Page 26 of Whisper
The nerve center looked like a computer repair shop had exploded. Bare light bulbs strung from electrical cords hanging on nails cast long shadows over everything. Empty crates became stools and tables, lining the walls around the main room.
Kris finally found his pack, and Haddad, in one of the tiny curtained rooms as the sun was setting, throwing long lines of tawny light through the open patio doors at the front of the compound. The building had a musty scent, as if it had been locked up for too long, unused and unentered. George wanted the doors open, even though it was freezing.
The rooms were cramped and square, with dusty rugs stretched across the floors, faded and worn, and nothing else. The air was cold, damp. The musty smell was stronger in the rooms.
Haddad had emptied his ruck, and what looked like an entire pharmacy was spread out in the tiny room. Medicines, syringes, IV bags, lines, bandages, splints, surgical tools, and more. He had the same basic gear Kris had, a sixty-pound load, plus most of the medical gear for the team. How had he managed to pack all that?
Kris toed a bucket of pool chlorine powder, something that came off the shelf at any Walmart store. “Chlorine? For pools?”
“It will kill anything in the water. We can use it in the bathroom, too. Keep things sanitary. And for drinking. If we have to resort to using it, this will make the water safe to drink for us.”
“I didn’t think it was that easy.”
“Well, it will give us a bad stomach upset. The cure is only slightly better than the disease.” Haddad shrugged. “I’m going to set up a makeshift clinic down in one of the stables so everyone has access to what they need, whenever they need it.” He frowned at the rest of the gear he’d spread around—his ammo and spare batteries, night vision goggles and scopes, clothing and GPS and electronics. “Kind of a tight fit in here.”
Kris’s stomach clenched. “I’ll… I’ll find somewhere else to crash. I just came to get this—” He hefted his ruck, holding his breath.
“All the other rooms are full.” Haddad kept stacking medical supplies in his arms. He didn’t look at Kris.
What had George said to Haddad? Had he warned Haddad away, told him to be careful ofthe gay one? Was all this gear, everywhere, Haddad’s way of saying he wouldn’t fit, he wasn’t welcome?
Kris lifted his chin. Fine then. Add Haddad’s name to the list of people he would prove wrong. “I’ll figure something out. Thanks for bringing my ruck in, but I can handle it myself.”
Haddad’s hand on his elbow stopped him. “It’s going to be a tight fit, but we’ll make it work.”
Chapter 5
Panjshir Valley, Afghanistan
September 23, 2001
Kris was in Lower Manhattan, at Church and Barclay Streets. The World Trade Center, the Twin Towers, soared above. He’d thought, once, that the buildings held up the stars, kept the blue of the sky above from crashing down on the city. They were the pillars of the world, fixtures in his life from when he was a toddler growing up on the Lower East Side.
But the towers were on fire, billowing flames and black smoke rising and rising, clouds like shadows blocking out the sun. Planes kept flying into the towers, endless numbers of planes turning over Manhattan, flying too low over the city. He heard the roar, felt the rumble in his bones from jet engines only feet above his head.
He tried to scream, tried to bellow, but nothing came out. His voice was gone, and no matter how much he screamed, the jets kept flying, closer, closer, closer—
He fell to his knees as a plane slammed into the South Tower, again. His knees hit dust, a powder that felt like the moon. He pitched forward, burying his face in the desolation, his fingers trying to grab something, anything in the dust.
His hands closed around bone.
Rearing back, Kris tried to crawl away. Bones surrounded him, everywhere. A leg bone, a thigh, next to a skull, staring at him with vacant eyes, resting cockeyed in the dust.
The towers were gone, and so were the flames. All he could see, in every direction, was dust and bones. Bones, flung in every direction, a graveyard of bones, thousands and thousands of human beings. Ash fell from the sky, the remnants of the world, his world, coating his skin and choking his lungs.
He couldn’t breathe. Ash clung to him, and dust. He screamed, trying to get the dust off. It was dust of the world, dust of the dead, dead he’d failed. The dust was trying to kill him, trying to turn him to dust as well. He wanted to give in, let them have him. He felt his soul begin to shatter.
Shapes moved in the gloom. He tried to reach out, beg for help.
Marwan al-Shehhi appeared, grinning, like in his passport photo. Khalid Al-Mihdhar followed, blank eyes staring Kris down.
Mohamed Atta strode out of the gloom, behind al-Shehhi. His square jaw, his dark eyes. A permanent scowl etched on his face, lines across his skin made from hate and endless wrath. Black flags flapped in a hot wind, snapping and cracking like gunshots, like planes slamming into buildings.
He had something in his hand.
Kris tried to back away, tried to crawl away. He screamed, flinging dust and ash at the hijackers’ faces. “You did this!” he wailed. “You murdered everyone!”
“No,” Atta said. He kept coming, rising over Kris, looming over him. He was as tall as the World Trade Center had been, as tall as the towers. His eyes were hollow, empty sockets, images of two planes slamming into the Twin Towers playing on repeat in the darkness where his eyeballs should have been. “Youdid this.”
