Xenophobia Page 11

  “From what we’ve heard, the road to Lilongwe is littered with burnt out army vehicles. The rebels fought hard to break the supply lines between the two cities, but the army’s kept the roads open. I mean to squeeze through before the rebels regroup and try their hand again.”

  Bower breathed deeply. Jameson made the plan sound routine.

  Kowalski walked out with Leopold.

  Jameson said, “We roll in -”

  “Fifteen,” Bower added, again cutting him off. She grinned at Jameson, showing her teeth in a half smile. He looked a little confused and must have realized she had her own private joke going on.

  “Actually,” he replied, “since everyone’s up I was going to say, five.”

  Jameson disappeared inside the rear entrance to the hotel.

  Bower screwed her face up.

  “They’re not going to like that,” Leopold said, talking to Kowalski more than Bower. “I think the staff here quite liked having the Rangers around. It was like they had their own personal security service, mercenaries that didn’t drink or shoot up the bar. This whole section of town has been quiet since you guys arrived. I don’t think anyone wanted to upset the Americans, hoping they’d stay. No one wants to be abandoned, and seeing US soldiers on the ground has given the Africans some hope, false hope for sure, but hope nonetheless.”

  The two men sat next to Bower.

  “Have you changed your mind?” Bower asked, turning to Leopold.

  “Nope. Have you? Better the devil you know, and all that. Besides, there’s an NBC film crew due in here at the end of the week. I’ll hook up with them.”

  “Keep your head down,” Bower replied.

  “You too.”

  Kowalski sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup.

  “Hey, why didn’t you wake me?” Bower asked.

  “I thought you’d prefer a little more sleep,” Kowalski replied. Bower knew he meant well, but she’d have rather he didn’t try so hard. Kowalski was always trying too hard to be considerate. As long as she’d known him, he’d always been like that, always prepared to put himself out for others. For once, she wished he’d be selfish, and not just so she didn’t feel so bad. He needed to be selfish for himself, so he didn’t burn out.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I slept like a log,” she replied, having had her best night’s sleep in weeks. It might have been short, but it was deep.

  Leopold was watching the alien craft drifting effortlessly toward the horizon.

  “Gives me chills,” he said to no one in particular.

  Bower understood why Leopold found the alien presence unnerving, but for her, once the fear passed, the mystique of an apparently living interstellar spacecraft awakened a sense of awe within her. She saw an object of beauty, moving with grace as it glided through the heavens.

  Kowalski must have seen her staring into the sky. “Well,” he said. “Seems they’re happy to circle around up there, and that’s fine by me.”

  “I wonder what they’re thinking about, what they’re planning,” Bower said, thinking aloud.

  “Crop circles and anal probes, no doubt,” Kowalski joked.

  “I’m in no hurry to find out,” Leopold added.

  “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” Bower asked, again musing out loud, trying to articulate what she was feeling.

  “Maybe,” Kowalski offered in an answer that was little more than a polite way of disagreeing. “In the same way a rattlesnake or a shark can be considered beautiful.”

  “I’m serious,” she replied, surprised by the emphasis in her tone of voice. “I mean, think about it, just because something is different doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful. And not just in the way a butterfly is pretty, with colorful patterns painted on its wings. Beautiful as in delightful, functional, like a bee or an octopus. Even the most boring of birds, with dull brown feathers, has a natural beauty about it, and I can’t help but feel the same way about this. There’s a natural beauty to the alien spacecraft. I mean, it’s not a pile of nuts and bolts like our spaceships. And it’s not streamlined or aerodynamic, with sleek curves and sharp points. It’s not from this world and yet it has an earthy feel to it, as though it were something that could grace the cover of National Geographic.”

  Neither man said anything. Bower continued her train of thought.

