Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Children of Olive

It was hot. Not burning, like it had been in the nightmare, but feverish. It pulsed against her ribs, a steady thump-thump that was out of sync with her own heart.

"They swapped the soldiers," a man behind them muttered. "New unit. Golani. Look at the eyes."

Amal glanced up at the bulletproof glass booth overlooking the terminal. A soldier was sitting there, bored, tapping on a phone. He wasn't looking at the crowd. He didn't need to. The architecture did the watching for him.

The crush intensified. They were entering the "Tube"—the final twenty meters before the metal detectors. The roof lowered here, amplifying the sound of coughing and shuffling feet. It felt like being swallowed by a large, concrete intestine.

Topside, the Zenana buzzed —a constant, mosquito-whine that drilled into the skull. But down here, there was a different sound.

A low hum.

It was coming from the walls. From the floor tiles.

Amal felt it in her teeth. It was the same frequency she had heard in Huda's mirror. The frequency of erasure.

"They're scanning deeper today," Yasmin whispered, rubbing her temple. "Can you feel it? It's like a headache in my bones."

"Just breathe," Amal said. "We have the permits. We are valid. We are Is."

They reached the turnstile. The man in front of them—an old laborer with a face like a dried fig— swiped his magnetic card.

BEEP. Green light.

He pushed through. CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

Yasmin went next. She swiped. Her hand was shaking.

BEEP. Green light.

She pushed through, stumbling slightly on the other side as the pressure of the crowd released her. She turned back, waiting for Amal.

Amal stepped up. She held her permit card against the glass reader.

BEEP. Green light.

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