DAY 40

“You have the child,” are Kashif’s first words as he takes a seat in the plane. There are three young men sitting in the cabin with him. The Messenger is seated across from him, curious. The three young men don’t resemble each other. They are not brothers, or part of a brotherhood, like the other groups. These men are educated from various corners of the world. The screens of laptop computers flicker against the screens of their lighter faces. The man who speaks first is fair-skinned, almost freckled by the eyes. His accent is educated, private school British. He doesn’t act like he is caught in a lie. He is transparent, through and through.

“Not with us on this plane, but yes, we have the child. And yes, he does perform miracles at our command.”

Kashif nods. He knows the man who speaks for the other two is the most powerful terrorist on the planet now. A position he once held. He is the future. He is dressed in a business suit as well. There is an aura about him not requiring a formal introduction of names. His presence introduces and speaks on his behalf. He is special. He is not weakened by anything, most especially a conscience. His demeanour is razor sharp as are the creases of his suit and his jawline. The other two type feverishly on their computers. Their business is not his business.

“I will not thank you or praise you like the others, if you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t expect any different,” answers Kashif.

“I understand who you are, why you are valuable to the council, but your history is of no value to me. I create my own set apart from what you have created.”

Kashif is well aware of the man’s confidence, which may appear unappreciative, ungrateful or downright arrogant to The Messenger. He also deduces the angles this man is presenting him. He is invincible, just as he was one day in the past. He believes himself immortal, which gives him hierarchy over all human beings. He has convinced himself he is greater than his own imagination of himself.

Heavy silences seem to press the plane down to a lower elevation. Kashif doesn’t feel the need to talk. Neither does this leader. The others are working on their computers. In the reflection of the plane windows, and in this cocoon of tan leather upholstery, Kashif can see, hear and smell them creating stories via media. These are storytellers furthering the legend of power. Kashif knows what terrorist group this is. The young man was right. It is a group distinct from the concepts of terror he first created. This group prides itself on promotion, publicity, video—visual statements. This group creates fear with story, with film, with shock value. They stage executions as in days of old and then use such episodes to disseminate fear into online veins. Kashif considers his ways old in their new context. Yet, they are artists, just the same. They simply understand the theory of distribution.

The plane descends upon a city of ruins, an area of stone rubble, collapsed buildings and perpetual dust rising to cloud the air like a windstorm. When the plane lands in this deserted city, Kashif immediately recognizes the place. It was once a city of gold, worship and excess. Now it is deserted, destroyed, bombarded, abandoned, like a forlorn planet of rock and debris.

The landing is smooth and when the door floats open, Kashif and The Messenger are escorted through a former downtown area and into an unsuspecting building. They descend further down a flight of stairs, at which point there is a glimmering elevator door, stainless steel and too modern for its rustic surroundings.

The elevator descends further towards the center of the earth until it reaches a bunker. The bunker, like the plane, is centered by a crescent table. There are men sitting at the table. One of which is recognizable to Kashif as the father of the mother of his child, the unknowing grandfather of his dying daughter. When Kashif enters the room, the entire room rises to applaud his entrance. Kashif is embarrassed by this reception. The Young Man does not applaud. He is stoic and firm in the face. He leaves the room and motions to take The Messenger with him.

“Please, he is with me.”

“He will have to die, afterwards.”

“I will kill him myself.”

The Messenger seems like a lost child in this exchange and Kashif doesn’t assure him everything will be all right. The Young Man is correct. This type of conversation, this type of knowledge is forbidden. Only a few can live to tell.

A man with albedo skin begins the proceeding. He is sitting next to his lover’s father, his daughter’s grandfather. His ignorance makes Kashif stronger.

“We received your blood. You are.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Returned.”

“Yes.”

“We believed you dead.”

Her father is darker skinned and bearded grey. Each of the men is dressed formally. Everything appears uniform to Kashif, just as he expected. Blood will have blood. Business will have business.

“You want something,” the man with white hair on the panel asks.

“Yes.”

“And you will return?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you want?”

“The child.”

“The child is yours.”

“We want something as well.”

“My blood.”

Kashif knew they needed his blood for much more than identification. He can feel The Messenger’s curiosity behind him. Or perhaps The Messenger is reacting to the fact he will soon die. He must have persuaded himself it would never happen. The Young Man must have frightened him.

“My blood is yours.”

“We will use it to complete the final stage of terror. We will recreate your genius.”

His daughter’s grandfather introduces this concept. Kashif refutes it nonetheless to hide his ability to read their minds.

“My blood alone will not accomplish this.”

“Which is why you will join us. You will be the master teacher on this council. You will guide us into the supernatural future.”

After hearing this prognostication, Kashif knows the next step is scientific in nature. Creating terror from the root up. Not just replicating it from tradition. The Nazis were well on their way to cloning an Aryan race. Other operations had already experimented with the idea. Creation. Creating terror from a cell in order to immortalize it forever, just like God created life so that it could die and rise again in a more perfect form than when it began.

The miracle child must have increased their belief in the science of the supernatural. Absolute power was only achievable on one level up until the child’s discovery. Until the child arrived, they simply used faith and religion to justify violence and the assumption of power. But the arrival of the child introduced new and creative possibilities. The power to create. The fall of Lucifer. Greatness beyond The Great. The potential of their ideas and dreams.

And his blood was a link in this calculation. The evolution of his instincts needed to be a part of this new terror recipe. Supernatural terror.

“I will join you,” Kashif confirms. He sees a vacated seat on the council. He assumes this seat has been reserved for him.

The council is pleased. Her father is pleased, almost proud without knowing the real reason why. Kashif wonders if The Young Man will be as pleased with his promotion to the council. Perhaps he expected it for himself. There was envy in his ­mannerisms. Kashif’s resurrection from the dead might have interrupted his plans to achieve council status.

Kashif stands alone in the center of the bunker and he is instantly weakened by the fear that his daughter might have already perished. He doesn’t know where the thought comes from. He doesn’t see it coming like a bullet in the back. Perhaps this is so because he hasn’t seen her for quite some time. He grows desperate to see the child and to validate his miraculous powers. His faith is weakened. His instincts are confused where it concerns her.

“Where is the child?”

The council senses his impatience. He is a desperate man before them. He doesn’t resemble the man they remembered. Her unknowing grandfather is confused by this hint at weakness. Kashif wonders if they regret stealing his blood, although he didn’t put up much of a fight.

The Messenger is also shocked by this sudden panic in the room. It reeks of uncertainty. He has never seen a kink in the armour of Kashif’s resolve.

“He will be on the plane waiting for you. And then he will return with you.”

Kashif knows he has made a mistake. He has shown weakness and a dependency on finding this miracle child for an alternative agenda. The Young Man enters the bunker. He is smirking as if having listened in on the conversation.

Kashif knows that he knows. But this weakness is necessary, just as age is necessary to introduce the greater possibility of death on the horizon.

He attempts to reclaim the mistake he made, as subtle as it was.

“Do you have his blood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The Young Man escorts Kashif and The Messenger back to the plane. The other two are not present. A child is sitting on the seat. He is barefooted and his socks have been recently pulled off of his feet. There is a green bubble rising and shrinking from his nostril. His eyes are slanted, although not ethnically. He is disabled in a way even Kashif hadn’t anticipated.

The Messenger breathes relief when he realizes they are the only ones on the plane. Kashif approaches the child and the child embraces him softly. At once, Kashif understands he has met the council’s greatest enemy and the seed of its downfall.