“Papa it hurts.”

Abdul looked over at his son once more in grief, “I know Hashim, but it’s going to be ok. Everything is going to be alright. Just rest. When we get to Illizi we’ll get you a doctor.”

His beautiful Shahira was dead, gone in the night, and now his son seemed destined to join her. For all his wealth, power, and connections, nothing had saved what he cared for most.

Abdul had grown up like most men in Algeria, raised in the unforgiving Sahara as it were: with little to his name. Shahira had been one of the village girls, one that he had wanted to marry long before he even heard her name. He had found work as soon as possible to earn an appropriate Mahr to give her and show that he was worthy of her. He had not disappointed.

When he was younger he had known all too well the struggles of putting food on the table from watching his brother. That was not the life he wanted for him and Shahira, he wanted theirs to be a life of plenty, so back he went to what he did best. Shahira had even helped, crafting his business from one based on employees hired to do a job into a community. One where everyone shared in the spoils and misfortunes. All his employees knew of his wife and her kind smile. She had no talent for numbers or business but with people she had shown brighter than the sun.

It had been for that very reason why, when word had come down about demons killing the livestock of some of his people that he personally saw to it, bringing Shahira to help along with their son, Hashim, so that he might watch and learn.

What they had found when they had arrived however, was travesty. While a good number of the livestock had indeed been killed, the rest had fallen ill, swiftly followed by the people. While his wife had gone out to help care for the sick he had secluded himself, making calls and trying to coordinate aid. It was to no avail, for while his problems had been horrid, the tales his contacts told of the chaos in central Algeria spoke of horrors beyond his imagining.

Throughout the past few days more had gotten sick until even his wife had been laid up in bed, sores covering her body combined with an itching that drove her to the brink of madness. It had pained him to watch her so, and it had been many heartrending hours before her breathing had calmed down and deepened, signifying the blessing of sleep. It wasn’t too long after that, though, that she had stopped breathing altogether.

He had been unable to help her and that morning when the call came through that some of the global superpowers were mobilizing, claiming the happenings in and around Ain Salah were responsible for the Night the World went Dark, Abdul knew that help would not be coming. So it was, that when his son had started coughing that morning, fear had wrapped its icy tendrils around him, smothering his gief. The villagers already had someone survive whatever this was, and he was roaming, trying to tend to everyone he could. He would have to do for now. May Allah forgive him but he needed to leave and find a doctor, or someone that could heal his son, and his best chance to find one in time was in Illizi.

“Abdul, there appears to be two people up ahead. They appear as if they’ve been out here for a long time.” The voice from the driver’s seat pierces through him.

Closing his eyes Abdul thought on what was just said. He was a kind man and had always looked out for his fellow man, never forgetting his roots. The money had always been a means to an end: to make sure his little family could live in peace, happiness, and prosperity. Any other day and he never would have hesitated have the driver pull over and offer aid. The pained whimpers of his son caused another pang of sorrow to seep its’ way into his heart. His decision made, he sent out a silent prayer that another would be more graceful and offer them aid.

“Drive around them and continue on. We have no time to waste.”

“Horse Gobbling Donkey Dick!”

That was the first car we had seen in hours. It had come up on us so fast, that by the time we heard the tires on the asphalt it was already swerving to get around us and putter on. It was a nice Bentley, I’ll give them that, but the odds were now looking slim that we’d make it back to civilization by nightfall. Especially after walking for several hours waterlogged. I think it goes without saying that, dressing in an attempt to keep your body’s water in, makes it rather difficult to swim, or really, move at all.

Waterproofing EVERYTHING I have is going to be an official mandate from now on, at least with regards to my gear. It was only through pure paranoia that I waterproofed the bug-out bag last year and now that I witnessed how effective it was, I really wish that I had done it for my shoes. My clothes as well, but really, if there was one thing I could keep permanently dry it would be my shoes. I just don’t see how Malika walks around without them. I tried, but all I got was raw feet and the smell of burnt flesh, compliments of desert asphalt.

