Kareem’s earliest memory was of his brother stealing his pocket money for candy at the elementary school cafeteria. Ahmed had laughed about it, which hurt more than the humiliation of being pushed to the ground in front of his friends. Ahmed said he’d break Kareem’s arms if he told their father, and Kareem was sure he would. In high school, they barely crossed paths, but when they did, sparks would fly. Kareem found his brother to be overly arrogant. Ahmed said the same thing about Kareem.
Kareem went to college, while Ahmed drifted through jobs, never settling on a trade. On those rare occasions when they gathered as a family, there was nothing to talk about. Two strangers on a train had more in common.
“Yes, I saw you, little brother,” Ahmed said. “I should have let Karl shoot you back then, but you surprised me.”
Ahmed cocked the revolver. The gun still hung by his side, but his intention was clear.
Kareem’s eyes darted to the bomb. The timer wasn’t counting down at all; it was flicking between seemingly random number sequences.
1645387
7956321
6645328
11213131
4933023
“You like that?” Ahmed asked. “Yeah, that should keep the bomb squad guessing.”
“It’s fake,” Kareem said, knowing how such a bluff would appeal to Ahmed.
“Of course, but they won’t know that. By the time they figure that out, little brother, BOOM!”
“But you can’t escape,” Kareem said as a police helicopter began circling the roof.
“Death is an escape. I won’t let them take me alive. If I am to die, then New York dies with me.”
“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Kareem pleaded, but Ahmed raised the revolver, pointing it square at his brother’s chest.
“Oh, it does,” Ahmed cried. “You were always so sure of yourself, so confident, so smart. Well, not this time. It’s not about you anymore. This time it’s about me, it’s about what I want, and if I can’t have what I want, then we all die.”
“Put down the gun,” came the cry over the bullhorn on the police helicopter. Ahmed turned his attention to the chopper, firing madly at a police sniper strapped into the side of the airframe. He must have hit someone on board as the helicopter dropped out of sight, darting below roof level.
Kareem rushed at Ahmed, crash-tackling him into the pallet of what looked like bags of concrete powder that somehow made up the bomb. Whether they were full of explosives or packed with radioactive material he wasn’t sure, but he knocked the gun from his brother’s grasp.
The two men struggled on the ground, each fighting to get to the gun lying a few feet away. Kareem punched his brother, catching him on the jaw, but his blows were weak, feeble. Ahmed, though, landed crushing blows, knocking Kareem to one side.
Ahmed grabbed the gun as the helicopter came around from another angle. Kareem steadied himself against the bomb as he got to his feet, watching as his brother fired at the Perspex dome of the chopper, aiming for the pilot. The chopper raced overhead, pulling up and banking to one side as it turned back toward them.
Kareem was dizzy. His brother’s blows had rattled him.
“This is the end,” Ahmed cried, flicking something on the side of the digital display at the base of the bomb. “In sixty seconds, New York becomes a nuclear wasteland.”
Three bullets punctured Ahmed’s body in rapid succession, coming down at an angle from the helicopter as the pilot strafed sideways through the air, giving the sniper a clear line of sight. Ahmed slumped to the ground. Blood seeped into the gravel.
Kareem rushed around the side of the bomb, ignoring his fallen brother. He leaned over the device at the base of the pallet, looking at the red numbers flashing in the dark casing, remembering his brother’s gloating words. He was remembering the past. For the first time all day, he remembered something that had already happened and not the future. He wrenched the digital faceplate off the bomb casing and threw it to one side as the first bullet caught him in the shoulder.
“No!” he yelled as a searing hot pain cut through the soft tissue.
The real detonator was right there in front of him. A bunch of wires led from a battery to a small brown circuit board and on to a multicolored ribbon cable that disappeared between the bags stacked on the pallet. A single red wire looped around the board, apparently not leading anywhere.
The second shot struck Kareem in the lower thigh, snapping his femur. Blood sprayed across the wooden pallet. Kareem knew exactly what had happened as his right leg gave out beneath him, causing him to buckle forward as he struggled not to collapse on the gravel. Leaning on his one good knee, he ran his fingers over the circuit board, manic in his desire to disarm the bomb.
Kareem knew nothing about electronics. His brother had worked in an auto-electrical workshop for a year or so, but Kareem hadn’t so much as opened the back of a computer. There was no way Kareem could defuse this bomb, and yet he knew his brother was arrogant. He’d always struggled with pride. And that was when a thought struck Kareem. Ahmed would put the answer in plain sight, just so he could brag about how he outsmarted everyone. It had to be the red wire. It was so obvious it would be ignored. But for Ahmed, it would be a signature.
Kareem grabbed hold of the circuit board with one hand and was about to rip the red wire off when the third bullet struck, striking him in the back of the head.
Time seemed to stop. Although the bullet was traveling at supersonic speed, Kareem felt as though he’d been struck by a lance or a javelin in slow motion. The bullet struck the parietal bone at the back of his head before passing through his soft brain tissue and exiting through the frontal bone above his right eye.