  “I guess we see what we want to see, right? Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder ... The more I think about how they’ve traversed a gazillion miles through empty space, looking for our tiny mote of dust awash in this vast universe, the less I’m afraid. They came to us. They sought us out. They want to know about us. Isn’t that flattering? Here we are, looking up at them in awe, wondering who they are and what makes them tick, and they’re looking down upon us thinking the same thing. That’s kinda cool, and certainly nothing to be afraid of.”

  The alien craft slipped over the horizon, disappearing from sight behind the distant buildings.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Kowalski offered.

  Her words must have stirred the journalist within Leopold. As he spoke, Bower got the distinct impression he was making mental notes for an upcoming article.

  “My father used to tell me that fear is our default response to the unknown. It’s a survival mechanism, an instinctive reaction over a reasoned response. Our history is checkered with xenophobia, the fear of something different, different people from different countries, different cultures. We’re tribal. We like people to be the same as us.”

  Leopold was divorcing himself, straightening his thinking. For Bower, it was interesting to see him reasoning through what she instinctively felt. That he was able to suspend his own fears and assume her hopes surprised her, but perhaps that’s what reporters did best; place themselves in another person’s shoes.

  “And we’ve conditioned ourselves to respond like this. Really, it’s no surprise we’re overreacting and panicking about an alien invasion. When was the last time Hollywood showed someone turning up on our doorstep with anything other than death rays? Blood and guts with a splash of acid gets asses on seats. Hell, we can’t accept foreigners from Colombia or Sudan without an air of suspicion, wondering if they’re terrorists or drug runners. What hope does someone from another planet have? Someone wears a turban in a mall and Al Qaeda’s attacking.”

  Kowalski laughed.

  “Think of what we’ll learn,” Bower said, quietly wishing the star ship would land. She wanted to say more, but words failed her. It had taken some time to acclimatize to the concept, but she was genuinely excited about the future. The prospect of getting out of a country sliding deeper into civil war was the furthest thing from her mind. She just assumed that would happen. It was a trivial detail, something that paled in comparison to First Contact. Mortality itself seemed suspended by the alien spacecraft with its iridescent glow at night and its rippling surface in the bright daylight. Life trumped death, at least in that moment. Life coming from another star caused the pain and suffering and misery she saw in Africa to fade like the night giving way to dawn.

  “This,” Kowalski began, having lost his initial skepticism, “this really could be a new beginning for the human race.” His acceptance of her position, and his readiness to move away from pessimism filled her with hope. Deep down, Bower knew it was unfounded and irrational, but she held to hope regardless. With hope and fear as equal possibilities, why not choose the positive? With hope, she could pretend Africa would one day be at peace. With hope, she could forget about the hundreds that would die that day in the swollen heat, victims of a futile war.

  Jameson came jogging down the stairs with Elvis, Bosco and Smithy behind him.

  Elvis paused on the last step. Stretching his arms out wide, he cried out, “Elvis has left the building,” and stepped down onto the road like royalty.

  “You’re such an idiot,” Bosco said, slapping him on the shoulder.

  The other soldiers appeared from down the long, open corridor and climbed into the Hummer, throwing
the last of their packs in the truck.

  Jameson glanced at Bower. Something in his eyes snapped Bower back to reality; he seemed to sense her glassy-eyed enthusiasm. She didn’t dare offer her thoughts to him.

  Elvis was chewing gum as he called out to Jameson and Bower, saying, “Y’all still want me to come witcha?”

  “You pulled the short straw,” Jameson replied. “You’re babysitting yet again.”

  Elvis spat his gum out on the ground and climbed into the driver’s side of the truck.

  Leopold stood there warmly waving goodbye as Bosco drove the Hummer out of the dusty courtyard, followed by the truck. Kowalski was in the Hummer with the rest of the Rangers, while Jameson and Bower sat in the cab of the truck with Elvis. Smithy stood in the turret of the Hummer with the lightweight SAW machine gun mounted on rails, daring a challenge. With her helmet, dark shades, bullet-proof vest and camouflage clothing she looked every bit a soldier. Bower had no doubt about her resolve.