Okay, so maybe the sand and road aren’t that hot but I think I’ve proved my point. I mean c’mon! She hasn’t even worn socks since the night we almost got eaten!

No, not at the airplane.

No, not by those velociraptors on steroids.

No, not by the giant worm.

Yes! That one! The foxes!

Man, I am not liking our track record here. It seriously doesn’t bode well.

“We’ll get the next one. That was probably just some rich prick that thought too much of himself. He can’t be the only one on this road.” Malika says but from the look on her face as she says she believes those words as much as I do. In other words, not one bit. Perfect.

“BAAAAA!”

However, it seemed that today, fate would favor us.

Whipping my head around I look to the source of the noise. In the distance, what looks like a truck comes around the bend traveling slowly. Moving out into the middle of the road I take a firm stance and contemplate on whether or not I would be willing to shoot the driver and take the vehicle if they try to leave us here. It would be a hard shot with a pistol, the rifle already semi-dismantled and resting in the backpack, and I would be shooting an innocent man. That would be crossing lines I had set for myself a long time ago, but faced with either killing someone who would leave two people, obviously stranded, or spending another night out here, I’m honestly not sure what my decision would be.

Luckily, I don’t have to find out.

Pulling to a stop, the (I use the word here loosely) truck looks to be held together by twist ties, rust, and willpower, while screeching out a cacophony of noises that, if I’m translating this right from engine growls to English, says “Kill me please.”

Shifting my thoughts away from the vehicle of questionable disrepair to the bearded head that leans out of the drivers’ side window I hear, “من هذا؟ هذه هي قلعة سيدتي، غي دي لومبارد.”

“Ummm, I don’t speak Arabic. Do you?” I ask turning to Malika

“هو أنا، الملك آرثر، وهذه هي فرسان بلدي من المائدة المستديرة. إذا كان سيعطينا الغذاء والمأوى ليلا، يمكن أن ينضم إلينا في سعينا للحصول على الكأس المقدسة.”

Well. Guess that answers that question

“ حسنا، سأسأله، ولكن لا أعتقد أنه سوف يكون حريصا جدا. لقد حصل بالفعل واحد، ترى؟”

A lie. I can’t understand the language but I know the clues when I see them. Moving away and feigning disinterest I walk around to the passenger’s side of the truck to get a better look at the three caballeros and have a proper vantage point should I need to act. I shouldn’t need to, considering all we need is a lift, but, hey, shit happens.

“Baaa!”

It seems they’re carrying sheep. In fact, the shoddily walled in truck bed is absolutely jammed full of the scuzzy things. The cabin contains the driver and two other men. Maybe they’re on their way to sell the village livestock?

“ماذا؟” comes Malika’s voice, now slightly tinged with disbelief, “هل أنت متأكد أنه حصل على واحدة؟”

“أوه نعم، انها لطيفة جدا” I’m a little bit further from the conversation, so I can’t make out much of the subtle intonations but the haughtiness in his voice carries over the din. From the look on her face, Malika doesn’t fully believe what he’s telling her.

Making as if to inspect the truck out of curiosity, I note that the smell of gun oil is absent, and a cursory sweep of my eyes reveals no hidden firearms. Not really a guarantee but it’s a start. I’m closer to the passenger’s side than the drivers and as the driver leans over to his compatriots I hear, “قلت لهم أننا قد حصلت بالفعل واحد!”

Not understanding the language but not liking the direction this is taking, I step back over to her and subtly reach my hand to the small of my back where the 9mm sits, ready to spring into action.

“حسنا ... آه، أم ... هل يمكننا أن نخرج ونلقي نظرة؟” Malika says, now a little uncertain, and I watch the man feign disdain in his reply.

“بالطبع لا! أنت أنواع اللغة الإنجليزية.”