Kareem slumped to the roof, his right eye darkened. The vision from his left eye narrowed, focusing on one finger still clinging to the red cable. Kareem realized this was why he no longer remembered the future: because for him, there was no future. For him, time stopped on this roof. Yet he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t leave Deb to die. He couldn’t allow his brother to win.
As the fourth bullet struck his failing body, bursting through his shoulder blade, he wrenched the red wire loose.
Blood-red hues stretched across the sky as the sun dipped below the Manhattan skyline. The downdraft from the rotor blades of the police helicopter beat upon his body.
Darkness descended. Boots stomped around him, but he could no longer see. There were voices, but they faded until there was nothing but the empty silence. He felt cold. A moment later, he felt nothing at all.
Kareem was dead.
Epilogue
Of all the things that had blocked New York roads over the years, there had never been diversions for flowers before. Central Park West was swamped with bouquets blocking the street. Being roughly dead center within the city, as well as the site of one of the bombings, the Museum of Natural History had become a focal point for the outpouring of emotion that followed the terrorist attacks. Police diverted traffic through the park as the floral tributes piled deeper by the hour.
The truth about how Kareem had overcome his brother and foiled a plot to irradiate New York City had stirred millions. No one believed Deb’s version of events about his memory, though. They all thought Kareem had stumbled upon Ahmed’s plans or had somehow got wind of what was happening and had sought to stop his brother from becoming the worst mass murderer in American history.
Tens of thousands of people came to show their appreciation for Kareem Hadee Rafid. There were handwritten notes, typed letters, crayon drawings by young children, Hallmark cards, messages scrawled on torn bits of cardboard. It seemed everyone wanted to express their feelings in one way or another.
Deb had never seen so many flowers. A sea of roses and pansies, orchids and carnations, along with wisps of tiny flowers she knew as baby’s breath, and dozens of types of flowers she didn’t recognize. In some places, the flowers were fifty feet deep as they lay stacked against the makeshift memorial outside the museum.
U.S. flags of various sizes fluttered in the light breeze. For the most part, they were handheld flags wedged between the flowers, but there were also a few full-sized flags draped over the blackened walls of the museum.
Deb sat in a chair watching the extensive television coverage. The FBI had identified Ahmed’s associates as members of the Russian mafia, although most commentators said mafia was too weak a term and stuck with terrorists. Three terror cells had been identified and broken up, with all but one of the suspects being taken into custody.
Lying in a hospital bed next to her, Kareem’s eyes flickered.
Deb jumped, hitting the call button beside his bed. She stood over him, looking down at him with tears in her eyes.
“Hey there, baby,” she said softly.
Kareem mumbled. Saliva dripped from the side of his mouth.
A doctor and nurse entered the private room. The police officer standing outside the door glanced in at Deb and Kareem and smiled.
Kareem started to move, but it was clear he was in pain.
“Just relax,” the doctor said, standing at the end of the bed. “You’re going to feel groggy for a while.”
“D... Dead,” Kareem managed from beneath his oxygen mask.
“You thought you were dead?” the doctor asked rhetorically. He gestured to Deb, adding, “Well, if there hadn’t been a medic on hand with a major trauma kit, you would have been. She saved your life.”
Deb smiled, taking his hand in hers and gently squeezing his fingers.
The doctor noticed Kareem struggling to move his left side.
“You’ve suffered severe brain damage,” he said. “You’re probably going to have a loss of sensation on the left side, but with hard work and physical therapy, we’re confident you can regain most, if not all of your mobility.”
Kareem nodded slowly.
“The brain has remarkable plasticity. You’ve lost sections relating to memory and motor coordination, but just take things one day at a time. It’s going to be a slow road to recovery, but you will get there.”
Deb squeezed his hand. She looked down at his broken body. Bandages adorned his head and chest, and his leg was in a cast raised up by a pulley. A tear fell from her cheek, landing on the sheets beside him.
“We should let him rest,” the doctor said, gesturing for Deb to follow him.
Deb started to let go of Kareem’s hand when he squeezed her fingers. He was trying to speak. She bent down with her head just inches from his. Her hair fell softly to one side, lying on the pillow beside him.
“Two... Four... Three... Seven,” he whispered.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she replied softly. “Just rest. Try to get some sleep.”
“Two... Four... Three,” he repeated. Deb had no idea what he meant. These weren’t the numbers that had won them the lottery. She didn’t know what to make of his insistence on telling her those four numbers.
Deb kissed him gently on the forehead, saying, “It’s okay, you’re safe. Just rest up and be patient. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here in the hospital with you.”
“Seven,” he said, and Deb put her hand gently on his oxygen mask, touching the plastic as though she were touching his lips.
“Please,” the doctor said from the doorway.
“I’ll be back,” she promised. “Now rest.”
Deb struggled to take her eyes from Kareem as she walked around the bed and out the door. As she walked into the corridor, the police officer closed the door behind her. His badge had a serial number, a number stamped into the shiny chrome finish. It was a number Kareem couldn’t possibly have known, a number he wouldn’t have seen yet:
Two. Four. Three. Seven.
