Dust and Alcohol

Ziyad woke up to the sound of a fly buzzing against his window. The light felt like a needle stabbing into his brain. His room smelled of stale gin and unwashed clothes. It was the smell of a man who had given up on the world five years ago.

He rolled off the mattress. His feet hit the cold, sticky floor. He didn’t look in the mirror. He knew what was there. He knew the red eyes, the messy beard, and the hollow cheeks. He reached for the bottle on the nightstand. It was empty.

Ziyad cursed under his breath. He grabbed a dirty jacket and stepped out into the hallway. The Al Raml district was already alive with the sounds of poverty. Children screamed in the alleyways. Old men sat on plastic chairs, watching the dust settle on the cracked pavement.

Ziyad walked toward the corner store. His steps were heavy and uneven. He felt the phantom weight of a gun at his waist, a habit from a life he tried to forget. But there was no gun now. Only the craving for a drink to drown the screams in his head.

Mustafa, the shopkeeper, looked at him with a mix of pity and disgust. Mustafa set a bottle of cheap, locally made vodka on the counter before Ziyad even asked.

Mustafa said, “This is the last one on credit, Ziyad. The boss is complaining.”

Ziyad ignored him. He grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap. He took a long, burning gulp right there in the shop. The liquid fire settled his nerves. It stopped the shaking in his hands.

Ziyad muttered, “The boss can wait for his money.”

He stepped back out into the blinding sunlight. That was when he saw her.

She was standing next to a small moving truck parked in front of the building next to his. She was carrying a box. She didn’t look like she belonged in Al Raml. Her jeans were clean. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail. She looked like hope, and Ziyad hated hope.

Ziyad narrowed his eyes. He felt a familiar urge to push her away. In his mind, purity was a target. If she stayed here, the shadows of this place would tear her apart. He decided to make her leave before the city did it for him.

Ziyad stumbled toward her. He made sure his walk was more erratic than it actually was. He let his head hang low.

Ziyad shouted, “Hey! You! The one with the box!”

The girl stopped. She turned slowly. She didn’t look scared. Most people crossed the street when they saw Ziyad coming. She just stood there, waiting.

Ziyad stepped into her personal space. He smelled of sweat and high proof alcohol. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

Ziyad sneered, “This isn’t a playground for little girls. You looking for a thrill? You want to see how the poor people live? Go back to your father’s villa.”

The girl didn’t move. Her eyes were a deep, calm brown.

Lin said, “I’m just moving in. It’s a public street.”

Ziyad laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. He reached out and tapped the box she was holding.

Ziyad said, “Moving in? Within a week, someone will steal your shoes. Within a month, you’ll be crying for your mother. Look at me, princess. This is what this neighborhood does to people. I’m the best thing you’ll see here, and I’m a walking corpse.”

He leaned closer, trying to look as threatening as possible.

Ziyad whispered, “Leave now. Pack your trash and run. Before I decide to make your life a nightmare myself.”

He waited for the tears. He waited for her to drop the box and run for the truck. He had done this to three other tenants in the last year. It was his way of protecting them from the Ghost that still lived inside him.

Lin didn’t cry. Instead, she set the box down on the pavement with a heavy thud.

Ziyad asked, “What are you doing? I told you to”

Lin didn’t let him finish. She reached for a plastic bucket sitting near the truck. It was filled with water and cleaning supplies. With a sudden, swift motion, she swung the bucket.

The cold water hit Ziyad full in the face.

The shock was total. The ice cold liquid soaked his hair, his jacket, and his shirt. The world snapped into sharp, terrifying focus. The fog of the alcohol vanished instantly, replaced by a stinging clarity.

Ziyad gasped, wiping the water from his eyes. He felt a spark of his old reflexes. His muscles tensed. For a split second, he wasn’t a drunk. He was the Ghost again, ready to strike.

Lin didn’t back down. She stood with her arms crossed, her eyes mocking him.

Lin said, “The dead don’t drink, Ziyad. If you want to be a corpse, go lie down in the dirt. But stop wasting my time with this pathetic act.”

Ziyad froze. The world seemed to stop moving. The noise of the street faded into the background. He stared at her, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Ziyad asked, “How do you know my name?”

Lin picked up her box again. She stepped toward him, forcing him to move out of her way.

Lin said, “I know a lot of things. I know you weren’t always a mess. I know those scars on your arms didn’t come from falling down while drunk. And I know that if you don’t move, I’m going to get the second bucket.”

She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his. She entered the building without looking back.

Ziyad stood there, drenched and shivering. The neighborhood kids started laughing. Mustafa stood in the doorway of his shop, shaking his head.

Ziyad whispered to himself, “Who is she?”

The night brought no peace. Ziyad sat in his dark room, staring at the wall. He hadn’t touched the bottle Mustafa gave him. The water from the bucket had washed away more than just the grime. It had washed away his shield.

