Xenophobia Page 9

  Kowalski took his glasses off, wiping a tear from his eye.

  “I assumed he’d give the fives priority, but he only ever called for the threes and fours. The ones and twos survived with pain management administered by the paramedics.

  “Not one of the fives survived beyond midnight, and he knew that would happen, the bastard. I hated him for that. God, how I hated him, and yet he was right. We treated almost two hundred people that night, and we only lost eleven souls. All but one of them carried a five on their forehead.”

  Kowalski breathed deeply, composing himself.

  “To this day, I can’t pick up a blue whiteboard marker without my hands shaking uncontrollably. I’m fine with black, green or red, but just looking at a blue marker brings me out in a cold sweat.”

  Bower found her lips were pursed, shut tight in anguish. She didn’t know what to say. Kowalski had been thinking about this in far greater depth than she had.

  “This whole fucking country is a five, Liz.”

  Bower nodded. Tears ran down her cheeks as he continued.

  “There’s nothing we can do, not a goddamn thing.”

  Kowalski rested his hand on her thigh, patting her gently as he stood up, saying, “Sometimes the right decision is the hardest decision of all. We came here to make a difference. We can no longer do that. As much as I hate to say it, it’s time to leave.”

  Bower struggled to swallow the knot in her throat.

  Kowalski started walking toward the bathroom.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said in the same, deadpan tone of voice, switching subjects effortlessly as though it were entirely natural. He walked into the bathroom with his shoulders stooped, the weight of an entire country bearing down upon him.

  Bower sat there for a few minutes, listening to the sound of running water falling like rain in the bathroom. She felt empty, but she had to move on. She understood that.

  Kowalski was almost six feet tall, there was no way he'd fit on the couch, she figured. While he was in the shower, Bower took a pillow and a sheet from the cupboard and turned off the light. She curled up on the couch with the sheet draped over her.

  Bower was still awake when Kowalski came out of the bathroom but she kept her eyes shut, pretending she was asleep. She wasn’t, but she didn’t know what else she could say to him. There were no words that could soothe the grief they were both feeling.

  Lying there in the dark, Bower felt the seconds pass as though they were hours. She had no idea how long she lay there awake but after an age she heard Kowalski softly snoring. Ordinarily, this would have kept her awake even longer, but on that night his gentle rasp brought relief. As with all things, time marched on and her body demanded its rest even if her mind rebelled.

  In the morning, Bower woke to the sound of the soldiers playing in the courtyard below. They were boisterous, yelling at each other, throwing a football around. It was late when she arose. This was becoming a habit, she thought to herself, but she knew it was a physical reaction to the stress she was feeling, wearing her out. Five, she thought, remembering the conversation from the night before. Was Kowalski right? She didn’t want to know. Her head said yes, her heart refused to reply either way. For now, she had to put that behind her.

  Why did they let her sleep so late, she wondered? Didn’t Jameson want to push on to Lilongwe? And she remembered the discussion with the Red Cross. Jameson was probably trying to find out what was happening in Lilongwe so they didn’t go from the frying pan into the fire.

  After going to the bathroom and freshening up, Bower dressed and headed downstairs. She found Jameson and Kowalski sitting in a decrepit restaurant by the pool. The water in the pool was green, but that didn't seem to worry the soldiers who were hell-bent on emptying the pool with the biggest possible splashes they could muster. They ran and jumped into the murky water, sending tidal waves crashing over the edge of the pool and out across the cobblestones. The courtyard must have been quite nice once, but missing tiles and cracked walls betrayed neglect.

  Jameson and Kowalski were talking with another man, someone Bower didn't recognize.

  "James Leopold," the middle-aged man said, standing to greet Bower as she walked over. "Reporter for Rolling Stone and African correspondent for CNN."

