I barely slept last night after Dad had left me with a turbulent ocean of thoughts in my mind. Dad's version of the new era is totally different from mine. I won't live in the city I grew up in. I won't graduate from college because simply I'm not going to attend one; at least for a while until we are done with the Invaders, or they are done with us. If the Invaders are planning to escalate things up, I'll have more than college to worry about, then.

Can it be possible that Dad's wrong about the Aliens? I desperately try to find another explanation for yesterday's events, but his theory so far is the best I can get. What kind of friendly people who would turn all our devices off? This is just war harbingers, and that's why Dad believes we are in great danger. That's why he insists that we must abandon the city.

I can't help thinking of our ark; a 1958 Mercedes 230. The pride of German industry belongs to my late Grandpa—my mother's father—who refused to sell it for any reason. "That car was destined to be spared for a day like that," Dad told me last night. I believe in destiny, but I'm not sure about Dad's idea. "If I remember correctly, there were no electronic components in cars at that time." What if he remembered wrong?

Dad's awake, I hear his footsteps. Usually, I don't wake up before 11 AM during summer break, he knows this fact. But we are in a desperate situation that requires desperate measures...like waking me up with the first sunlight.

The door creaks when Dad slowly pushes it open. I raise my head to show him I'm awake already. "Am I moving now?" I yawn.

"It's about time, soldier." He gives me a faint smile.

"Don't you want to come with me?"

"I'm not done with your mother yet," he sighs. "She doesn't want to leave her house. Eventually, she'll come around, but that will take some time."

Mom is not an outgoing person at all. The fourth day of any trip we make outside Alexandria is a damn hell to her, and consequently to us—Dad, me and my sister—and she spends the last three days complaining of not feeling well. "Take me home, Yousry," she asks Dad. "You will never understand because you were not born here(*)," she always tells him. Well, I was born here, like her, yet I don't suffer from the same symptoms of severe homesickness when we travel.

In one word, convincing Mom to leave Alexandria forever will take ages of arguments and debates. Good luck, Dad.

"We don't know when the Invaders' next strike is," he tells me, "Maybe it's one hour later. Maybe it's next week. But it's soon. And that's why we can't afford to waste time. Do you understand the situation, Ali?"

I nod. His last question makes me really feel like a soldier. Perhaps, he's now feeling he's a Navy Commodore, like the good old days.

"I have a question, sir." I raise my hand.

"Sure." He puts his hands on his waist. We both are enjoying this.

"About the Grandpa's Mercedes, sir; was it working before the EMP in the first place?"

* * * *

Today I'm a six year-old boy.

I don't remember the last time I rode a bicycle. Those are the pedals where I'm supposed to place my feet. My hands on the handlebars, checking that the brakes are smooth. My forefinger pushing the bell lever. RING RING RING, and yet I'm not moving. The two men standing on the opposite side of the street stare at me like: what the heck is wrong with this lunatic?

"Please, Mr. Ali, take care of it."

Shaaban, the doorman of our building, is worried about his bicycle. I can't blame the poor guy who watches me mess with his ride. If it's up to him, he would never let me take it, but he wouldn't dare to say no to Commodore Yousry.

"I'll take good care of it, Shaaban." I grin, trying to reassure him, but I know he will never feel easy until I return with his ride in one piece.

And off I go.

I'm swaying a little bit, but gradually I'm taking control of it. It's true I haven't ridden bicycles for long, but some skills cannot be forgotten by the brain once acquired. I accelerate, enjoying the coast air touching my skin. It's even more exhilarating than driving a car, like I'm flying on my magic broom, but after some time, the magic broom feels like the edge of a knife blade. My ass is not yet used to mounting that saddle. That's the first drawback. Let us not forget that my legs are going to kill me soon before I'm halfway through my journey.

The city is still asleep. The streets are crowded with only empty vehicles. I spot a few people with wrenches trying to fix their cars...or to steal their batteries—you can never tell if they are their owners. Dad told me once about the tires thieves' trick which is simply about doing what anyone with a flat tire should do: lift the car with a jack and remove the tire from the wheel base—the end. It's not even a trick. I guess the whole matter is about being confident that no one would dare to ask them: hey dude, is this your car?

"Hey, son! Son!"

The moment I press the brake levers, I realize the horrible mistake I'm making right now. I should never stop to a stranger on the road, especially in the current circumstances. Probably, it's a trick to steal my precious ride. Anyway, it's too late now. The sixtyish man is standing right in front of me, and I'm trapped by cars on both sides. The only way out is to run over him.

"Would you please give me a lift?" he asks. "I'm heading to Karmoz(**), and I'll be thankful if you shorten my walking distance."

The walking distance he's referring to is not much shorter than my Penguin's march last night. I feel pity for him.

"No problem." I motion him to ride behind me, hoping I'm not going to regret it.

And off we go.

He thanks me every thirty seconds. Two times I reply, "Don't mention it." And the next ten times I silently nod. Why is it this man who asks for a ride? Aren't there any girls who need to be rescued?

My anonymous companion really confuses me with his endless murmuring. I don't know whether he's talking to me or to himself. "Merciful Allah," he mutters. Glancing back at him, I see he's gazing at the scene of dead cars with wonder, as if he is a tourist in a bus tour. "How has this happened?" he asks. I decide to ignore his mumble and focus on the road ahead.

