Author Topic: Untitled (A Little Story)  (Read 1123 times)

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Offline Little

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Untitled (A Little Story)
« on: April 21, 2009, 10:30:37 pm »
Special thanks to Brandon and Ink!
By Little

The room was dim, and all Aahil Bari could see was dim shapes. He was terrified, and he felt dizzy. He was certain he had been drugged with something. God, he had been so stupid! A passport problem was obviously a setup in retrospect, but he had fallen for it like an ignorant fool. He opened his mouth and let out a long, tired, sigh. He had been taken to Custom, and had been sat down in a room across from two stern-looking Customs Officers. Then one had said, “It’s him.” And he had been smashed on the head with something. Then he had woken up in the trunk of a car, and they thudded across a pot-hole riddled road, each hole slamming Aahil against the hard metal of the trunk. When light had come at long last, he only saw the daylight for a moment before being stabbed in the forearm by a syringe. Now he was sitting in a ****ty little room with light filtering across the cracked, grimy, floor from under a battered door. He was bound tight against something hard, most likely a chair, but moving his head made him feel terribly light-headed. The wisps of greying hair at the back of his head felt heavy, probably matted with his blood from the head injury. Aahil sighed again, idly beginning to wonder what they were going to do to him. Torture seemed likely, and he felt even more tired when he realised hours of agonizing punishment was ahead of him. The last time he had been tortured, he had been in much better shape for it, too. This time, it might send his heart teetering into oblivion. Twenty years ago, he had even managed to keep his mouth shut while the revolutionaries shocked him with their damning probes, now he would burst into tears and spill his nation’s most treasured secrets at the sight of those small metal teeth.

Abruptly, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall. A moment ago, Aahil had been lamenting the lack of light. Now he just wished for the gloom again. He shut his eyes tightly, but the light still felt too bright. After a moment that seemed far too long, he cautiously slid open his eyes amidst scraping noises. A chair had been brought into the room, and a bald man dressed in a simple that had no mercy in his eyes sat in the small wooden chair. Aahil turned his head from side to side, feeling woozy as he did so, but he established he was in what looked like a refurbished closet. Racks of sharp-looking instruments lined wooden shelves, and Aahil’s heart sank. As he began to lament his fate, the bald man slapped his across one wrinkled cheek and screamed, “LOOK AT ME! NOW!” Aahil quickly shifted his head back to face the bald man, fighting a wave of nausea as he did.  The bald man smiled wickedly and said, “Cooperate with your next visitor. If you don’t, life will become much less pleasant, and much more painful.” Aahil nodded rapidly, feeling sick as the bald man stood up and walked into the well-light corridor. Aahil rapidly ran over his limited options; it was bleak. A short while later, a well-dressed man with what looked like groomed hair walked into the closet. The black business suit looked incredibly out of place, as well as the man’s friendly smile and jolly eyes. The man looked like someone Aahil would’ve gone out for a drink to discuss work, sports, and politics back when his home country wasn’t turning into the sequel to the war in Iraq. Aahil cautiously watched as the business man sit down in the rickety chair. Aahil smiled weakly and asks with the accent of someone who isn’t quite accustomed to English, “Am I back in Iran?” The man seemed to find this immensely funny, and burst out laughing. After the business man had calmed down, he chuckled softly and replied, “Good God, no! If you were back in Iran, you would’ve been snapped like a twig and your body would’ve been thrown into a crematorium already. Now, I just need to ask you a few simple questions.”

 Aahil nodded frantically, shoving the dizziness into the back of his mind as he did so. He knew that the next few minutes could be the difference between life and death. The man smiled happily at seeing the nods, and continued, “Now, we know your Aahil Bari. We know you used to be the head of Iran’s Development of Nuclear Alternatives. We know you stole the bomb from the Russia within the last decade, when there were whispers of your country developing nukes for themselves. We also know that you were in charge of overseeing the contingency plans in the event of an American invasion, and that you did not stay to see your plan in action. There are quite a few angry rebels back in your home country who would like to see you dead, understand?” Aahil cautiously replies, “Yes, I understand.” The man with the well-groomed hair claps his hands happily and grins as he says, “Good! Now, where is Warhead 168B Classified Russian Armament, or as your colleagues and you nicknamed it, Atomic Fire, heading? The contingency plan is activated when your president gives the signal, and he gave it twenty-three minutes ago. We have a little over seventeen hours to go. What road does it travel along to escape the storage facility?” Aahil’s mind races, recalling the details, saying each fragment or location as his fading memory spits it out.
 The man’s smile grows wider with each phrase. The plan was to drive it in a small, discreet, convoy to the nearby town of Ajhbah. Once in Ajhbah, the most powerful operational nuclear weapon would be shipped by military plane to a location out of country. Aahil didn’t remember the location, and despite repeated requests from the man in the suit, was not able to disclose it. Aahil curses inwardly at his crumbling memory, he had known it twenty-five years ago, and now he couldn’t remember it to save his skin. He was almost ready to cry as the man in the black suit drew a knife from his pocket, Aahil flinching as he brought it towards his seat. The knife didn’t slash into skin, but rather rope, the discarded bindings falling to the ground in a heap. Mumbling prayers under his breath, Aahil stands up weakly as the man says, “Well, we’re not going to kill you. You’ve been useful. We’re letting you go.”