  Leopold’s pale complexion looked out of place in Africa. His hair was neatly cropped. As a young man he wouldn’t have been out of place in a Sears catalog, he had that natural, handsome look and engaging smile that seemed to guarantee a sale. Bower figured he was in his mid to late fifties, perhaps his early sixties, and he still looked good. He was trim and fit. A light dusting of gray sat on either side of the dark hair on his head, making him look distinguished rather than old.

  "Elizabeth Bower, I'm a doctor with Medecins Sans Frontieres."

  “The pleasure is mine,” he replied, shaking her hand gently.

  And he had a smooth tongue to match, thought Bower.

  "Do you want some breakfast?" Kowalski asked. "They've got eggs. They're not very good, but a bit of protein doused in fat never hurt anyone, right?"

  "Sure," Bower replied, a little confused by Kowalski and his surprisingly upbeat mood. Last night had been a watershed moment for her, but he appeared to have switched off after what had seemed like a conversation reserved for a confessional booth. Two Hail Mary’s and three repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer, would that really wash away the past? Somehow, he’d shut down those seething emotions, or perhaps that was the impression he wanted to give. Either way, she could understand that. Being doctors, they both knew introversion was professional suicide, leaving only an empty shell. There came a point where you had to bury the past and move on. For her, though, one night seemed too quick. She doubted he was over what had happened yesterday at the hospital. She knew she wasn’t.

  Bower sat down as Kowalski got up and walked behind the bar, disappearing into the kitchen. Jameson must have picked up on the look of surprise on her face.

  "The help here is a bit inconsistent. If you want something, you've got to go get it yourself. Your buddy, Kowalski, isn't a bad chef."

  Bower smiled, pouring herself a glass of water.

  "Like kids, aren't they," she said, gesturing toward the soldiers by the pool. Elvis was lying on a deck chair with his shirt off, sunning himself, while Smithy was being chased by several of the other soldiers. They crash tackled her, flying into her and dragging her into the pool. She didn’t seem to mind a bit of wrestling.

  Bosco was the only one doing any work. He was sitting beneath the shade of a poolside umbrella, working on the radio. Beside him, another soldier lay asleep in the shade.

  "Shouldn't they be soldiering, or whatever else it is you normally do?" Bower asked. She wasn't being mean, she was curious. Jameson must have sensed her question was genuine and not a criticism.

  "Yeah. Seems a little out of place, but that's army life for you. These guys have not only been trained to fight. They've been trained to exploit. In the army, you never know what's coming next. So if you don't have to stand, you sit. If you don't have to sit, you lie down. If you don't have to be awake, you sleep. Either way, you exploit whatever opportunities you have, as you never know what the next 48 hours will demand of you. So it's good for them to let their hair down, have a little R&R, although I need Bosco to get that radio fixed. We need to find out what's happening in Lilongwe."

  Bower nodded.

  "So, Dr. Bower," Leopold said, pulling out a small worn pad and pen.

  "Liz, please," Bower replied, wanting Leopold to address her informally. She felt a little uncomfortable with his tone, not sure how she’d walked into an impromptu interview.

  "Liz, what do you make of all this?"

  Leopold had already started jotting notes, but she wasn’t sure why. How could he write something before she had even replied? Besides, Bower doubted she could tell him anything of any significance.

  "Me? I think it is grossly irresponsible for the international community to pull out
of Malawi. I don't see how an alien spaceship changes anything on the ground here in Africa. There are plenty of people in NASA and ESA to deal with that, and I think the biggest danger we face is not from some alien visitors as from our own paranoid reactions."

  Leopold never lifted his eyes from his pad. Didn't they use digital recorders these days, she wondered, although pen and paper would probably never go out of vogue, especially when electrical power was in short supply.

  "And the imposition of martial law?" Leopold asked.

  "We're in the middle of a civil war. There's no room for civil liberties at a time like this."

  "Oh, I wasn't talking about Malawi, I was talking about the US and Europe."

  Bower felt her blood run cold.

  "What?" she exclaimed.

