The Didymus Contingency
Jeremy Robinson
ONE
B.C.
1985
Zambia, Africa
Tom Greenbaum was captivated. Herds of blue wildebeest and zebra scattered in all directions as Mpundu, the dirty, mild tempered pilot of the small Cessna rental, took Tom down for a closer look at the flora and fauna of the Zambian plains. It would have been easy for most people to lose track of time, staring at the creatures, whose lives and deaths played out on the brown tinged grass below. But Tom wasn’t most people. As a quantum physicist with an IQ of 167, the calculations needed to time a quick jaunt over the African plains were as easy as clipping fingernails.
Tom had planned this distraction well. His international flight from Israel to Zambia’s capitol, Lusaka, touched down at ten fifty three-ten minutes early. Megan expected his arrival at four o’clock and the flight to her mission took two hours. Tom scheduled his flight with Mpundu for twelve, giving himself an extra two hours time in the air. He was glad to be seeing his wife again, but experiencing this wild, untouched world from a bird’s eye view was too much to pass up. Besides, she would never know.
Hours flew past and they were soon cruising over a lush, green canopy of jungle trees, waterfalls and rivers. The peaceful surroundings and white hum of the Cessna’s engine propelled Tom to sleep, much to the relief of Mpundu, who had grown tired of Tom’s wonderment. Not until they were making their final approach did Mpundu break the silence.
“Mr. Greenbaum…Mr. Greenbaum, we’re almost there.”
Tom sat up and wiped the drool from his cheek. Embarrassed that he’d slept, he quickly ran a hand through his wavy black hair, making sure it was free of the bed-head that frequently plagued him.
“Mirror is there,” the pilot said, pointing to a mirror taped above the windshield. Smiling, he added, “But no one out here will care what you look like.”
Tom ignored the man as he looked at himself in the mirror. His brown eyes looked tired but he’d managed to shave, which helped highlight his strong, square jaw. Just the way she likes it, he thought. As he squinted against the lowering sun he asked, “What time is it?”
“Three forty-five. Tell me, why do you come to Zambia? You have seen the animals, but where you are going now has no animals.”
“Visiting my wife,” Tom explained, his voice softening with the thought of her face and smile. “She’s been here two weeks, but she’ll be staying another two after I leave.”
Mpundu’s face became visibly confused. “You say your wife? Here in Zambia for two weeks without her husband?”
Tom nodded. “It’s the longest we’ve been apart.”
“And you let her come here?”
“I would have stopped her if I could,” added Tom, “Trust me. Since she found religion, it’s been impossible for me to get through to her. I swear the whole lot of them has a death wish.”
Mpundu’s smile faded. “This is the worst place to come with a death wish.”
Tom’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Why’s that?”
“Because, Mr. Greenbaum, it usually comes true.”
Tom’s smile shrank away.
“We’re almost there,” Mpundu assured, “try not to worry.”
Megan wasn’t the type of woman to run from a fight, but this was slaughter and she knew Tom was flying into a deathtrap. She had to warn him. Megan peeked around the corner of a grass-roofed hut, which served as the chapel. She knew the thatched wall of the hut was thick enough to hide her, but it would do little to slow a bullet. She saw her brave co-workers, lined up, arms behind their backs. The men holding them prisoner remained out of sight, but she could hear their voices: strange, demanding and broken.
“Spet on his face! You do id nah!” a man shouted.
She knew all of her new friends would never give in. She knew they would all die. Just like Charles. He had been the first to refuse; he’d been dead for ten minutes now.
Megan could see Jennifer’s legs shaking. It was her turn now. She was eighteen, an eager intern from small- town Kansas. She’d been on the job for two days, yet her convictions ran the deepest. She managed to say, “Forgive them, Lord,” before a bullet cut her down as well.
Jennifer’s body slumped to the dirt. Megan covered her mouth, terrified she would scream and alert the butchers to her presence. But she couldn’t let that happen. Not while Tom was coming. This wasn’t his fight. This wasn’t his place to die.
Eyes wet and unblinking, Megan turned and ducked into the woods as another gunshot echoed through the forest. Branches stretched out for her-scratching at her, clawing at her. They wanted to slow her down. They wanted to kill her too. But her legs were strong from years of running and the thickets that blocked her path exploded away from her, tearing open her flesh and exposing an open path. Megan turned right and ran, ignoring the streaks of blood slipping down her legs.
Movement in her periphery caught Megan’s attention as she rounded a tree. She slowed and focused her vision. Four men were beating a fifth…but she didn’t know him. She took in the assailants. They had rifles slung over their shoulders. Each man was dressed in half-military fatigues and half-tribal garb, the kind of people you’d expect to see in a National Geographic full-page spread. The angriest, most savage and most passionate man wore a New York Yankees baseball cap.
Megan wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at the sight, but it was long enough for her to be noticed.
“A woman escapes!” one of the men yelled, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Megan’s gaze was frozen on the man who lay on the ground, covered in blood and beaten to a pulp. He looked up into Megan’s eyes using only his right eye-the left was swollen shut. Oddly, she noticed his clothing. Blue, button down shirt. Polished shoes…polished shoes in the Zambian jungle? His un-swollen eye grew wide and he yelled desperately to her, “Megan! Run!”
As Megan’s eyes snapped away from the man, she saw that the four locals were almost upon her. She launched into the forest, praying her feet would carry her fast enough, praying for the poor man she left behind. How did he know her name? Was he a friend of Tom’s?
Boom! Birds launched into the air behind her. She knew the stranger was dead. It made her run even faster.
The path was thin and winding, but Megan had run it every morning for the past two weeks. She knew every depression, every curve, and every fallen tree. They would never catch her here. But the path would soon end and she would be running through an open field. She was fast, but she was no Superwoman. She couldn’t out-run a bullet.
Mud splashed across her legs, mixing with blood, as she hurdled over a moss-covered, rotten tree. She could see the sky through the branches in front of her. The clearing and Tom lay just ahead.