"Did you see the plane that crashed last night?" he asks me again. This time, he seems to be serious about involving me in his monologues.

"No," I say. "Did you?"

"No, but they told me about it. Oh my God! Can you imagine? That flying monstrous thing was so close from falling on our heads. We survived by a heavenly miracle."

Nobody knows if we survived because we were lucky or unlucky. I can see the new era right before me.

"Everything is going to be alright." I'm doing my best to foul his attempts to make a futile conversation with me.

"It's just a warning from God, yet He is giving us a chance to repent our sins," he says. "What we're witnessing now is nothing compared to the horrors of Doomsday, son."

Doomsday? Who knows, Grandpa? Maybe we're witnessing the beginnings of it.

I can't disagree, and I don't feel like talking, either. Thanks to last night's insomnia, I'm now struggling with a throbbing headache, and yet he is not helping with his endless prattle. Give me a break! I'm about to explode at any second. Isn't it enough that I'm exerting more effort because of his weight?

"You don't like what I say, huh?" he surprises me with this question.

"Why wouldn't I?" I shrug. "It makes sense."

"You can't fool me, son. You don't mean what you said," he insists. "One day, you'll reach my age, and you'll understand what I feel. At some point in your life, you'll look back at it and recall your deeds. You'll regret doing some of them and regret not doing some others. What's remaining of my life is much less than what I lived already, but that's not the problem. The real problem is that I wake up every day, I tell myself: today I'll be a better man. I'll call my sister to reconcile the two-decade conflict between us. Estrangement from siblings is a huge sin, son, and here I am; unable to make the phone call that I could easily make yesterday. That's the sanction of procrastination."

So, what's the point of this lecture? Repent now before it's too late? There are many sins that I haven't had the chance to commit yet. I don't really believe that all yesterday's woes happened just because I decided—only decided—to go out with...what was her name again?

"You're right." I nod again, hoping my tone, this time, convinces him that I'm convinced. I need to not lose my focus, otherwise, I may bump into one of these cars and...

Dammit! The cars!

I gaze at the largest garage in the history of Egypt, and only now I realize that no way for Dad's plan to work. Let's imagine we get the keys, and Grandpa's car works:

How are we suppose to drive it through these crammed streets?

"Are you tired, son?"

I notice that I've slowed down. My muddled mind is desperately seeking a way out of this predicament. Hoping Dad will come out with something, I tell myself.

Better to forget about it now. I'm a soldier, and I must focus only on my mission: bring the package to Commodore Yousry. Surely, he had thought about that before he sent me.

"I'm sorry for exhausting you, son," my companion apologizes.

Yes, he's exhausting me, but I don't know why I reply, "No, it's not you. I just remembered something." I accelerate.

"Let me get you something to drink." He points at a kiosk on the sidewalk.

"No need for this. Thanks."

"You don't look well, son."

I'm a soldier. Nothing shall distract me from my mission. "I'm not thirsty. I'm fine," I insist. We resume our journey for fifteen more minutes. I spot the high minaret of Commander Ibrahim Mosque. The scene there is not much different from that of yesterday. My Dad's Civic is surrounded by the same cars at the same spot. Target is on sight, Commodore. I accelerate as I'm about to reach the package.

"Watch out!" I yell at a boy who suddenly stops in front of me. I press the brakes, making a sharp turn right to evade him. The bicycle sways badly and almost falls on its side. I pivot on the ball of my right foot to prevent myself from hitting the asphalt, but my companion—my annoying companion—clasps my waist and pulls me down to the ground. I fall on my right arm, but it's not a nasty fall. Thank God, the asphalt is not harmed.

The old man whimpers as he lies on his right side. "What happened?" He tries to rise.

I ignore him and lunge toward that boy who is still petrified in his place. He gazes at the horizon as if nothing has happened.

"What's wrong with you?" I bellow at him. This boy has chosen the wrong time and place for daydreaming. He's not pondering his bright future, I presume.

"I'm sorry." The boy is awake at last. "It's the birds..." He points at the horizon with a stunned face. Birds? You can't be serious! You suddenly decided to stop to watch some frickin'...

Colony of gulls. Colonies of them. Hundreds. Thousands. I can't tell. The gulls in these flocks are more than all the birds I have ever seen in my life.

Pedestrians gather around us, watching the unusual scene. A small group of gulls may be a delightful sight, but thousands of them flocking toward the same direction is really horrifying.

"As if they are fleeing from something," a lady from the crowd suggests. Birds are known for their ability to sense disasters before their happening. Imagining the coming catastrophe sends a shiver down my spine.

Is it an earthquake? Dad told me before about the one that shook Cairo in 1992. Although it was barely felt in Alexandria, the dogs barked in the streets like crazy. "Oh my God!" I can't help glancing at the buildings behind us. These titanic colonies of escaping seagulls give a clue about the magnitude of the coming earthquake, if it's an earthquake.

But it's not.

"Is this..?" the man next to me squints forward. I share his doubt that my eyes are playing tricks on me. I really hope so. Because ahead at the horizon, I see huge waves coming.

Really really REALLY huge waves.

________________

Glossary:

(*) Generally speaking, Egyptians are attached to their hometowns, but the bond between Alexandrians and their life next to the Mediterranean Sea is something else.

(**) Karmoz: A district in the west of Alexandria.