THE SUMMIT AT GANTYRRA

 “Good morning, everyone.”

“Welcome back, sir,” one journalist said.

“Thank you, Ben.”

His monotone voice resonated in the hall, his eyes sparkling from the bright lights burning his pale, wrinkled face as he prepared to give his address.

“A few weeks ago, we sent an envoy to quell the uprising in the sub-Saharan state of Gantyrra. We are pleased to announce that our team has been successful in neutralizing the dissidents, and we even managed to hold the International Leader’s Summit there; a first for their continent, and a step in promoting democracy and freedom for all people worldwide.”

The applause was short. He raised his hand and went on.

“The people are grateful to us and have offered free entry to each and every one of us to their exotic country. A gift for keeping the peace, they call it a place you must see before you die. In addition, they have agreed to share their mineral wealth with us at a subsidized rate, as well as a safe haven for professionals seeking to set up shop there.”

“Mr. President,” she asked him.

“Yes?”

“What were the details of the uprising? We weren’t made aware of any such information in the past weeks.”

“It was classified. It had been going on for some time and…”

“Yeah, but we were bound to see it on social media, right?” she went on. His head turned robotically to her, a smile breaking out on his face.

“Yes. Their government chose to shut down all access to the internet, and thanks to our team on the ground, we were able to go there and convince the government not to do so, as it infringed on their basic freedoms.”

“Would you mind briefly explaining the details of the Summit?” she asked again, his eyes widening with every second he looked at her.

“Yes, of course. Like I said earlier, they are to usher in a new government after a tumultuous few months, and we were there in full support of their new leader.”

“Is it support? You talked of them giving us their mineral wealth.”

“As a show of gratitude.”

“Or was it a price?” another asked. His smile broadened as he scanned the room, eyeing each of the journalists asking the hard questions before finally saying:

“I assure you, the public will be made aware of the details of the Summit at Gantyrra. Until then, can’t a man get a simple welcome home hug?” he asked as they laughed; he stepped off the stage and was escorted out by his security.

They watched the screen in disbelief, turning back and forth from his address to the other screen that screamed boldly:

“20 WORLD LEADERS FOUND DEAD.”

The news anchor, unable to hide her disbelief, let one tear flow down her face as she droned:

“This just in: the presidents of over 20 different nations across the world have been found dead in the nation of Gantyrra. Among them is their own president, who was hosting the annual International Leader’s Summit, a first for the African nation.”

“How do they know it’s them?” he asked his wife.

“I don’t – I don’t know, Tom,” was all she could say as they watched the lady struggle to go on:

“Now, we are getting reports of uprisings in many parts of the world that have lost their beloved leaders; some are claiming that it was a deliberate attack, while others are celebrating their demise, claiming it was ‘an act of God.’”

“He should have never gone there,” he said.

“None of them should have.”

“Our crew has live footage of the crime scene. We do wish to warn the viewers that what you’re about to see is highly disturbing.”

The camera trembled past the rows of circular columns and into the large hall; rectangular in shape and golden yellow in colour, the sun pierced through it through the intricately carved oculus in the ceiling, highlighting the central platform the dripped blood onto the floor.

‘Oh my God,’ they heard the cameraman say as he walked past the soldiers. On the floor next to the platform were the bodies of the leaders, arranged in a fetal position around the structure. He crouched to one of them, seeing his face clenched as if he had tasted something bitter; his eyelids were torn open to reveal yellowed eyes that must have seen something horrifying; his skin was graying and wrinkled, but the wounds still bled.

‘It’s all of them; all of them are like that,’ he said, placing the camera on the platform; it showed him running to a corner to puke, then came back to it. Before he picked it up, his sweaty face lit with amazement.

“Look at this,” he said, focusing on the platform; the sunlight above showed recesses on the platform.

‘They’re engravings,’ he said as he walked around it, commenting:

‘They are telling some form of a story; I see a woman standing at a higher level, hands raised to the sky, and people doing the same around her, in a building that appears to be a temple. It must be a temple, I guess, this one? And she’s a priestess of some sort. But what is that above her? It looks like…ow!”

The camera crashed on the tiled floor, the lens cracking on impact and focusing on another one of the leaders.

“Oh God! Oh my God!” his wife screamed, her eyes bulged out and jaw on the floor; her husband was shaking his head vigorously, chanting:

“It can’t be, it can’t be. That can’t be right.”

Curled up in a ball like the rest, eyelids torn to reveal remnants of blue eyes bleeding profusely and teeth gritted, his body twitched slightly.

“Oh Jesus!” they heard the cameraman say, as he focused on the body, then to the soldiers, who exchanged glances with each other.

“Is that…”

The beeping of its battery cut off the transmission and went back to the anchor, who had given in to emotion and bawled her eyes out as she whimpered:

“We’ll be back after this.”

The couple looked at each other, then at the screen showing the smiling President waving to an eager crowd as he climbed into his helicopter.

“If that was him…” she began.

“Then who’s he?” he asked.