Aahil smiles, feeling tired as he is escorted out of the building and into a waiting cab by the bald man. The cab winds through the dark night’s streets after Aahil requests it take him to a hotel, and he dozes into the backseat. If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed that the tab meter did not go up, but he was nearly asleep when the driver stopped the car, got out, opened his passenger’s door, and gestured into the dark. Three men wearing body armour step out of the shadows, two holding sub-machine guns with suppressors on the barrels, and the third holding a rusty switchblade that had been stolen off a drunken fool stupid enough to try to mug the men the night before. Aahil wakes up from his doze, blearily looking around as the driver hauls him out of the cab, the engine idling on the deserted street. Aahil says, “What? Where am I?” in a confused voice. The man holding the switchblade steps forward and plants it in the old man’s neck, quickly dispatching him as his companions steal their victims wallet, ID, and few items of value. The taxi driver smiles as the body is dumped in the alley, the three armoured men casually walking back to the cab. They all nod, and the driver says in fractured English, “Another good mugging. Target disposed of, looks like theft. See you if we need you again.” They all nod one last time, then the driver climbs back into his seat and the three men melt back into the shadows.

The warm night was still, only disturbed by the rumbling of a powerful motor. Headlights pierced the night as the first guard Jeep drew closer and closer to the firing point.  Jason Clark smiled as the breeze blew across his bare scalp.  After that old scientist had given Jeremy the location, Jason had gotten onto a private plane and flown immediately to Iran. It wasn’t cheap, but he wanted to be there when his taskforce took the greatest weapon on Earth out of its rightful owner’s hands and gave the final piece needed to fulfill Jeremy’s goal. The team was split in two, twelve members prone on a dune overlooking a curve in the road, and the other half split in two, the two halves stationed on opposite sides of the road. The first Jeep now more than a gloomy sight, and Jason puts his eye to his scope. The detail was amazing. He could see the brand of cigarette on the box that the Jeep driver kept in his right pocket. As the Jeep sped down the road, Jason sneaks a glance at the rest of the convoy: a long semi truck cushioned between two pickup trucks filled with guards, and the two Jeeps. He’d seen better protection on normal loads of conventional weapons, but Jason couldn’t blame the Iranians. They were busy fighting each other and the invading American troops, half the guard crew probably having deserted. His thoughts were cut short by the Jeep entering the firing zone, and Jason quickly put his eye back to the scope and refocused on the cigarette package. His finger tightened as he smiled, and the troop next to him screamed, “GO!”

The initial bang was ear-shattering, echoing across vast dusty plains. The hard cracks of automatic fire follow seconds later, before the expressions of bewilderment have even left the guard’s faces. Within thirty seconds, the whole convoy has been brought down by a concentrated stream of superheated lead, and the group Jason commanded had converged on the idling vehicles with the other teams, dragging away bodies. Jason runs around the back of the semi-truck, his team already ahead of him. As he turns the corner, he smiles as he sees the truck’s back has been kicked open. Six men were rolling out a dark container with warning signs plastered on it in a dozen languages. Jason smiles as a troop from his squad brings down two coolers, and sets them down on the side of the road. The twenty-four men gather around the cooler, each being passed a glass. They talk of things to come as they drink, and by the time they need to move the bomb, each one is dreaming of a new world, one where America cannot extend its tendrils of military might anywhere on Earth. Everyone clinks their glasses together, and throw them to the ground. Jason already has visions of mushroom clouds behind his eyelids, and he smiles when he closes his eyes, his imagination bleaching San Francisco skies crimson with a mushroom-shaped ball of fire shattering the skyline.

