Bri Hager
SOMEWHERE TO THE NORTH OF THE SAHARA, WE HUNT DEATH.
Over golden humps of sandy mounds, through the pockmarked temples of forgotten kings, we scan for him, hope for him, will claim him soon. That’s what the TV in the middle of our room tells us at least, its picture wavering as a fit of static claims it again and my father raps a hairy-knuckled fist against it.
Next to me, my brother doubles over—hacking up a wet, breaking cough. I rub his back until it passes, smoothing away his sweat-drenched hair with my eyes still on the screen. Scalp and strand alike slip through my fingers. I used to trim the tufts, but not anymore. He won’t let me. So they seep from his head, an inch a decade, like weeds through frost.
“Marmy,” my father grunts, “get your brother a glass of water.”
I ignore him. We don’t have any more water, and we don’t need it anyway.
“—remains very promising,” the TV goes on, cutting to a fat, red sun squatting over a sea of sand. My mouth dries. I’m not sure why. “Below, in the roots of this place, there is still much to uncover. Catacombs. Crypts. Layers on layers on layers. Any one of them could be harboring our salvation, and the Cynx will be working, day and nigh—”
The television blinks off, its voice dying with it.