“Malika, what’s going on?” I ask without turning to her. I need to know what’s going on.

“He doesn’t believe me about the plane crash and when I asked him for a lift, the stupid goat-fucking prick wants us to pay for it. Apparently, he keeps spouting some nonsense about us being tourists and that we need to pay him.” Well, that’s… irritating, but something that I’m actually prepared for. Unlike everything else that seems to have happened recently.

Reaching back, I shield my actions from the three men and unzip the duffel bag. I was a little too adrenaline rushed earlier to really notice it, you know amidst trying not to be eaten, but man am I glad I took the time during my watch last night to pull in my Influence and allow my body to finish healing. Still not back in my best shape but a whole lot better than when we first made it to the cave.

“حسنا، ماذا أنت بعد ذلك؟”

“أنا فرنسي! لماذا تعتقد أن لدي مثل هذه النغمة الفاحشة، أنت ملك سخيفة؟!” Another lie, this one he believes is of less consequence than the last, as if he thought of it off the top of his head, one that would be of no consequence. I reach in and rifle through the small sack containing fake passports, currency, and the like. Pulling out a wad of euros I decide to play French tourist. Would go with American, but that usually gets mixed results at best. For now, coming off as some naïve and stranded European tourists come to vacation in a French-speaking part of Africa might give the proper impressions.

“ماذا تفعل في انكلترا؟” That last lie must have been of greater consequence than the man thought, because incredulity in absolutely dripping from Malika’s voice now.

“اهتم بشؤونك الخاصة!”

“إذا كنت لن تظهر لنا غرايل، ونحن سوف تأخذ القلعة الخاصة بك بالقوة!” I stand up and turn around and find that things have gotten fierce.

“أنت لا تخيف لنا، الإنجليزية الخنازير الكلاب! الذهاب وتغلي قيعان الخاص بك، شخص سخيف! أنا ضربة أنفي في لكم، ما يسمى "آرثر الملك"! أنت وكل ما تبذلونه من فرسان الإنجليزية سخيفة! أنا ضرطة في اتجاهك العام! أمك كان الهامستر، والدك سحق من إلدربيريز!”

Time to nip this in the bud.

Grabbing a hold of her arm before she can retort to the last heated statement, I lean down and whisper in her ear. “Listen we just need to make it to town. I have plenty of cash and once we make it back I can get plenty more after a few phone calls.”

“They want you to sit in the back with the animals while I ride in their lap like some hooker! On top of paying them! They’re extorting us! And there’s no guarantee that they don’t try something else.”

“Listen we’ll both get in the back, I’ll hand them some cash, and if they try anything else I’ll take care of it.” Looking into her eyes I see her catch my insinuation. Instead of reeling back or arguing against such methods, hardened steel enters her eyes and she simply nods her head. It seems these past few days have changed her a good bit.

Let’s hope it’s for the better.

Forking over 50 euros I see the men’s eyes light up with greed. It’s not much by the standards of Europe but out here it might as well be a fortune. Climbing in the back Malika joins me and from the green in her complexion I can tell the smell is just as… delightful… for her as it is for me.

To my consternation the trip took more than 2 hours. 2 god-awful hours of standing in the bed of a truck with non-existent shocks and surrounded ill-tempered, pants-chewing devil spawn that smelled worse than a year-long fermented rotten egg. Commonly (and mistakenly) referred to as a goat.

Holy hell was I ever so glad to get out of there.

I have yet to decide, however, if what greets me is any better. The truck pulled to a stop by an animal pen where I assume they sell the sheep. Around us is a small cluster of adobe huts further surrounded by walled in agricultural areas that have the briefest hint of green leaves showing over their tops. Not a 5-minute walk further down the road, a tall adobe wall stretches around the town behind it, as if in defiance to the sand covered terrain that envelops everything. Tall rock spires loom up from the desolate sand fields in the distance behind us, remnants of the rocky landscape we just came out of. While the buildings and landscape are beautiful, majestic, and unique in the way that the people out here have managed to thrive, that isn’t any cause for true concern.