  The main street was already crowded, with Africans wanting to conduct their trade before the heat of the day made the city unbearable. The stench of raw sewage wafted through the air. As the two-vehicle convoy wound its way through the streets there was a sense of surprise at seeing Americans driving around the city. Some of the African’s waved, most just stared. Whether that was out of exasperation or indifference, Bower wasn’t sure.

  Artillery shells rained down on the western suburbs. Clouds of dark smoke rose in thin columns in the still air. From what Bower could tell, they weren’t in any immediate danger as they were heading south and the barrage was barely audible over the sound of the rattly diesel engine, but the faces she passed had a sense of helplessness to them. What she’d thought was exasperation or indifference was neither, these people were resigned to being abandoned. In her mind, she found herself struggling with the identity of the people they passed. A woman not much older than Bower, with a young child in hand, stared at her with wide eyes longing for pity. Bower felt as though the woman could see right through her.

  There were boys playing in the street, kicking a can around between them, oblivious to the murderous thunder creeping over the city. Old men sat in the doorways chewing opiates, spitting on the concrete. Young girls hung washing out of the windows, draping wet clothing over rusting poles and wires stretched out between the buildings. What did they make of a visitor from another world? They must have seen the mothership orbiting Earth. They must have known change was coming, but for them change had only ever meant renewed oppression.

  What did the Africans think of First Contact? From what Bower could see, they were more interested in keeping their heads down and surviving another day. What difference would there be for them? None, really. If anything, life would continue to get worse not better. Without UN troops on the ground it was survival of the cruelest.

  Jameson was quiet. Bower wondered what he was thinking. She would have felt better if he were talking, but he was focused on the road ahead, occasionally talking on the radio with Bosco in the lead vehicle.

  Bower couldn’t look. She kept her eyes forward, watching the road, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone on the roadside. Donkeys, horse-drawn carts and rusted old cars meandered down the road, slowing the convoy’s progress. Bower found her eyes drawn to a makeshift flatbed truck coming down the road toward them. With no hood, the fan cooling the radiator whirled around dangerously, as did the fan belt. Black smoke seeped out from around the engine. As the truck passed, Bower could hear the rhythmic thumping of the engine, seemingly cobbled together with fencing wire. At any point, that truck could have shaken itself apart.

  As they wound their way out of the city and into the thick jungle hills rising above Ksaungu, the contrast of deep greens became a welcome break from the dusty, muddy browns. The temperature dropped as they climbed higher. A cool breeze blew from the east.

  Within a few miles, the concrete road gave way to rough stones and pebbles lining the track. Landslides narrowed the road at points, slowing them to a crawl as they merged with other vehicles making the treacherous journey through the mountains. Government soldiers trudged through the mud on the side of the track, their boots caked in dirt. With their rifles slung over their shoulders and their heads hung low they looked like an army in retreat.

  Once they were clear of the city, Elvis lightened up. Jameson was looking at the map, double-checking their location and direction.

  “Hey,” Elvis said, a grin on his face as he looked at Bower. “Check out the bag.” His voice had a conspiratorial tone, as though he were letting her in on the secrets of the universe.

  Jameson looked up briefly, seeing Bower starting to open the canvas rucksack at her feet. He was too concerned with their progress. Jameson picked up the radio and spoke with Bosco.

  “Top of this rise, you should see a T junction, we’re gonna head right, to the south-east, up onto the tableland.”

  “Roger that,” came the reply from Bosco.

  Bower rummaged around in the rucksack, bouncing slightly as the truck hit a pothole.

  “Does Bosco know you took that?” Jameson asked as Bower pulled out the small, blue civilian band radio.

  “No,” Elvis replied, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

  “He’s gonna kick your ass.”

  Elvis laughed.

  Sitting there holding the radio, Bower was again reminded of the alien spaceship. She leaned forward, looking to see if she could catch a glimpse of the UFO flying through space but the jungle obscured her view of the sky. Dark green trees and vines hung down on either side of the road. Occasionally, pockets of blue broke through, but never enough to see more than a fleeting glimpse of the sky.

