Inside Straight

Jonathan Hive

Hey, Guys. My Dad’s Got a Warehouse! Let’s Put on a War! Posted Today 8:16 pm

GENOCIDE, ASWAN | EXHAUSTED | “WHO BY FIRE” — LEONARD COHEN

It’s been a hell of a day, but I’m still standing (in the metaphorical sense, since I’m sitting on my ass in a bar in Syrene).

I’m falling asleep on my again-metaphorical feet here. But I’ll do the best I can to catch you folks up. A little geography first. You’ll need it.

Okay. There are two cities at Aswan. Aswan itself is on the east side of the river, near the train tracks. The Egyptian army’s over there. In the middle of the river, there’s Sehel Island (and Kitchener’s Island, and Elephantine Island, and Amun Island with, I shit you not, a Club Med), where a bunch of the Living Gods are holed up. On the west side of the river, there’s Syrene. That’s where we are. The Aswan airport’s on our side. Got that so far?

Okay, next (and much to my surprise), there’s not a dam. There’s two dams. The Low Dam is older, farther north (which is to say downstream—up and down the Nile’s confusing when you’re used to reading north as up) and nowhere near as apocalyptic as the High Dam. The High Dam? That’s to the south.

When you were a kid, maybe you heard about how the Nile flooded every year. Well it doesn’t anymore. Because that whole goddam flood is stuck back behind the High Dam. I mention the dams not only because if they blow, a whole lot of people die, but also because they’re the only two ways across the river that don’t involve boats. So if you had a big infantry force bent on killing a shitload of people like, say, me, the dams are pretty much where it’s going to be an issue.

We knew that when we got here. It also became pretty clear that the Egyptian army really wanted to get across the dam—what with their helicopters and tanks and guns and bombs and their whole fucking army, we weren’t going to be able to stop them.

Funny thing happened, though.

The cavalry arrived.

~ ~ ~

The war council met at a restaurant about three blocks from the Monastery of St. Simeon. The place smelled of baked raisins and garlic, and the light from the windows made the air seem cleaner than it was. The Living Gods sat at a huge table, arguing, planning, debating, and despairing. Jonathan had picked up enough of the language to catch a word or phrase here and there, but for the most part, he and Lohengrin were excluded. Fortune—Sekhmet, really—was shouting and pounding the table, or nodding, or shaking his head and pointing east.

“There are still the helicopters,” Lohengrin said.

“We are aware,” Sekhmet replied, using Fortune’s throat. “But on the island, there is some protection from the ground troops.”

Fortune didn’t look good. The whole not sleeping thing was eating at him like a cancer. And Jonathan was quite aware that neither Fortune nor Sekhmet was going to rest until the refugees were safe, or everyone died. Lohengrin was looking pretty tired, too. Sobek had lost a couple teeth. No one was doing well.

“The problem here,” Jonathan said, louder than he’d intended to, “is that we’re fucked.”