Read Online The Crisis by David Poyer - Free Book Online Page B

wind’s rising. It scoops dust out of the wheel ruts and blows it along the ground. Dust covers the sky and rasps his squinted eyes. “Zeynaab!” he cries into the ground. “Ghedi!”
    When the shooting stops and the motors go away his dread’s so deep he can barely jump up. He runs in clumsy circles, so as not to get too far from where he saw them last. He slams into an overturned cart, the wind rotating one wheel with a plaintive squeaking. An old man lies beside it. He’s cradling a child, looking away from Nabil. There’s a full skin lying next to him. It must have tumbled out of the cart when it went over.
    Nabil stops. He blinks away dust, eyeing the skin.
    A moment later he’s running, wrenching at the cork. The water runs down his face as much as down his throat, but he gulps and gulps. He moans as he drinks. Behind him a faint cry rises, lost in the wind.
    Â 
    ALL that day he walks in circles. The wind blows, then dies, blows and then dies. Something’s burning, an oily stink that reminds him of when he threw a rubber toy into the fire. Now and then refugees trek past. He climbs a hill to look for his sister and brother. The sun burns down. But he sees nothing but a far-off glint in the sky.
Airplane
, his brother told him once. He doesn’t know what that is.
    Late that afternoon he climbs another hill. This time he sees his sister, far away, headed away from him. A child-sized figure in black. He runs after her, all the way down the hill and then up and then down again. It’s a long way, and he’s staggering through flashes of light when he reaches her. But when she turns it’s not her, it’s someone else. She draws a small knife and slashes the air. “Go away!”
    â€œWhere’s your family?”
    â€œI don’t have one! Where’s yours?”
    He crouches, afraid to say the words. Finally he whispers, so no one but the girl will hear. “They shot my
huyo.
My father, I don’t know. My sister and brother, they were here yesterday.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your foot?” she says suspiciously, keeping the knife out between them and twisting it as if she’s boring into something. The blazing sun grinds sparks off it like a wheel when the village toolman sharpens an ax. Nabil stares at it. He wants a knife.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your foot? How old are you? What’s your name?”
    He tells her he has the limp-foot disease and doesn’t know how old he is. “My sister’s lost. She and Ghedi got lost when the trucks came.”
    â€œTrucks? What trucks?”
    â€œYou didn’t see the trucks? They came, somebody was shooting—”
    â€œI heard shooting. But it was from over the hill. What village are you from?”
    He tells her, but she’s never heard of it. She looks hard at him, then tucks the knife away. “Got any food?”
    â€œNo. Do you?”
    â€œBread. You can have a little.”
    They sit in the shade of a dune and gnaw at the hunk. It’s old and hard but Nabil doesn’t care. He wishes he’d saved some of the water in the skin.
    The shadows lengthen. The searing breeze dies as the desert cooldeepens. The sky turns rosy, then hazy brown streaked with golden flames. The two children find a rock that overhangs a scooped-out hollow of dirt. They examine it for scorpions or snakes, then crawl in. Nabil hesitates, then huddles close to the girl, smelling her smells, feeling her warmth. She twitches, and the blade scrapes as it emerges from wherever she sheathes it. But it doesn’t prick. Instead she lies still.
    Slowly, his arms creep around her.
    And he sleeps.
    Â 
    THE next day they set out along a high trail. It winds through huge rocks and goes up and down so steeply sometimes they have to scramble on hands and knees. The girl says it’s a goat path, but it leads to the sea, where someone said there’s food.