Sandstorm (Page 42)

Cassandra pulled the gun’s release trigger. The hooks snapped wide and sailed through the air, spiraling a thin cable of steel behind. A tight zipping noise accompanied it. The grappling hooks sailed over the balustrade of the third-story balcony.

Securing the hooks with a snug pull, Cassandra swung from the wall toward the garden below. Wind whistled. Dogs barked in a neighboring alley. She landed without breaking a twig and leaned against the wall beside the window, one ear cocked for the sound of alarm.

Silence.

She checked the window. It had been left cracked open a finger’s breadth. Beyond, the woman mumbled in her dreams.

Perfect.

8:18 P.M.

S AFIA STANDS in the waiting room of a large hospital. She knows what is going to happen. Across the way, she spots the bent woman walking with the limp, entering the ward. Face and form covered in a berka. The bulge under the woman’s cloak evident now.

…not like before.

Safia lunges to cross the waiting room, frantic to stop what is going to happen next. But children crowd around her feet, clambering at her legs, snatching at her arms. She struggles to push them away, but they cry out.

She slows, unsure whether to console or push forward.

Ahead, the woman disappears into the mass of people by the desk. Safia can no longer see her. But the station nurse raises her arm, points in Safia’s direction. Her name is called.

…like before.

The crowd parts. The woman is spotlit in her own light, angelic, cloak swelling out like wings.

No, Safia mouths. She has no air to speak, to warn.

Then a blinding explosion, all light, no noise.

Sight returns in an instant—but not hearing.

She is on her back, staring as silent flames race along the ceiling. She hides her face from the heat, but it’s everywhere. With her head turned, she sees children sprawled, some aflame, others crushed under stone. One sits with her back to an overturned table. The child’s face is missing. Another reaches toward her, but there is no hand, only blood.

Safia now realizes why she can’t hear. The world has become one scream stretched to infinity. The scream comes not from the children, but from her own mouth.

Then something…

…touched her.

Safia startled awake in the tub, choking on the same scream. It was always inside her, trying to get out. She covered her mouth, shaking out a sob, holding everything else inside. She trembled in the cooling water, arms hugged around her br**sts. Tight. Waiting for the echo of the panic attack to subside.

Only a dream…

She wished she could believe it. It had been too forceful, too vivid. She still tasted the blood in her mouth. She wiped her brow but continued to tremble. She wanted to blame her reaction, the dream, on her exhaustion—but that was a lie. It was this place, this land, home again. And Omaha…

She closed her eyes, but the dream waited, only a breath way. It was no mere nightmare. All of it had happened. All of it was her fault. The local imam, a holy Muslim leader, had tried to deter her from excavating the tombs in the hills outside of Qumran. She had not listened. Too confident in the shield of pure research.

The year before, Safia had spent six months deciphering a single clay tablet. It suggested a cache of scrolls might be buried at the location, possibly another sepulcher of the famous Dead Sea Scrolls. Two months of digging proved her right. She uncovered forty urns containing a vast library of Aramaic writings, the discovery of the year.

But it came with a high price.

A fanatical fundamentalist group took offense at the defilement of a Muslim holy place. Especially by a woman, one of mixed blood, one with close ties to the West. Unknown to her at the time, Safia was targeted.

Only it was the blood and lives of innocent children that paid the price for her hubris and gall.

She was one of only three survivors. A miracle, it was described in newspapers, a miracle she had survived.

Safia prayed for no other such miracles in her life.

They came at too high a price.

Safia opened her eyes, fingers clenched. Anger warmed past grief and guilt. Her therapist had told her this was a perfectly natural response. She should allow herself to feel this fury. Still, she felt ashamed of her anger, undeserving.

She sat straighter. Water splashed over the tub’s edge and washed across the tiles, leaving a trail of jasmine petals on the floor. The remaining petals sloshed around her bare midsection.

Under the water, something brushed against her knee, something as soft as a flower, but with more weight. Safia tensed, a rabbit in headlights.

The waters settled. The slick of jasmine petals hid the depths of the tub. Then slowly a lazy S-curve disturbed the layer from beneath.

Safia froze.

The snake’s head surfaced through the petals, a few clinging to its mud brown head. Gray eyes turned black as the protective inner eyelid pulled down. It seemed to be staring right at her.

Safia knew the snake on sight, spotting the telltale white cross atop its crown. Echis pyramidum. Carpet viper. All Omani children knew to watch for its mark. The sign of the cross meant death here, not Christian salvation. The snake was ubiquitous in the region, frequenting shady spots, found hanging from limbs of trees. Its venom was both hemotoxic and neurotoxic, a fatal combination, from bite to death in less than ten minutes. Its ability to strike was so broad and swift that it was once thought to be capable of flight.

The meter-long viper swam through the tub, aiming for Safia. She dared not move or risk provoking it. It must have slipped into the water after she fell asleep, seeking moisture to aid in the shedding of its skin.

The snake reached her belly, rising a bit from the water, tongue flicking the air. Safia felt the tickle on her skin as it sidled even closer. Goose bumps traced down her arms. She fought not to shiver.

Sensing no danger, the viper beached onto her belly, slithered upward, and slowly crested her left breast. It paused to flick its tongue again. Scaled skin was warm on her own, not cold. Its movements were muscular, hard.

Safia kept her own muscles tight, rigid. She dared not breathe. But how long could she hold her breath?

The snake seemed to enjoy its perch, unmoving, settling atop her breast. Its behavior was so odd. Why didn’t it sense her, hear her heartbeat?

Move… she willed it with all her might. If only it would retreat across the room, find some corner to hide, give her a chance to climb from the bath…

She found the need for air growing into a sharp pain in her chest, a pressure behind her eyes.

Please, go…

The viper sampled the air again with its red tongue. Whatever it sensed seemed to content it. It settled in for a rest.