Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

Grasslands gave way to pockets of rainforest. Mud coated the track, making the drive difficult as the wheels slipped, and Bower had visions of trying to push the truck out of a ditch, but Elvis seemed to know when to drop down a gear and gun the engine so as to avoid sliding sideways into a rut.

For a moment, Bower dared to consider she could be wrong, and not just about her academic understanding in regards to the sentience of other animals, about everything. Life seemed as incorporeal as the mist in the early morning. Everything she knew growing up in Europe, or about medicine and science, or the bitterness of life in Africa, it all seemed surreal. She had awoken from a dream. Reality had arrived from the stars, and it scared her to realize that everything she knew, every aspect of life she trusted was as frail as a house of cards. Everything that seemed so important suddenly became trivial and insignificant. Earth was a mote of dust drifting in a sunbeam.

No one noticed when she shook her head softly, trying to clear her thoughts. Perhaps they did, but they didn’t say anything. For her, those few seconds had been terrifying. She’d lost her grounding. Bower breathed deeply, suppressing the anxiety welling up within. She had to shut down this train of thought. She clenched her fists. Her nails bit into her palms, her forearms flexed, and slowly a sense of calm returned.

As the road dried out, Jameson and Elvis chatted idly about getting back to their base in Fort Benning, Georgia. They spoke with a sense of nostalgia, and yet Bower wondered if they were as enamored with the base when they were actually there. She doubted it. The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence. In some ways, she envied them. They had a common bond, something they could bullshit about to unwind, leaving her feeling like a spare wheel.

“So you think we’re going to make it, Doc?” Elvis asked after a couple of miles, coming up with his question out of nowhere. Bower wasn’t sure what he meant initially, but she could tell the question had been gnawing away at the back of his mind.

“Out of Africa?” she asked, wondering why he would ask her.

“No. I mean, are we going to make it through all this alien stuff?”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” she replied with the scholarly authority only a doctor can pull off with aplomb. She had no idea, but she wasn’t going to let him in on that. It was important to maintain the illusion, if only for herself. Bower was disappointed. She’d thrown up a facade. Was it fear or pride that had governed her response? She wasn’t sure, and yet she felt she had to stay upbeat.

Positive expectations are important, she thought, rationalizing her position. All too often in her medical career she’d seen situations where the gravity of a medical emergency or a chronic disease looked hopeless, and yet she’d learned she can always give hope. It wasn’t a case of lying, more of framing the truth in an optimistic manner.

Looking into the eyes of a patient and telling them they had a 50/50 chance at living was heartbreaking. It had to be done, of course. But knowing that your life had no better odds than that of a coin toss was earth-shattering. Hope was a placebo. Hope could tip the balance. Hope endured when the body faltered. Bower had seen hope pull patients through against the odds. But placebos only worked if you believed in them, if you were naive to reality. For Jameson and Elvis, her words were a placebo, for her they were a lie.

“The boys are taking bets on this being the end of the world,” Elvis continued. “Three-to-one against the aliens being peaceful. The smart money says they’ll attack.”

“I’ll take on those odds,” Bower said in a show of bluster. “Put me down for twenty bucks on a nice, friendly neighbor. And if I lose, I doubt there will be anyone to collect.”

Jameson laughed. He started to say something and seemed to think better of it.

“No, go on,” Bower said, turning toward him, wanting to know what was so funny.

“There was another bet,” he said. “That the Doc would side against an attack.”

“And the odds,” she asked, surprised to be at the center of a betting proposition.

“Lousy odds. A dollar to a dollar fifty.”

“And which side were you on?”

“Oh,” Jameson replied, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Neither Elvis nor I would bet against you. And, hey, you came good.”

Elvis laughed.

“This isn’t the end of the world,” Bower said, trying to convince not only Jameson and Elvis but herself. “This is just the beginning. In the centuries to come, this will be seen as the dividing line in history. There will be everything that happened before Contact and all that follows after. The implications are vast. Our science textbooks will become obsolete with all we stand to learn about the universe. The world has changed, and for the better.”

She wanted to believe that, she had to believe that, anything else would be to capitulate to fear.

Jameson leaned forward, pointing at Elvis as if to say, I told you so.

Elvis laughed, adding, “Oh, the world looks just as shitty today as it did yesterday, Doc.”

Bower went to say something but Elvis cut her off, saying, “I hope you’re right, I really do.”

“Me too,” she replied with a forced smile.

The drive to Ksaungu took six hours.

As they approached the city they could see smoke rising lazily in the air, dark black plumes hung above the distant buildings. Traffic was congested. All semblance of order had broken down. Cars, trucks and motorcycles clogged the roads and footpaths. Drivers honked their horns, yelling at each other, frustrated in the stifling heat. The stench of sewage sat in the air.

Bower had moved to the back of the truck during one of the bathroom breaks, giving Alile the chance to sit up the front with Jameson and Elvis. Alile had been reluctant, but Bower was insistent. There was no elite foreigners-only club, just humanity trying to survive its own best efforts at self-destruction, and besides, she could use the distraction of caring for others.

Bower sat in the back talking with Kowalski, the nurses and patients.

The rear of the truck was covered in a canvas tarpaulin. There was little to hold onto and Elvis wasn’t the most considerate of drivers. A slight breeze leaked in beneath gaps in the canvas near the cab of the truck. At the back, a canvas flap fluttered in the breeze, but dust kicked up by the tires swirled behind the truck, preventing them from opening the canvas up entirely.

For the most part, everyone was in high spirits, but the premature baby was unusually lethargic. He was on a drip, and Bower was worried about him. His mother sat there rocking with the motion of the truck, stroking the child’s head gently in the sweltering heat.

“Hey Doc,” Jameson yelled out, leaning out of the window and lifting the canvas. “There are signs for a Red Cross station up ahead. Looks like they’re as stubborn as you. We’re going to take your folks there, OK?”

“Yes. Please,” she called back over the sound of the diesel engine roaring as Elvis pulled out into heavy traffic, crossing a main thoroughfare.

The roads in Ksaungu were paved with asphalt, allowing them to open the canvas back and let air circulate more freely within the rear of the truck.

The buildings in Ksaungu were pockmarked with the scars of war. Bullet holes straddled the rough concrete walls. Large chunks of masonry marred the streets, marking where tanks had once battled for control of this provincial capital. Power lines ran down one side of the street in absurd bundles of ten to fifteen wires running from lamppost to lamppost. Numerous other wires peeled away from the posts in what looked suspiciously like illegal wiring. At least, Bower thought it was probably unregulated, with little regard for safety, but in Africa that didn’t mean it was an illegal tap. Amidst the cars and trucks, horse-drawn carts trundled along carrying vegetables and meats to the markets.