24991125 | 0316

  Hapi Clinical Research Hospital | Maadi | Floodzone Cairo

  29°57′24″ N

  31°15′18″ E

  Dr. Karim El-Masri washed his hands in the water basin.

  The tap rattled hollow.

  Then the water spat out, accompanied by something alien.

  The red algae.

  It pooled in the plastic basin it looked all too uncomfortably like diluted blood.

  It got into the filtration system too.

  Dr El-Masri stared blankly at the algae.

  He had stopped wondering about the strange tide three hours ago.

  The lights flickered, uneven and tired, as the generators strained to output power.

  He dried his hands on his coat and moved to the next patient.

  His coat stained red.

  He resumed his round.

  The nurses and volunteers nodded at him as he passed.

  Emergency tripods with floodlights threw hard white cones across the hospital.

  Flood victims lined the corridors.

  They sat. They lay. They curled up in a ball.

  They have nowhere else to go.

  Stretchers lined the walls where a volunteer’s artwork still clung in fading colors.

  A mural of the Nile, painted by children, now looked obscene in its optimism.

  Dr El-Masri looked out a window.

  The city was submerged.

  People waded through knee-deep water.

  The Nile glowed red.

  Dr El-Masri stood next to a boy.

  Twelve, maybe thirteen.

  Hypothermia. Minor fractures. Shock.

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  “Breathe,” Samir murmured, adjusting the thermal blanket. “Slowly. You’re safe.”

  The boy did not answer. His eyes tracked nothing.

  Samir checked the pulse. Steady. Weak, but steady.

  Good enough.

  He moved on.

  By 03:16, every hospital in Cairo had been overwhelmed.

  More of the dead and wounded streamed in.

  The press of bodies.

  The stench of humanity.

  The breath of those near death.

  El-Masri took heart.

  Whatever they unleashed at the Aquifer.

  Seem harmless.

  He smiled sardonically.

  Harmless.

  His patients would beg to differ.

  Patients in. Assess. Stabilize. Out.

  No time for names. No time for stories.

  He wondered, not for the first time, if his family survived the flood.

  The living demanded priority.

  A woman with a crushed ankle.

  A man coughing river water.

  An elderly imam who refused morphine and recited prayers through broken teeth.

  A young mother in premature labor.

  Dr El-Masri delivered the child himself, hands steady despite the tremor in his shoulders.

  The infant emerged screaming, furious at existence.

  Good.

  Anger meant she is alive.

  He wrapped her quickly and passed her off.

  A life.

  A survivor.

  A miracle.

  But they will write stories of her.

  The miracle baby of Floodzone Cairo.

  The baby borne in the midst of suffering.

  Hopeful.

  The circumstances do not matter, hope was what the city needed right now.

  The tale of her birth will be told and retold.

  She will be showered with praises.

  She will carry the stigmata forever.

  He stepped into another ward

  It was full of patients, survivors, stragglers.

  He looked out of the window again.

  At the Nile.

  Red.

  Floodlights caught the suspended algae and debris, turning the water into something thick and unreal, like a wound that refused to clot.

  For a moment, he thought of his grandmother.

  She had told him stories when he was small.

  Exodus.

  The Plagues.

  Rivers turned to blood.

  Darkness at noon.

  The arrogance of ancient pharaohs.

  He had believed as a child.

  He had laughed at them when he grew older.

  Superstitions.

  Metaphors.

  He was a man of science.

  Now he stood ankle-deep in history’s echo.

  “It’s just algae,” he said softly.

  To himself.

  He could picture his grandma, nodded gently.

  Smiling indulgently.

  He turned away.

  He returned to work.

  As he walked back towards the door, a thought intruded.

  Adam Nightblade.

  The Harbingers.

  Their resuscitation.

  They were awaited.

  He was there.

  He supervised it.

  He signed the reports.

  Had approved the procedures.

  He remembered Adam.

  Is it… a cure?

  No. I’m sorry.

  I like you to keep the last part of our conversation between us.

  He had believed.

  He had faith.

  Now he was no longer certain.

  For what it’s worth, you have my thanks.

  How much had the Church lied?

  How much had Adam lied?

  How much had he himself chosen not to see?

  Not for the first time in the night, Dr El-Masri asked himself if - had he known, would he not had resuscitated them?

  He had also wondered, if Adam had known.

  Did he know?

  That he would be the cause of the suffering of millions?

  That he would be the bringer of pestilence, the herald of doom?

  A Harbinger.

  Would he, a doctor, had acted differently?

  He had asked himself the same question, many times.

  He thought of his colleague, Dr Vicki Shi.

  Would she had approved?

  Or, perhaps this was the end she sought.

  Dr Vicki Shi’s face came unbidden.

  He could picture, her cold smile and her triumphant face.

  Dr El-Masri dismissed the thought.

  This was no time for philosophy.

  This was medicine.

  People were dying.

  The city needs him now.

  His beautiful city.

  Was his faith worth this?

  No.

  He dismissed the thoughts.

  He dismissed his misgivings.

  He dismissed his doubts.

  He would not indulge in regret.

  As Dr El-Masri resumed his rounds, he took a little cold comfort that his heart was still capable of ache.