  “Turn it on,” Elvis said, gesturing to her. Seemed pretty obvious, really, thought Bower, and yet holding the radio she’d felt mesmerized. What if the aliens are malicious? Did she really want to know before she had to? What good would knowing do? And yet the advocate within her pleaded for reason, telling her that learning more would be good regardless, as then she’d know what she was dealing with. What she was dealing with? Now, there was a thought. So self-centered, so singular in focus, so all consumed. Perhaps that was the problem with humanity, she thought, most days we can barely see past the end of our nose.

  Bower wound the electrical crank on the side of the radio, giving it a good turn for a minute or so to charge the batteries and then turned it on. After a few seconds slowly twisting the dial to move between channels she picked up a signal.

  “ ... Gospel of John teaches us that there’s nothing to fear but fear itself ... ”

  She kept turning and slowly music eked through the static, a distinctly African beat of drums with an electric guitar and a female singer.

  “ ... Love will keep us strong, forever moving on, never leaving us alone ... ”

  Ordinarily, this was a station she would have listened to on a Sunday afternoon, regardless of whether she’d heard the artist before. The tune was catchy, but on she went, surfing the radio channels.

  “ ... highs of a hundred and five, with storms in the late afternoon, early evening ... ”

  Three stations down and Bower was somewhat relieved not to have found anyone talking about the giant alien craft circling Earth. If anything, it seemed to suggest that life moves on, that not everyone was consumed by the alien presence. Then she found it.

  “ ... Georgia, where residents have banded together as a community, pooling not only food and water, but medical supplies.”

  A different voice spoke in a southern drawl.

  “We’ve been through a dozen hurricanes, we know what it takes to keep things moving when the economy stops. The sky might be clear, but we understand what it takes to get through a crisis like this, what it takes to kickstart a community and get back on our feet.”

  The reporter took up where the resident left off.

  “Across the United States, from Maine to Florida, from New York to Los Angeles, we’re seeing a ground-sw
ell of citizen action in place of government programs. Here in Atlanta, Georgia, the residents know the government is largely consigned to the role of historian. As well-meaning as FEMA officials are, the size and scale of a country in turmoil means they’re ineffective.”

  Another resident spoke, only this time there was a distinct Mexican twinge in the accent and Bower got the impression this man was from nowhere near Georgia.

  “The police, they’re too busy. They’re running around trying to help everyone, so they can’t help anyone at all. They tell me, don’t take the law into your own hands. I say, I’m not taking the law, but I’m not standing by either. There are thugs. There are people who take the shirt off your back. When the wolves come, you need to be strong, show them you’re not afraid, you’re not no sheep. You’re not gonna let them take your stuff.

  “If you’re strong, they go away, but that makes the problem worse. They know they can’t take nothing from me, but my neighbor, they think they can take her food. So we stand up for each other. We stand up for those that can’t stand up for themselves.”

  The reporter spoke again.

  “Although officials have refused to sanction local activists like Jesus San Jassan, the reality is, with the US economy struggling to find focus, such groups have taken pressure off the police, fire departments and hospitals. With large portions of the workforce refusing to return to work in the factories and farms around the nation, the National Guard has stepped in, filling a vital hole in the supply chain. Estimates of the flow of essential goods such as fresh food and processed meats are at 80% of normal supply, and yet the shelves are still bare.”

  A deep voice came through on the radio as the broadcast switched to another anecdotal testimony from what was intended to be the average man.

  “For the past decade, I’ve been flying from Miami to Dallas on business at least once a month, but I ain’t never seen anything like this, even during the hurricane season. Yesterday, there were three of us. Three people on a plane designed for three hundred. Hell, there were more stewards than there were passengers. We joked around that we should serve them the drinks. It’s crazy, man. Ever since this thing turned up, the whole country’s been spooked.”