They appeared out of nowhere, and brought nothing but pain with them. From the moment they were discovered, deep within the Sahara desert, the Rainy ones granted an audience to only a handful of people. They never appeared on any TV program, never been interviewed or had their image printed in a newspaper or a magazine. No one really knew if they existed, or what they looked like, or were they even human and from this world. For the better part of the world, no one really knew they existed; they were nothing more than a myth, a local legend wrapped in mist and fabrications.
And yet, everybody talked about them.
There were whispers in the alleys and bragging stories in the pubs. Children asked their mothers about them, and they spread their answers among their peers. People talked, as they always do but, the truth was, no one knew why. For some people, the Weepers, as they were called, were nothing but a newly discovered tribe that survived hidden and untainted through all these centuries.
For others they were an alien race that crashed somewhere in the Sahara; buried the remains of their space ship and are now waiting for someone to come pick them up. Of course, even the fact that they were found in the land of the pyramids was “not coincidental”.
But, with all the guessing and talking, no one really knew the truth. From the moment they were discovered, the Weepers demanded isolation and protection which resulted in a sort of voluntary confinement. Instead of moving them, Egyptian government asked European Union for help in dealing with the situation and granted EU unique access and control. Twenty squared miles of desert was converted into a military-controlled “special status” camp.
The entire area was fenced, covered and guarded by carefully selected army personnel, mostly French and German. The entire operation was silently blessed by the UN; although USA and China objected strongly, no one vetoed the operation. The area was completely quarantined, no-fly zone established; even satellite imagery of the area was firmly controlled.
I was sitting in the back of a black Land Rover, one of five identical ones that were disturbing the late evening sand on an improvised road to the camp. I was alone, as expected, so I had plenty of time to think on my ride from Cairo yesterday. I was provided with a lot of reading material about the Weepers, most of it marked “top secret” but didn’t really feel I know anything more about them than two days ago, when I was first informed I’ll be heading here to the Weepers camp.
I wasn’t asked, or given much choice really. The phone rang, and I was told that my presence was required at the camp and the very next morning few soldiers escorted me to the airport. They didn’t talk much, I didn’t bother asking anything so, other than the “brochures” about the Weepers I was given after landing in Cairo, I had no idea why I was here. I’m not working for any of the governments involved or any government at all, for that matter. I’m not a soldier, a doctor, or a scientist. I am a writer; and only a mildly popular one, at that.
Part of me wondered what was going on, but most of me just enjoyed the ride. I was curious, who wouldn’t be? So, until they discover the mix-up, I might as well absorb as much of it all as I can. And I did. My mind was already conjuring all kinds of possibilities and conspiracies about the Weepers and my involvement with them. I watched the Sun as it dived into the sand and wondered what tomorrow will bring.
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