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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

She softened her voice.  “What do you want the world to be like?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because I don’t have any incentive to make it any better.  Not anymore.”

“None at all?”

“No.”

Angela looked around. Her gaze stopped on the playground again and she pointed at the playing children.  “Not even for them?”

There was no answer.

“What if your daughter were still here?”

Rickards suddenly shot her a stern glare.  “Don’t!”

“You said yourself this is bigger than all of us.  You, me, anyone.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then tell me this,” she said, looking back at the children.  “With the path this world is on, do you think things will be better for them… or worse?”

4

4

Hard polished gray tiles stretched the entire length of the long hallway, creating a loud echo from the woman’s heels as she walked.

Nearly every door she passed revealed another elderly patient lying in bed or sitting idly in a wheelchair with old, frail hands folded limply in their laps.  Some shook uncontrollably, all against a backdrop of distant coughing.

These patients were all in their final waning days and years.  Heads down. Sitting and waiting.

With each door the young woman passed, she briefly glanced in—sympathetically and respectfully—before eventually slowing as she reached the second to the last door, every one of them painted in a muted beige amongst perfectly matching walls.

She glanced in through the small window and, seeing nothing, reached forward to pull open the door, suddenly jumping when it was immediately pushed open from the inside, revealing a black-bearded man dressed in a light tunic and white skull cap.

Squeezing through the door, he promptly greeted the woman.

“A ‘Salaam Alaikum.”

“Alaikum a ‘Salaam.” The woman nodded and bowed respectfully, speaking in Arabic.  “You were the one who phoned me?”

“Yes, yes.  Thank you for coming.  We do not have much time.”

The young woman, dressed in a plain red dress instead of a traditional hijab, stepped back and peered curiously through the window again.  “Time for what?”

“Please,” the man answered, widening the door behind him.  “Come.  He is very weak.”

The woman cautiously followed, unsure of what or who was waiting on the other side of the wooden door.  She’d been told almost nothing on the phone, only that it was an urgent matter and she needed to come quickly.  Even in modern-day Egypt, when an imam summoned, you were expected to respond.

Inside the small room was a single hospital bed occupied by an older man. Tubes ran from his left arm up to a hanging IV bag, while a mask over his nose and mouth fed his thin, frail body fresh oxygen.

The man remained motionless, watching with a pair of sunken eyes as she entered the room.