No, the people are. Standing here in the middle of a cluster of empty stalls, the sounds of dying fills my ears over the howling of the wind, the smell of disinfectant fills my nose over the stench of livestock, and the acrid taste of fear fills my lungs, overwhelming the grit of the dust. But worst of all is the sight of the multitude of still bodies, covered in white sheets, that lines the side of the road, overwhelming the beauty of the scenery. Several vehicles, bearing the mark of an ambulance come out of the city, heading towards this small agricultural area. I watch some attendants come out of a central building, open up the back, before unloading several bodies, these still breathing, and carrying them away into open-aired tents scatter throughout the area, the ancient looking buildings already overflowing with the infirm.

It appears that this Farmer’s Market has become an impromptu sick ward and funeral parlor.

Recovering and collecting my thoughts I find that I no longer wish to be here, surrounded by the helpless masses grieving over their lost loved ones. Malika apparently reaches that conclusion first and pulls me along with her towards the city. As we walk, I look at all of them as we pass. Men and women, the elderly and the children, the feeble and the vibrant, all seem to have been brought low, not by evil and choices of man, but by disease. As I pass I note everything I can but every case seems to differ.

I see a child shivering and puking blood, a man covered with boils, a woman whose luscious hair is falling out by the handfuls, and a geriatric with blood leaking out of swollen eyes and black splotches covering whatever skin is visible. There was only one thing they all had in common. Subtle, but the more I saw, the clearer it became.

Every single last one of them had irritated skin. To the point where it looked like some had drawn blood in the incessant scratching. That and the slight pressure in the back of my mind that I get from some of them that are closer. They are the same ones who stop scratching as we pass, usually falling into unconscious bliss.

After what felt like an eternity we make it into the town, for that’s the only thing it could be, and I finally notice that this entire time she had kept an iron hold on my hand. I honestly don’t think she’s even noticed yet. That would likely explain why her grip is slowly turning my fingers blue.

Reaching out with my non-entangled hand I place it on her shoulder, “Hey you doin’ alright?”

Startled she looks back at me, then my hand, letting it drop away.

“Yeah. It’s just… Well, you noticed how all of them were scratching at their skin?” As I nod in confirmation she continues “Well you were out of it at the time, so you probably don’t remember much, but when we first made it back to the cave you and… Akhil looked a lot like they did. I think I was like that too, but my memories are just so hazy after a certain point.” She finishes speaking but she doesn’t need to say anything else about what happened after that. Our situation is weird enough as it is, with us still working on surviving, let alone how or why all of it is happening.

A chill gust of wind blows down the street and I look to the west and take in the picturesque sunset as it fills the sky with oranges, reds, and purples.

“I think we should find out what’s going on. Maybe warn someone in charge of what we saw out there as well as the plane crash. I have a feeling that whatever happened didn’t just affect us.” A bestial roar breaks out interrupting me before I can say more. Looking at Malika, her cheeks turn a distinct shade of red I’d call embarrassment. Coughing to hide my laughter I say, “Maybe we should find food first though.”

We come up to a pharmacy and Malika steps inside while I sort through the bag, pulling out a French passport along with a wad of euros. While waiting I take a solid look at the town. This area of the town is practically dead with only the occasional ambulance car rushing by, likely to pick up or drop off more people. From what I can tell, the town is a decent size and while what I saw at the entrance was bad, it hadn’t gotten too many people. Yet. The fact that they had set up a quarantine outside of the walls though probably meant that it was spreading faster than they could get a handle on it.

Just as I was about to walk inside to see what was taking so long, the door opens up, revealing Malika who looks white as a sheet. In her left hand, she holds what can only be a newspaper, Arabic script printed all over it.