Jeremy smiles, custom-tailored business suit stained with oil, but he hardly notices. He stares at the naked atomic warhead that was resting over panels that would simply slide open, the bomb’s cold steel disguising the inferno inside, the inferno that would bring the greedy, self-absorbed country to its knees and open its eyes. Jeremy grimaces, reflecting on the mishaps that had been Iraq, Darfur, Sudan, Afghanistan, and soon to be Iran. Nothing would change, and Jeremy knew he had to make the change. Many months of work, millions of dollars, and many nights had been lost, but his plans had prevailed. Jeremy would devastate his own country to open the country’s eyes. Long masses of urban sprawl would no longer lay abandoned, factories would stop killing cities with the smog, and people would retract the shutters on their minds and see the state the world was in. The new idiot in charge of the place would be brought down, and a new leader erected in his place, someone who knew how to change things, how to make the world a better place. Jeremy smiles, thinking of the numerous Russian blunders, from leaving the bomb unsecured to keeping the theft a secret. If they had informed the United States, it’d be much more difficult to smuggle the thing. The Iranians were forming another insane religious dictatorship, the sane elements fighting the insane elements with the Americans shooting at anyone who looks remotely like a terrorist. No doubt they’d be far too distracted to notice the bomb was gone until the new regime was settled or destroyed. Jeremy smiles and stops leaning past the arm of his chair, settling back in his seat. Jason, his trusted gun nut, was sitting on his right. Brandon, his strategic advisor, was sitting to the far right. Jeremy idly thinks that Brandon choosing San Fran for the blast was a good choice. San Francisco was a mess of drug addicts, foreclosures, and industrial waste. Jeremy chuckles as he thinks that maybe he didn’t need a nuke, he just needed to light a San Fran junkyard on fire and watch the buried chemicals explode! He gradually stops chuckling and looks out his window, seeing the wing and beyond that, the wide expanse of the Pacific. The azure blue beauty was covered with tumors of abandoned rusting ship hulls. Jeremy leans back and sighs, wondering where his country went wrong.

A sudden curse from the cabin and Jeremy curiously glances towards the thin metal door. The same curse, a resounding, “What the **** are you doing?! ****, what the hell!?!” comes through the metal door. Jason disengages straps his seat and begins to walk towards the cabin, edging past Brandon. Jason slides open the door and begins to yell, “What is going-” before he’s brutally cut off by a burst of gunshots. The co-pilot screams, “Eat that, you crazy bastard! There’s a missile coming, this is over!” Jason stumbles back, falling back into the aisle as blood begins to leak from his mouth onto the floor. The co-pilot yells back into the cabin, “I’m not James, you piece of ****! Don’t move! I’m Henry Farnden, NSA! There has been-” While the NSa agent had been frantically screaming about how things were under control, Jeremy and Brandon had both removed small pistols from inside their suits, and had both fired at Henry. Henry’s face disintegrated as the captain screams, “Anti-air missile incoming, and we’ve just entered optimum blast range!”
Jeremy sighs and pulls out a remote control form the second pocket in his suit. No time to make sure the bomb’s trajectory was correct, or even to release it. If the missile hit, optimuim effect would not be achieved. As he flipped back the panel that revealed the red button, Brandon turned his attention away from the two corpses that laid in puddles of blood and looked at Jeremy.

“What are you doing? We’re supposed to survive, and I’m supposed to have a position in the government-”

Jeremy sighed as he pressed the button. Brandon had always been too power-obsessed from the start, and he’d be damned if he was going to let another power-crazed bastard take over the government. It was all for the greater good, and Brandon didn’t fit in the plan. Electricity flowed through the wires as the button depressed, and Jeremy’s last hope was that humanity would put this lesson to good use.

As Bryan Elder and Curtis Brady walked to the top of a hill on the outskirts of Sacramento, they were pushing their bikes along with them, and a cloud was descending over their lives, although they didn’t know it. The pair of eleven-year olds had just enjoyed a pleasant day of hanging out together in the woods near Curtis’s house, and were going to bike over to Bryan’s house for supper and then a sleepover. Both boys were excited at the prospect of staying up late and watching horror movies until early morning, but their trains of thought were disrupted by an incredibly bright flash of light. Both boys brought up their arms to shield their eyes, and both said at the same time, “What the hell?” They both hopped on their bikes and began to rode down the hill as a loud crack hit their ears. They both stopped and waited on the sidewalk staring at the people who were staring agape at the crimson cloud. A few moments later and after brief discussion, they decided to ride back and tell Curt’s mom first. As they jumped on their bikes and began to ride, a hot breeze hit their back and ruffled their hair, the breeze carrying the radioactive dust that would slowly circle around the globe.

The best person ever.  She should have won the Peace Prize.

What? No full control over children? You do realize that some of us have particular plans for those children.