Fatma shrugged. Who read alumni newsletters? “So how are you ‘sort of’ trained to fight ghuls?”
“Simulations. One group of cadets dressed like ghuls, and chased the rest of us—”
Fatma held up a palm, not wanting to hear any more. Even in the dark, Hadia’s unease was plain. Understandable. Ghuls weren’t to be taken lightly. “You don’t have to come with me. If we’re at the storm’s epicenter, it might be lighter in other parts of the city. Maybe you can find a phone, get help—”
“I’m coming with you,” Hadia cut in. “I’m a Ministry agent. This is what we do.”
The resolve in the woman’s voice, even in the face of her fear, said the matter was settled. Fatma reached to her waist, pulling free the janbiya from its sheath. “Since you’re not fond of guns.”
Hadia accepted the knife, looking quizzical. “What are you doing with a janbiya?”
“Present from a Yemeni dignitary. Ministry did his clan a favor. He thought it a fitting gift for such a brave and ‘pretty young man.’ Didn’t bother to correct him. And kept the knife.”
Hadia balanced the weapon between her hands, testing its weight. “Oh, I like this!”
“I’ll expect that back.” Fatma glanced at the undead above. “Elevator’s out. We’ll have to take the stairs. This way.”
They made it to the stairwell, Fatma taking point with her gun drawn. Making a sign to indicate it was all clear, she led them up. It was darker here than in the foyer, and they slowed at every bend, to avoid running into anyone—or anything—by surprise. Somewhere in the back of her mind lurked the question of how exactly ghuls got into the Ministry. But she tamped it down. Time enough for that later.
They made it to the fourth floor without incident. There’d been more rumbling from the building’s infected brain—but no ghuls, praise God. Fatma felt guilty for not stopping at the other floors. But the people she knew and worked with were up here. She’d see to them first. Just as they reached the door a loud banging came from the other side.
“When we get in, keep low,” she whispered. “Remember ghuls are stronger than us. Fast too, but not very bright. Aim for the head. Got it?” Hadia gave a firm nod, eyes set—one hand on her pistol, the other on the janbiya. Together, they opened the door and stepped inside.
The office was dark—the only light coming dimly from windows where the sandstorm churned. But by now Fatma’s eyes had adjusted. There’d been a struggle here. Papers lay strewn about along with knocked-over chairs. But no people. Hadia tapped her shoulder, pointing to bullet holes in a wall. Must have been some fight.
Crouched low, Fatma led them down a side aisle toward the sound of the banging. Spilled cups of tea and a half-eaten bo’somat indicated people had been taken off guard. But gone where? The banging. That would tell her. As they got closer her nose picked up rotted flesh and earth turned sour. The unmistakable stench of the undead. Snatches of snarls and snapping teeth confirmed it. She was set to turn and warn Hadia when an arm shot out from the other side of a desk—brandishing a pistol. Fatma did the same on instinct, heart hammering. But wait, ghuls didn’t use guns. She made out a face.
Hamed?
The man let out a relieved breath. He was crouched as well, awkward for his big frame, and beckoned them to follow. He led them to where a long table had been turned on its side. Someone else was there, hunched down. Onsi. A smile lit up his round face at seeing Fatma and Hadia. But it vanished at another loud bang. They gathered together, backs to the table.
“Some weather we’re having,” Hamed half joked. Behind them the banging and snarling grew. Fatma needed to see. Turning, she lifted her head just over the edge and peeked out.
Ghuls. Their naked pale-gray bodies were visible in the dim light—misshapen mockeries of men with elongated limbs. She took a quick count. Twelve. No, one more clung to the ceiling, in their unnatural way. A whole pack, then. They massed about Director Amir’s office—some on two legs, others crawling on all fours. One wielded the back of a broken chair, hurling it against the office door. Every bang was followed by muffled cries from the other side. Human cries.
She sat back down. “What happened?”
Hamed’s expression turned dark. “Our friend from Sunday night. In the gold mask.”
Fatma’s hand tightened on her pistol at the confirmation.
“First the power went out when that storm hit,” he related. “Then the ghuls were just here … in our midst. It got crazy.” For the first time Fatma noticed the man’s usually pristine uniform was disheveled and he was missing his tarboosh. “We were fighting hand to hand. Amir got as many as he could into his office, where they’ve been holed up. Onsi and I have been trying to find a way to break them free. Now that you’re here—”
“Where is he?” Fatma more hissed than spoke. “The imposter?”
“He left. With several ghuls and that odd man who can … duplicate himself.”
“The ash-ghul,” Hadia put in.
Hamed eyed her dubiously. “If that’s what we’re going with…”
“Where did they go?” Fatma pressed.
“Don’t know. Said something about dragging our secrets into the light.”
I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.
Fatma played the words over in her head. Their secrets. Where did the Ministry keep its secrets? “The vault!” she breathed. “He’s heading for the vault!”
“The vault?” Onsi asked. “What would he want there?”
“Whatever it is, we can’t let him have it!” Fatma said.
Another set of bangs came alongside frustrated snarls.
“He can’t open the vault,”