Opening my mouth, she beats me to the punch, “It’s worse than I ever thought it could be.” She says, her gaze on the ground, “I know where we can stay the night. I need a moment though, and then I’ll tell you the rest.”

Staying silent I merely wait until she begins walking, before following her. Patient while she figures out how to tell me what she heard. I’m not left waiting long.

“Algeria is under quarantine.” Holding up the paper in here hand she gestures to it. “Ain Salah, a town west of here, is apparently overrun with monsters and the military is being mobilized from several different countries. The reason for the quarantine though is because so far, everyone that has come into contact with them or escaped the town alive gotten sick. It’s spreading like a wildfire. I even asked the owner of the store what was going on out there,” she waves a hand behind her in the direction of the town’s entrance, “and he said that one of the farmers killed a fox with 6 legs and the next day everyone that had seen it was dead or dying. They’ve only had a handful survive so far.”

She falls quiet and for that I am glad. I don’t know what to do with this information. I deal with people who act like monsters, not the actual thing. We approach a door with hotel written in French and Arabic and I open up the door, trailing Malika inside the lobby. The heavenly fragrance of fresh cooked food wafts from an open doorway to our left and Malika stops in her tracks. Chuckling I move around her and head to the counter.

“Do you speak French here?” I ask the receptionist on a hunch.

“Yes, we do, are you here to dine or stay the night?” the gruff middle-aged man asks. The bags under his eyes tell the story of the stress that I am sure the whole town bears.

“Both. 2 bedrooms and meals for the two of us.”

The man visibly winces before replying, “I only have one room left. I am sorry but the only other hotel is currently closed down and everyone else that couldn’t flee today has come here.”

Oh.

Well then.

A few more quick questions and I fork over the cash for both the room and two tickets for food. Taking the backpack, I hand over the tickets and tell Malika that I’ll take them up if she’ll find us a table. Barely paying attention she doesn’t take notice that I only have one room key in hand as she lobs the backpack in her haste. Making it up several flights of stairs I look out of the rooms single window and take in the view. The night is growing dark but movement on the horizon pulls at my curiosity until I am pulling out the rifle scope and peering through it.

What I find is disturbing. They look something similar to pangolins. I think. I’ve never really seen a pangolin in the flesh but out there, moving in an arc around the city, is a large herd of animals walking on two legs. Their front arms are held off the ground, but just barely. Their entire tail and the tops of their body is covered in large brown scales, resembling armor more than anything. A flash of light from the back of the herd draws my attention and as I focus the scope I make out a large pack of the 6-legged foxes flashing their tails at a straggler of the pack. Now with a better chance to observe I watch them expertly point their tails, tipped with bone, at the beast. The use the focused lights to blind it and the others around it, allowing them to slowly cut it off from its herd with the expertise of a scalpel in a surgeon’s steady hand.

In a burst of movement one of the small foxes lunge at the pack’s prey. Instead of its’ teeth closing around flesh however, it is crushed between the jaws of the armored beasts. Spinning around the bipedal tank points its tail at a cluster of the small agile predators. A burst of what I can only assume is water flies out from in between the scales, striking three. Steam wafts into the air as those struck by the liquid thrash around on the ground in agony. But the distraction was all the pack needed as two of them bite into its unprotected throat and another three tear at its soft underbelly.

Shivers arc their way down my spine as I watch the efficient hunting method displayed by the light wielding fiends. They seemed to be satisfied with their meal and not a threat but I knew there were other predators out and about that were far more fearsome. We might have made it out of the wild, but we had yet to reach safety.

Putting down the scope and looking away from the grisly sight I head back down to the restaurant to find Malika already half-way through her meal and two beers in. Making my way to the table the smell of food overpowers any brooding thoughts and I begin to salivate worse than Pavlov’s hounds. As I sit I notice a beer before my plate as well.