  "How much do you know?" Leopold asked, looking up from his pad for a second.

  Jameson added, "Nothing." And Bower could see he was as taken back as she was by the concept. In that moment, the noises around her faded into the background, the soldiers playing in the pool, the government helicopter flying overhead, the sporadic gunfire she’d grown accustomed to in the distance, they all slipped into silence as she focused on Leopold’s words.

  "The United States has gone into meltdown, with President Addison under house arrest and the National Guard on the streets. Commerce has ground to a halt. Supermarket shelves have been stripped bare. Gas stations are running dry. Congress issued anti-hoarding laws and has ordered public servants to continue working through the crisis, but the vast majority of those in non-critical roles have stayed away from the office. The media hasn't helped. They've whipped the country into a frenzy, with reports of alien craft touching down across the United States."

  "They've landed?" Bower asked.

  "No one knows for sure. There's so much confusion. Several videos of aliens attacking a farmhouse in Iowa have gone viral, but they were later debunked as fakes. Regardless, though, the panic they generated was real. Now, no one knows what to believe.

  "Some aspects of society are still functioning, but not many. Schools are closed. The police are overwhelmed. Hospitals are running low on supplies. It ain’t pretty. You think it’s bad here? At least here we know who the enemy is. Over there, there’s mass hysteria.”

  As he spoke, Jameson turned his head. Bower followed his gaze. A dark trail cut through the air above the city, striking a government helicopter and sending it spiraling to the ground. The chopper was barely a gnat in the distance, and yet plumes of black smoke billowed from its fuselage as it twisted and corkscrewed through the air, plunging to the city below.

  “Yeah, well,” Jameson said. “I doubt they’re firing RPGs at each other.”

  Kowalski walked over, placing a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Bower along with a knife and fork.

  “Did you want some orange juice?” Kowalski asked, gesturing toward a glass pitcher sitting on a table in the courtyard. The drink had been set out for the soldiers. Plastic cups lay scattered on the table and across the ground. The football must have struck early on, barely missing the pitcher, knocking the cups across the tiles. The ruddy contents within the glass jug looked more like Kool Aid than juice. Ice floated on top of the drink. Bower looked at Kowalski somewhat surprised he could be so detached and nonchalant. For her, it was as though he were the construct of some surreal dream. She took a fraction of a second to reply.

  “Ah, no. Thank you.”

  Her head was spinning. She took a bite of the eggs. They were slightly salty, and the burst of flavor brought her back to the moment. It was only then she realized how hungry she was.

  “The Russians, Chinese and Germans are all on a war footing,” Leopold said. “They’re mobilizing their armies, but against who?”

  Bower felt as though she was supposed to provide some profound insight into his comment, but she was out of her depth. What difference would her opinion make? She averted her eyes, looking down at the plate as she ate. Leopold seemed to sense that and shifted the subject back to Malawi.

  “What brought you into a war zone?”

  Bower was barely aware of Kowalski on the periphery of her vision. He’d wandered out into the courtyard by the pitcher of orange juice. He stood there for a few minutes, staring up at the sky.

  What brought her into a war zone? That wasn’t an easy question to answer. For her, life was more than an episode of Jeopardy where answering half-a-dozen questions could solve everything. She was in no mood for the patronizing interest of a journalist killing time. She wasn’t quite sure how to describe her mood, whether it was a blend of disappointment with herself, anger at the United Nations or frustration over the warring factions in Malawi, but playing twenty-questions wasn’t high in her priorities.

  “Look at me,” she said, taking Leopold off-guard, forcing him to look up from his notepad. “Don’t just listen to my voice. Don’t be deceived by the sense of civility and culture in my accent, the air of regal British speech in my eloquent pronunciation. Look at me for who I am. Look at the color of my skin, the texture of my hair.”

  Bower put her knife and fork down and held out her arms. She was wearing a short-sleeve blouse with the top two buttons undone. Her dark African skin was a stark contrast to the soft, white cotton. Although she’d washed her face, with the heat of the day already upon them she was sure she was perspiring, and she knew that gave her dark skin an oily sheen.

