James Frey - The Calling

More will burn.

More will die.

The people called the meteor that fell on Juliaca el puño del diablo . The Devil’s Fist. Eleven other fists punched into the earth, killing many, many more.

The meteors fell and now the world is different.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

Jago knows he should be above such feelings. He has trained to be above such feelings, yet he cannot sleep, cannot relax, cannot calm himself. He swings his legs over the bed and places his bare feet on the thin, cool carpet. He cracks his neck and closes his eyes.

The meteorites were just a preamble.

Todo, todo el tiempo, he thinks. Todo.

He stands. His knees creak. He has to get out of his compartment, move, try to clear his mind. He grabs a pair of green cargo pants and pulls them on. His legs are thin, strong. They’ve done more than 100,000 squats. He sits in the chair and puts on wool socks, leather moccasins. His feet have kicked a heavy bag over 250,000 times. He straps a small tactical knife to his forearm and slips into a long-sleeved plaid shirt. He has done over 15,000 one-handed pull-ups. He grabs his iPod and sticks in a pair of black earbuds. He turns on music. The music is hard, heavy, and loud. Metal. His music and his weapons. Heavy heavy metal.

He steps to the door of his compartment. Before exiting he looks in the full-length mirror. He is tall, thin, and taut, as if made of high-tension wire. His hair is jet-black, short, and messed. His skin is the color of caramel, the color of his people, undiluted for 8,000 years. His eyes are black. His face is pockmarked from a skin infection he had when he was seven, and he has a long, jagged scar that runs from the corner of his left eye, down his cheek, over his jaw, and onto his neck. He got the scar when he was 12, in a knife fight. It was with another kid a little older than him. Jago got the scar, but he took the kid’s life. Jago is ugly and menacing. He knows that people fear him because of the way he looks, which generally amuses him. They should fear him for what he knows. What he can do. What he has done.

He opens the door, steps into the hall, walks. The music blares in his ears, hard, heavy, and loud, drowning out the steely screech of the wheels on the rails.

He steps into the dining car. Five people are seated at three tables: two Chinese businessmen sitting alone, one asleep in his booth, his head on the table, the other drinking tea and staring at his laptop; a Chinese couple speaking quietly and intensely; a girl with long, auburn hair woven into a braid, her back to him.

Jago buys a bag of peanuts and a Coke and walks toward an empty table across from the girl with the auburn hair. She is not Chinese. She is reading the latest edition of China Daily . The page is covered in color photos of devastation from the crater in Xi’an. The crater where the Small Wild Goose Pagoda had stood. He sits down. She’s five feet away from him, engrossed in the paper; she does not look up.

He removes the peanuts from their shells, pops them into his mouth, sips the Coke. He stares at her. She’s pretty, looks like an American tourist, a medium-sized backpack next to her. He has seen countless girls like her stop in Juliaca on their way to Lake Titicaca.

“It’s not polite to stare,” she says, looking at the paper.

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he replies in accented English.

“I did.” She still hasn’t looked at him.

“Can I join you? I haven’t spoken to many people the past few days, and this country can be bien loco , you know?”

“Tell me about it,” she says, looking up, her eyes drilling into him. She’s easily the most beautiful American, and maybe woman, he’s ever seen.

“Come on over.”

He half rises and sidles into the booth opposite her. “Peanut?”

“No thanks.”

“Smart.”

“Hm?”

“Not to accept food from a stranger.”

“Were you going to poison me?” “Maybe.”

She smiles and seems to reconsider, like he’s challenged her to a dare.

“What the hell, I’ll take my chances.”

Her smile crushes him. He is usually the one who has to charm a woman, which he has done dozens of times, but this one is charming him. He holds out the bag and she takes a handful of the peanuts, spreads them on the table in front of her.

“How long you been here?” she asks.

“On the train?”

“No. In China.”

“Little over three weeks,” he says, lying.

“Yeah? Me too. About three weeks.” His training has taught him how to tell if someone is lying, and she is. Interesting. He wonders if she could be one of them.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“America.”

“No kidding. Where in America?”

“Omaha.” She’s not lying this time. “You?”

“Peru, near Lake Titicaca.” So he won’t lie either.

She raises her eyebrows and smirks. “I never thought that was a real place until these …” She points at the paper.

“The meteors.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “It’s a funny name. Lake Titty Caca.” She pronounces the words individually, like all amused English speakers do. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?”

“Depending on who you ask, it either means Stone of the Puma or Crag of Lead, and it’s considered by many to be a mystical, powerful place. Americans seem to think UFOs visit it and aliens created it.” “Imagine that,” she says, smiling. “Omaha’s not mystical at all. Most people think it’s kind of boring, actually. We got good steak, though. And Warren Buffet.”

Jago chuckles. He assumes that’s a joke. He doesn’t know who Warren Buffet is, but he has a fat, dumb American name.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” She cracks another peanut.

“What?”

“I’m from Omaha, you’re from near Lake Titicaca, and we’re on a train to Xi’an. The meteors hit in each place.”

“Yes, that is weird.”

“What’s your name?”

“Feo.” He pops a peanut in his mouth.

“Nice to meet you, Feo. I’m Sarah.” She pops a peanut in her mouth.

“Tell me—you going to Xi’an to see the crater?”

“Me? No. Just touring. I can’t imagine the Chinese government is going to be letting anyone get too close to it anyway.”

“Can I ask you another question, Feo?”

“Sure.”

“You like to play games?”

She’s outed herself. He’s not sure this is wise. His response will go a long way to determine whether or not he will be outed too.

“Not really,” he answers quickly. “I like puzzles, though.”

She leans back. Her tone changes, the flirtatious lilt melting away. “Not me. I like knowing things for sure one way or the other. I hate uncertainty. I tend to eliminate it as quickly as I can, get it out of my life.”

“Probably a good policy, if you can actually do it.”

She smiles, and though he should be tense and ready to kill her, her smile disarms him. “So—Feo. That mean something?”

“It means ‘ugly.’”

“Your parents name you that?”

“My real name is Jago; everyone just calls me Feo.”

“You’re not, though, even though you’re trying to be.”

“Thank you,” he replies, unable to stop himself from smiling, the diamonds in his teeth flashing. He decides to throw her a crumb. If she takes it, they will both know. He’s not sure that it’s a smart play, but he knows one must take risks to win Endgame. Enemies are a given. Friends are not. Why not take advantage of an early chance encounter and find out which this beautiful American will be?

“So, Sarah from Omaha who is here on vacation, while you’re in Xi’an do you want to visit the Big Wild Goose Pagoda with me?”