Not Quite The End.
A Word From Peter Cawdron
I hope you’ve enjoyed “The Man Who Remembered Today.” Short stories and novellas are often belittled in the publishing world for no other reason than that they’re too short to be published as a stand-alone book, and yet some of the greatest science fiction stories ever written were either short stories or novellas: “Nightfall” and “The Bicentennial Man” by Isaac Asimov, I Am Legend by Richard Matheson, Who Goes There? (which was made into The Thing) by John W. Campbell, “The Minority Report” and “We Can Remember It For You Wholesale”(Total Recall) by Philip K. Dick, A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, and the list goes on. Anthologies like From the Indie Side give these nuggets a voice, so thank you for supporting independent science fiction with the purchase of this book.
Catch up with Peter Cawdron on:
Twitter: @PeterCawdron
Website: thinkingscifi.wordpress.com/
Facebook: www.facebook.com/pages/Peter-Cawdron/270440363006276
Books: http://thinkingscifi.wordpress.com/books/
A Word from the Editor
Thank you for supporting independent authors by purchasing and reading From the Indie Side!
Much like these independent authors, I am also an “indie” of sorts: a freelance editor. During the day I work in a cubicle at a bank, as I’ve done for the past fifteen years. Data analysis, spreadsheets, cash flows, reports… the job’s about as different from editing fiction as you could imagine. But about two years ago, on a whim (I still don’t understand why I did it), I sent an email to author Hugh Howey to alert him to a few errors in his now-bestselling novel Wool. Somehow that email led to me proofreading more of his novels, then editing them, then editing for other authors… and now I find myself involved in this anthology, working with some of the most talented indie authors writing today. I’m honored to have this amazing opportunity. I’m still just a guy who works in a cubicle, after all.
My thanks to Susan May and Brian Spangler, my wonderful partners in making this book a reality. Susan came up with the idea for this anthology in the first place, recruited Brian and me, and has been the driving force throughout the process in bringing her idea to fruition. And without Brian’s broad expertise in project management, publishing, and business—and his long hours of research and legwork—we would never have made it across the finish line. Not only that, but Brian and Susan also contributed beautiful stories of their own.
I find it fitting that this anthology was led by a mom, an IT project manager, and a banking analyst. Welcome to the new world of indie publishing.
David Gatewood
January 2014
Q&A
You’ve got Qs. We’ve got As.
Q. This is by far the best book I’ve ever read. Mere words can’t do it justice. How can I help to share this literary triumph with the world?
A. Wow, that’s some incredible praise! I mean, of course we hoped you’d like it, but wow, that reaction is beyond anything we ever… Well, consider us flattered. Here’s how you can help. Tell your friends. Share us on Facebook or Twitter (or whatever social network has taken over the world by the time you read this). But most importantly, please leave a review! Reviews are make-or-break for an independently published book. We have no marketing team, no presence in bookstores. You are our marketing team. Our success (or failure) is in your hands.
Reviews are not only important for helping a potential reader make a purchasing decision; they’re absolutely critical in bringing a book to that potential reader’s attention in the first place. Sites like Amazon use the number and favorability of reviews in their algorithms: a book with more reviews (and more positive reviews) is more likely to show up in a search, in a “Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought” list, and are more likely to be featured or highlighted by Amazon itself.
So if you liked the book, leave a review. It doesn’t have to be detailed or eloquent. Ten minutes of your time will make a world of difference to these authors who are trying to get discovered!
Q. Where can I find more stories by these authors?
A. Visit their websites, listed on the following page. In addition to listing their existing books, many authors have an email subscriber list that is used only to notify you of
upcoming releases.That way you never miss a new title by a favored author. Or, simply go to your favorite online bookseller and search by the author’s name.
Q. How can I help support independent authors in general?
A. Let’s say you’re an independent author. You’ve spent evenings, weekends, lunch hours writing a novel—and you think it’s pretty good. You go through revision after revision, you hire an editor, and you solicit feedback from beta readers, all to make sure the book you put out there is perfectly polished and professional. You hire a cover artist to give it just the right feel, work with a formatter to get it ready for prime time, and then you hit the publish button.
Now, what do you want?
Odds are, you really just want people to read your book. You probably don’t expect to be a bestseller (though you may secretly wish for it), or even to make that much money on sales, but you want someone to hear your story. Unfortunately, that’s a lot easier said than done. At last count, there were precisely six trillion titles available on Amazon alone; how is anyone going to notice yours? The problem is not just encouraging the reader to buy your book when they see it. The bigger problem is, How do you get your book to show up on their screen in the first place?
As mentioned above, there are usually two answers: word of mouth, and reviews. Readers will know about your book if a friend tells them about it, or shares it on Facebook, or writes about it on their blog or on a site such as Goodreads. And reviews drive search algorithms; each review gives a book a little boost, pushes it a tiny bit higher than the sea of competing works.
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