  “We are all from Africa, Mr Leopold, it is just a question of when our ancestors left this accursed continent. As for me, it was at some point in the late 1800s, while for you it was thirty to forty thousand years ago.

  “What is it that defines a man or a woman? We’d like to think we’ve finally moved beyond the color of one’s skin, but now it seems it’s the shitty patch of dirt above which they were born. And yet we are no different. Our differences arise only in how and where we were raised. But what a difference that is. For you, coming from the First World, your life expectancy is somewhere in the high eighties. These people around us, though, they’ll be lucky if they make forty. And why? It’s not just the civil war, it’s everything we do to each other, it’s the superstitions, the prejudices, the insatiable lust for power, the weakness that leads to corruption.

  “A bunch of little green men appear on the scene, and we’ll show them what we want them to see. We’ll show them our universities, our operatic concerts, our art and culture, but I hope they see this. I hope they see dusty Malawi. I hope they see the orphans. I hope they see the widows, for then they’ll see us for the contradiction that is humanity.”

  Bower looked deep into Leopold’s eyes.

  “The question shouldn’t be what brought me to a war zone, it should be why the hell are there still war zones? Why the hell do we treat each other with such disdain? When will we grow up? Perhaps ET will have a few pointers for us, if we don’t shoot him out of the sky first.”

  Leopold had stopped writing. He was looking past her, out of the courtyard and up at the sky. Bower was incensed. He was ignoring her.

  Kowalski sat down next to her with two glasses of orange juice, putting one in front of her even though she’d said she didn’t want another drink. She looked at him. His eyes were blank, and she realized he was struggling with everything that was happening. The world was changing so fast. Like Leopold, Kowalski had to be filtering what he’d heard her say, substituting what he wanted to hear. Bower sipped at the juice without saying a word, but clearly the pressure was getting to them all. Rather than orange juice, her drink tasted like watered-down Tang.

  Jameson got up with a start, the steel legs of his chair scraping on the tiles. He walked out into the courtyard by the pool. It was only then Bower realized the yelling and playing of the soldiers had ceased a few minutes beforehand. She turned and looked at the soldiers. They were standing still, looking up into the sky in silence. To her surprise, the gunfire that sporadically erupted throughout the city had faded.

  Something was wrong.

&nbs
p; Bower walked out behind Jameson.

  There, in the cloudless blue sky, sat the alien spacecraft hundreds of miles above Earth’s atmosphere. Although Bower wasn’t sure quite what she had expected, the sight before her was like nothing she could have ever dreamed of. At first glance, she assumed she was looking at the moon, with its soft bluish white surface visible in the daylight, its dark side hidden by the bright sky, but this was no thin crescent, no silver arc reflecting back the sunlight from the depths of space, this was a living organism.

  Tentacles rippled around the edge of the alien craft, fine cilia waving with the light. The alien spaceship reminded her more of a single-celled bacterium than a machine that traversed the stars. Fascinated, she stood there in awe with the soldiers. Like a waxing moon, part of the craft was hidden in shadow, but those surfaces that caught the sunlight showed up in astonishing detail, revealing the craft’s elongated shape.

  The craft pulsated, its cilia moving in waves like the wind rippling across a field of wheat. Shapes formed like fingerprints and then faded away. The very structure of the craft seemed to change, as though it were not a fixed shape. The alien vessel appeared to ooze through space.

  “Mother fucker ...”

  Bower wasn’t sure who had spoken. Normally, she wasn’t one for profanity, but under the circumstances she was inclined to agree. Of one thing she was sure, humanity had no idea what it was dealing with. There were no parallels. There was no point of comparison, nothing to draw upon. Whatever these aliens were, whatever they represented, however they thought, whatever their motives, Bower was sure there was no earthly equivalent.