next tent. Twice more he did this before reaching the tents fronting the fence. He watched as another demon floated in from the desert, not even pausing as it flowed through the tall chain-link. He was close to the small hill where earlier he had seen Dr. Ja'amal and reasoned that this would be a good place to hole up until sunrise. His grandfather had taught him that demons didn't like heights, which was one of the reasons they preferred the long, flat deserts. If Khalib could reach the top of the hill unseen it was unlikely that any would search there.

He slid along the back of the tent in total darkness until he reached the end of the canvas. He risked a peek around the corner and came face to face with one of the Security Force. The man jumped back into his colleague and for a moment all three regarded each other. Khalib was first to recover. It was clear that these two had the same idea that he had, and the mere fact that they were raising their small automatic weapons meant that they were unwilling to share the refuge. He grabbed the smaller man by the neck and pushed him into the next man. All three weapons began to fire at once, and in less than a second they were dead and Khalib was bleeding from his arm and hip. He stepped away from them and back into the shadows just as two demons rounded the corner, drawn by the smell of blood and death. They let loose screams of delight that paralyzed Khalib, and then began savaging the bodies. He tried not to listen to their slurping sounds or to the crack of breaking bones. He dared not move or even breathe until they had had their fill; it felt like an eternity before the gorging stopped and the demons glided away, almost certainly looking for flesh to feed upon, or to inhabit.

Khalib waited a full minute before running to the next tent and then another minute before reaching the final tent. All the demons had moved to the center of the camp, and he had a clear path to safety when the door to the underground lab slid open. The head of security, a man as tall as Khalib but not nearly as broad, stepped cautiously out into the darkness. His weapon was already raised as he surveyed the area. A small ray of light from the doorway fell on the man's exposed arms, and Khalib saw the same blisters that had afflicted Habib.

The sign of the demon!
He aimed his weapon at the man/demon, but before he could fire the thing ran off into the darkness. Khalib waited a moment longer as safety beckoned him, and then he sprinted up the hill completely unseen.

In seconds he reached the tallest rock and slipped behind it. The buzzing in his head had become relentless, intensified by the physical exertion and fear. A powerful wave of nausea struck him and he fought the need to vomit. His heart was racing and his breaths were coming in gasps as he fought for control of his normally reliable body. He began to silently pray, and slowly his body responded. The rushing, uncontrolled thoughts of panic began to be replaced by reason and instinct. He surveyed his surroundings in the dim light, and despite the safety that came with height he still felt exposed. He worked to wedge himself deeper into the rocks; twisting his broad back, he found a gap just large enough to admit him and he disappeared into the blackness of the night. After several moments of complete quiet he began to feel as if he had escaped Death itself. Relief washed over him and he closed his eyes, his mind shutting out the horrors that had been visited upon his comrades. He floated away to the western mountains of Pakistan; a warm and inviting campfire beckoned to him and he found himself sitting in a circle with his family. His wife, her black hair reflecting the fire, stared at him with love and devotion, his children arranged by his feet, comfortable and safe. A sense of peace and contentment enveloped his small family as the fire crackled. He watched the sparks spiral up into the night sky and with a start found his grandfather standing over him.

“Demon,” he hissed over the fire, his frail arm rising in accusation.

“No,” he answered with the voice of a small child pleading for reality to be only a bad dream. He felt his wife's hand leave his and he turned to find her face covered in blisters, her eyes rolling upward in death. He felt the small bodies of his children fall against his crossed legs. He tried to jump to his feet but his head hit something more solid than his skull and he awoke to find himself alone in the cold desert.

He began to weep silently. Surely the demons would sense or smell his misery if he didn't control it, but he couldn't master his emotions. The weeping became crying and soon he was wailing as much as Habib had been earlier. A part of his mind pleaded with him to stop, but he was powerless against the fear. Images of his wife and four children raced through his mind, memories of his father warning him about leaving them for money, his grandfather's face illuminated by firelight, telling him about the malevolence of the desert demons. He wiped the tears from his eyes and in the dim light saw blood on the backs of his hands. He touched both eyes and found that they were oozing blood. A drop fell from his jaw to his shoulder; he was bleeding from his ears as well. He wiped more blood from his eyes with his dirty sleeve and noticed the blisters covering his forearms. He had been marked as well. He screamed and pulled at his sleeves, finding even more blisters, some of which were filled with his blood. He scrambled from his cover and started to run but pulled up short when he realized that the small stone circle was now filled with demons. Their fetid breath infected every breath he took, and his mind collapsed. He started firing his weapon, but the bullets passed through them, striking the surrounding rocks and pelting him with splinters. He kept firing until his clip was empty, and then he threw the rifle at the nearest demon just before they smothered him. The last sound he heard was the crack of bones breaking and the slurping of demons as they ate him alive.