He kept hearing her voice. The dead don’t drink, Ziyad.

She knew him. She knew his name. No one in Al Raml knew his real name. To them, he was just the drunk or the crazy guy. Only the syndicate knew his name. Only the people he had spent five years running from.

He stood up and walked to the window. He looked across the narrow alley to the opposite building. A light was on in the third floor apartment. He saw a silhouette moving behind the thin curtains. It was her.

Ziyad grabbed his jacket. He needed to know. He needed to find out if she was a ghost from his past or a scout for Abu Malik.

He went downstairs and stepped into the alley. The night air was thick with the smell of burning trash and exhaust. He stayed in the shadows, moving with a silence that shouldn’t belong to a man who drank a bottle of vodka a day.

He saw two men standing near the entrance of Lin’s building. They weren’t locals. They wore leather jackets and stood too straight. One of them held a cigarette. The other was looking up at the third floor.

Ziyad felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. He knew those men. They were soldiers. Low level runners for the syndicate.

Man 1 asked, “Is that the place?”

Man 2 said, “Yeah. The boss said a girl moved in today. She’s been asking questions about the girls at the docks. We need to remind her where she is.”

Ziyad’s blood turned to ice. They weren’t here for him. They were here for her.

He watched as the two men entered the building. Ziyad didn’t hesitate. He followed them, his footsteps making no sound on the stairs. He felt the old adrenaline pumping through his veins. His vision narrowed. The world became a series of tactical choices.

He reached the third floor. The door to Lin’s apartment was slightly ajar. He heard a muffled scream and the sound of a chair falling over.

Ziyad burst through the door.

One man was holding Lin against the wall, his hand over her mouth. The other was tossing her boxes onto the floor, looking for something.

Ziyad didn’t shout. He didn’t warn them. He moved like a shadow.

He grabbed the man near the boxes by the collar and slammed his head into the wooden table. The sound of bone hitting wood was loud in the small room. The man collapsed.

The second man let go of Lin and reached for a knife in his belt.

Ziyad didn’t give him the chance. He stepped inside the man’s reach and delivered a sharp blow to his throat. The man gasped, clutching his neck. Ziyad followed up with a kick to the knee, feeling the joint pop. The man fell to the floor, groaning in pain.

Ziyad stood over them, his chest rising and falling slowly. He didn’t look like a drunk anymore. His eyes were cold, focused, and deadly.

Lin was huddled against the wall. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide. She looked at the two men on the floor, then at Ziyad.

Lin asked, “You… you really are the Ghost, aren’t you?”

Ziyad didn’t answer. He walked to the man on the floor and grabbed him by the hair.

Ziyad asked, “Who sent you? Was it Abu Malik?”

The man spat blood on Ziyad’s shoes. He laughed, a wet, gurgling sound.

The man said, “It doesn’t matter. You’re already dead, Shiver. We knew you were here. The girl was just the bait to see if you still had teeth.”

Ziyad tightened his grip. “Where is he?”

The man didn’t answer. He fainted from the pain.

Ziyad stood up. He looked at Lin. She was standing now, straightening her denim jacket. She was pale, but her hands weren’t shaking as much as he expected.

Lin said, “Thank you.”

Ziyad stepped toward her. He felt a strange mix of anger and something else he couldn’t name.

Ziyad asked, “Why are you here, Lin? This wasn’t a coincidence. You knew they would come for you. You used me.”

Lin looked him in the eyes. She didn’t deny it.

Lin said, “I needed to know if you were still in there. I need help, Ziyad. My sister is missing. She was taken by the same people who made you hide in a bottle for five years. I can’t find her alone.”

Ziyad looked at the mess in the room. He looked at his own hands. They were steady for the first time in years. The craving for alcohol was gone, replaced by a cold, familiar hunger for vengeance.

Ziyad said, “You’re crazy. You’re going to get us both killed.”

Lin stepped closer. She reached out and touched the scar on his hand. It was the same spot she had touched earlier.

Lin said, “We’re already dead, Ziyad. We’re just waiting for the funeral. Why not take a few of them with us?”

Ziyad looked at her for a long time. The silence in the room was heavy. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance.

Ziyad said, “Pack your things. We can’t stay here.”

He turned to leave, but he stopped at the doorway. He looked back at her.

Ziyad said, “And don’t ever throw water on me again.”

Lin smiled, a small, tired smile.

Lin said, “I make no promises.”

Ziyad walked out into the hallway. He felt the weight of the world returning to his shoulders, but this time, he wasn’t going to let it crush him. The Ghost was back, and Al Raml was about to get a lot colder.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old burner phone he had kept hidden for years. He turned it on.

The screen lit up. One new message.

Welcome back, Ghost. Let’s see how long you stay awake this time.

Ziyad crushed the phone in his hand. The hunt had begun.

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