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Uzbekistan, two weeks ago
ZULFIZAR HAD BEEN hiding for hours in a hovel near the cotton field she was working. She was curled up, unable to speak a word or describe the horror she had experienced a few hours ago.
That morning, Zulfizar had woken at four and walked more than an hour to get to the cotton fields of Aydar Lake, in the sparsely inhabited plains of Uzbekistan. That was her daily routine, and although she was only twelve-years-old, she was already an experienced cotton-picker. It was pahta, cotton’s harvest time and Zulfizar’s whole family worked in the fields. What Zulfizar didn’t know that morning was that she would be the only one who would survive the havoc that would overtake the day.
It was early afternoon, and the workers were resting after their humble lunch. Zulfizar was sleeping in her mother’s arms, protected from the sun by a makeshift awning, when a terrifying noise pulled their attention towards the plantation. They stood up and gazed towards the turmoil. What they saw made their fingers numb and their hearts race. Their friends, their coworkers, their relatives, people who were working with them a few minutes ago, collapsed one by one upon the cotton plants. Some of them were running panicked, as to save themselves from an invisible enemy; most of them swooned before they found their way off the cotton field. A few bypassed them in frenzy, screaming in terror, running frantically until they collapsed. A hand grabbed Zulfizar’s arm; she turned around, and she came face to face with a young girl her age. The girl’s face was white as snow like there was no blood left in her body. Her bulging eyes appeared to be frozen, as if in an ice cube. She was staring at Zulfizar without seeing her. Zulfizar raised her hand to touch the girl’s arm, but then something strange happened. A cracking noise sounded from inside the girl’s head, a sound like a watermelon cracking open, and streams of blood poured out the girl’s ears and nostrils. As the girl collapsed on the ground lifeless, Zulfizar keened and hid in her mother’s arms. But it wasn’t the warm hug her mother used to give her. Zulfizar lifted up her head slightly and looked into her mother’s eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, those eyes that were once full of warmth and kindness, were now like trapped in an icy cage, staring at her daughter with a frightened face without recognizing her. “Mom,” Zulfizar whispered, but she received no answer. A hollow sound from inside her mother’s head was the last sound she ever heard from her mother.
And now Zulfizar was hiding in a quiet corner, but the silence surrounding her wasn’t to last for long. The cracking noise of the door made her turn her gaze to the entrance as a dark silhouette entered the room. She shrank in fear and covered her face behind her knees as the man approached and kneeled in front of her.
“Qo'rqmang, don’t be afraid,” the man told her in Uzbek. His calm voice helped her calm down. He was a living human being; his eyes weren’t ice cubes; his face wasn’t pale as the dead; he was breathing and talking to her. However, his appearance made her feel uncomfortable. She had never seen grey eyes before. And his clothes looked peculiar too. He didn’t wear the traditional kaftan the men of her region favored, but rather linen trousers the color of the sand and a white shirt; attire she had never seen before in that underpopulated area of Uzbekistan. However, he wore an embroidered blue and ruby red duppi, the traditional colorful cap the men of her tribe wore, which accentuated the color of his eyes. She looked at him, entranced, as he stretched out his hand to her.
“Kel,” he said, inviting her to follow him outside the hovel. Seeing her reluctance to follow him, the grey-eyed man put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a candy. “Olish, eat,” he said as he offered her the candy. Zulfizar took the candy hesitantly and unwrapped the wrapper. She looked at the candy curiously. “Yemoq.” The man invited her to taste the candy. “Kel. Come,” he repeated as she took a bite of the delicious dessert. Moving slowly, Zulfizar stood and followed the man outdoors. She let a small cry escape as she took a squint at the macabre sight of dead bodies, cadavers white as snow, shattered around the cotton field. And there, on her left, under the makeshift awning, lay her mother’s corpse, her open eyes like a crystal ball.
“Onam,” she said, pointing to the woman’s dead body. “Onam,” she repeated, putting her palm on her heart.
“Onam? Mom? Is that your mom? Your onam?” he asked, and she nodded.
“I’m sorry, girl. But I don’t have time for this. Kel.” The grey-eyed man motioned to her. He took a small plastic bottle out of his backpack. “Suv? Water? Where is the water?”
“Suv?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes. Ha. Suv. Where? Qaerda? Where is the water? Qaerda is the suv?” he said, shaking the empty bottle.
“Mana. U yerda,” she replied, pointing behind the hovel.
“Kel,” the man told her as he ran towards the place she had pointed out.
Zulfizar followed his lead, confused who this man was and what he was doing in this area of the world. He was clearly a foreigner, the first she had ever met, but he was the only living human being in a sea of dead bodies, her parents’ among them. Zulfizar couldn't decide whether the grey-eyed man was the enemy or her savior. Whoever he was, she decided that she would take her chances. She measured her options; she didn't have much to hope for. Either she would collaborate with him, or she would starve. She had no one to protect her; she had no one to care about her. If that man proved to be her death, then let it be. With no food, no money, no family, she was dead already.
The man opened the lid of the tank and stared at the still water as if he was searching for something before he dropped a red capsule in it.
“Did you drink of this water?” he asked her, but he got no answer. Zulfizar couldn't understand a word. “You. This water. Did you drink of it?” the man insisted, trying to mime his words with movements.
Having misinterpreted his pantomime, Zulfizar stretched out her arm to push it into the water.
"Stop! Do not do this!” the man yelled at her. “Never mind. Whatever the reason is that you survived, you are a lucky little lady,” he said softly. “This water is the reason all those people died. I wish you could tell me if you drank of it. If you did not, then you being still alive does not make any sense to me.”
He opened his backpack and took off a pair of latex gloves and a small bottle. After he put the gloves on, he dipped the bottle into the water. Then, he taped up the bottle, placed it in a plastic bag, and after he sealed it, he placed it carefully in his backpack. Noticing Zulfizar's puzzled look, he took another candy from his pocket.
“Take it. But do not drink from this water, you understand? No! Wa! Okay?” The girl's bulging eyes gave away her confusion.
He started walking towards the jeep he had parked a few meters away. He had to leave this place before the local authorities arrived. No one could know he was there. This girl already knows, he thought. He stopped walking and looked at her watching him with her deer eyes watering. Her life had already been hard as a child-worker at the cotton fields, but from now on, her life would be even harder. She had lost her mother, possibly the rest of her family too; she would be an orphan, left alone in this shitty place.
“I really don’t have time to deal with this,” he shouted at her. “I need to make a stop at Lake Aydar and then get the hell out of here.”
He had taken his place behind the wheel and had the engine started when a knock on the car window took him out of his thoughts. The girl was looking at him through the window glass, her eyes red and hollow.
“Oh, no. I really don’t have time for this,” he said as he started driving. He drove only a hundred meters before he did a U-turn. He stopped the jeep in front of the girl and opened the front-seat passenger’s door.
“Kiring, come in,” he said to the girl, who jumped in with no hesitation.
“What’s your name? Nomi? What’s your nomi?” he asked.
“Nomi? Ah. Mening ismim Zulfizar,” she replied.
“Zulfizar? Okay. Zulfizar,” he repeated as if trying to imprint her name into his memory. “Hi, Zulfizar, I’m not very happy to have met you. Anyway, I’m Duclan Davis, Dr. Duclan Davis, but you can call me Duclan,” he said as he started driving again.
Noticing the puzzled look on her face, he repeated, pointing to himself, “My nomi is Duclan. Duclan. And now, let’s see what I’m going to do with you.”