Looking up as I pull out the chair Malika swallows her latest mouthful, “Took you long enough to get down here. Thought maybe you took a shower or something. Judging by the smell though I’d take that as a no.” She turns thoughtful and says, “I got a better read on that newspaper and what happened in the past few days. You know, when the plane went down, I thought it was just a fluke or something, but apparently the entire world got hit. No one knows what it was, but all electronics got knocked out for a little bit. A lot of places suffered pretty bad for it, like city grids and stuff, but most things were back up and running in a few hours. Some scientists traced it back almost immediately. Said the source came from the poles and spread outward from there. The next night it happened again here in Algeria though, this time on a smaller scale. It wasn’t long after that when the… other things started showing up.”

She stops here altogether and looks me in the eyes.

“I know that you can probably get out of here but I don’t know what to do. I figured that we’d stick together. You’re not just going to up and leave me here are you?”

Popping the top off my beer I put on my best shit-eating smirk, relishing in her uncertainty. For once I have her officially off-balance and man does it feel refreshing.

“My parents named me Salem, and no, I wasn’t going to leave you here. I still have a debt of honor to uphold by showing you my prowess in bed, sweetheart.” As I finish I can’t help but bust out laughing at her flustered expression.

Absolutely priceless.

Well I guess I can relax for a single night.

I mean thousands of people live here, what’s the worst that could happen?

Throwing his phone down Abdul collapses into a chair in the corner of the room. His son passed out not that long ago after the so-called doctor came in and looked at him before handing over sleeping medication, saying that he had others to attend to. This would not save his son. Scratching at the growing itch on his neck, he closed his eyes.

Tears sprung unbidden and tracked their way down his cheek. He had always lived by the tenants laid out in the Quran. He had never cared for any of the wealth he had earned. He had never enjoyed wielding the power afforded him. He had never levied the chances afforded him to be unfaithful. He had only cared for his wife and child. His business had grown strong and his pockets deep. He could have had many wives. Indeed, his colleagues all did. He had never wanted any of that. He had only ever wanted beautiful Shahira. And now the last piece connecting her, their son, was slipping through his fingers.

For the first time in days, as his world crumbled around him, Abdul wept.

Closing the door behind him Mohammed left his brother in privacy. Standing out in the hall he closed his eyes and steeled himself. He had to be strong for what was left of his family. Grief and anguish were things that he would not allow himself. He had to reconcile for his sins.

When their parents had died, he had sworn to look after and care for his brother. They were both already men by Islamic law but they were still too young to fully support themselves.

When his brother wanted to go to school, he took an extra job so that he could buy books. When his brother fell in love with the woman of his dreams he told him he was happy for him. When his brother wanted to get a job in the town over to earn a dowry, he made sure they still had enough money to eat. When his brother got married to the woman Mohammed still loved, he congratulated him and when his brother’s business took off, he learned how to drive a car, fly a plane, captain a boat, and protect him from those that might wish him harm.

But where it mattered most, he had betrayed him.

His brother had been so busy those days, trying to earn money so that he could spoil his wife when she came to him. Mohammed knew that he still loved her and he had been happy to be by his brother’s side to protect them both, but he knew he would always long for Shahira’s touch. She had come to him, concerned about the long nights that Abdul was spending away, and Mohammed told her the truth. He knew his brother had eyes only for her and had told him many times how much he hated being away from his wife.

She had listened but as the night wore on and the wine flowed heavier, he laid his soul bare before her.

It had been a fit of passion, one that never came again but the guilt gnawed at him. He had been prepared to bring it before his brother and beg for forgiveness when Shahira came back to him.

She told him she was pregnant.

She told him it was his.

She also told him she did not love him.

He never told Abdul of his betrayal, but his sense of duty and guilt never strayed far from his thoughts. Now, Shahira was gone and his brother grieved, but he would be strong enough to carry him. He would be by his side no matter what, protecting him and Hashim as the world fell apart. Abdul was smarter and more charismatic than him but Mohammed had always been stronger than him. He would fight the legions of hell themselves if they came after his family.