The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

by Paul Bagnell

  *****

  The cracked thoughts of Tom’s week haunted his mind as he slept. The demonic powers of Ferronkus, the unearthly pureness of Exsorbo, the ruthlessness of Remmie Take and the tragic murder of Samuel Carravecky were nightmare images that transported his wobbly mind back in time to a land far, far away.

  He stood at the edge of a dirt village. He had no idea where his dream had taken him. There were dozens of thatched-roof huts that lined the bank of a muddy river. There was a warm sunset, and the moon was fully visible in the dim sky. The scenery seemed peaceful; the villagers appeared to be going about their regular evening tribal routines. Nothing was out of the ordinary except when Tom attempted to move forward the soil beneath his feet potted him down.

  Like the warm evening air, which stood still and invisible, nobody could see or hear him as he called and struggled for their attention. He sensed danger. It was coming from overhead; then there was a whistling sound that woke the night sky.

  The village was struck as bombs and grenades exploded, and people ran to save their lives. Many were killed in the scatter of confusion. Within minutes of the attack, bodies lay motionless on the ground. Then a noisy aircraft flew over and dropped a metallic, pressurized canister. Tom could sense that it was napalm; it burned into the air like a tidal wave of superheated fire that consumed everything in its wake. The heat rushed across Tom’s face like a blast of death.

  When the air cleared, an elite highly efficient team of soldiers stormed in by foot. Tom assumed they were there to assistance the dying but he was dead wrong.

  An experienced soldier stood mean while commanding his men. His troops called him “The Commander.” Tom sensed that man was Remmie Take who appeared at least twenty-years younger. Still he acted just as inhumanly ruthless.

  Smoke bellowed from the ground like it was on fire. Remmie instructed his team by coded hand signals to span the area and conduct a thorough pattern sweep.

  In a tree hollow, the soldiers discovered a young village woman cradling a small child who was barely breathing. They signalled Remmie and waited for him to arrive.

  Remmie stood like a tower of hate and terrorized the woman; she begged for her simple life.

  “Where’s the drop cargo?” Remmie shouted repeatedly at the woman but received no verbal response. He drew his Colt .45, and pointed it at the woman’s temple. Remmie shouted again. The woman cried out: “I didn’t understand,” in her own language.

  “I will make you understand,” Remmie bellowed and yanked the woman’s head back. “Bronze, your dreams can’t save you; this is real-life reality. If you think you can outsmart me, you are violently mistaken,” he laughed devilishly. “Try and die” he roared and looked directly at Tom.

  Tom froze; he suspected the young woman in his dream was a representation of his estranged wife. “No,” he cried, his hand outstretched as if to save her from the deadly terror.

  “Dreams are for the living not the dead,” Remmie bellowed. “Bronze, this is a bit of extra insurance.”

  The bullet exploded from the barrel of his gun, and the woman dropped to the charred ground. “Bronze, botch up this mission, and you’ll pay the ultimate price.”

  Tom awoke suddenly released from the nightmare’s venomous jaws. He lay in a lather of sweat breathing as if he had just escaped the blade of an axe-happy psychopath. He was convinced Remmie would kill his family if he didn’t get this data hound loaded into the computer system so he was treading on thin ice.

  He knew that Remmie Take was all business, but he had to be stopped. He peeped at McBridle. She was still fast asleep so he quietly got out of bed and dressed.

  He knew if he were going to attend this meeting in the morning, he’d have to go home and get a fresh change of clothes. He took one last look at her as she slept. Her bedside clock indicated the time was 3:32 a.m. He checked his watch and estimated that he had plenty of time to go home and get back here without her even knowing that he was gone.

  The drive was easy except for wrestling with thoughts of Remmie killing Samuel; they would haunt him until the day he died. Remmie had made him a witness to this gruesome crime. Now, he had to play by the terrorist’s double-dealing rules.

  Tom arrived home and was about to unlock the front door when he noticed it was jarred open. There had been several break-ins in the neighbourhood over the last few months so he figured his turn had come. He eased the door open and silently crept inside. It was dark. His sweaty hand groped the wall while searching for the light switch yet he was soldierly ready to fend off an attack if need be.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Bronze,” a strange man said as he sat in the darkness of the living room. The stranger silently instructed one of his two goons to switch on the lamp next to the telephone. Tom noticed his uninvited guest wore a chunky build.

  “Have a seat,” the man said, and gestured toward the armchair across from the couch where he was seated.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ll ask the question,” he said politely, and extended his thick hand; “please, have a seat.”

  Tom did as he was told, somewhat intimidated by the two pressed suits that stood behind the couch like twin bookends. His eyes were fixed on the stranger. “You’re obviously not my bank manager so I guess this isn’t a foreclosure,” Tom said in a light tone, an attempt to break the tension.

  “You’re a very funny man, Mr. Bronze.”

  “Well, I try,” he said with a stubborn smile.

  The stranger just stared.

  “So, enough fun; what do you want?” Tom asked, fully tensed on the edge of the chair.

  “It’s not what we want; it’s what you want,” the stranger replied in a strong voice as he leaned further into the light, which helped to reveal his thinning hair and neatly clipped moustache. It was obvious by the appearance of his pudgy face and puffy eyes he weighed well over two-hundred-and-fifty pounds yet he was extremely well dressed, professionally dressed just like the two bodyguards who stood behind him. “There’s a time when the killing games must stop. My name is Ivadot Rosky.”

  “So, am I supposed to care?”

  Ivadot ignored the lack of respect. “I’m a special agent with a special agency.” He flipped open his identification shield.

  “What about your two boyfriends who are standing behind you as if they’d love to send a bullet through my temple?” Tom inquired.

  “They’re my loyal associates in training; they do what I ask of them,” Ivadot replied.

  Tom grinned with a smug attitude.

  “Tom, you really got around tonight.”

  “Well, I have two feet made for walking,” Tom replied sarcastically.

  “A man who fits your description was spotted on the corner of Forth & Eighth near the scene of a crime late last evening.”

  “That has nothing to do with me.”

  “We questioned several witnesses who have confirmed our investigative facts so you better listen to every word I say.” Ivadot pulled a five-by-seven inch black and white photo of a man from his pocket and slid it across the coffee table.

  “Samuel Carravecky, so what!” Tom replied. Then he politely swept it across the surface.

  Ivadot tucked the picture into his trench coat pocket and leaned into the couch. “This man was gunned down in cold blood,” Ivadot revealed. “What do you know about this act of butchery?” The room was silent as Ivadot stared at Tom. “We’re going easy on you right now because we feel that you’re not the killing type. The evidence is pointing toward you, and you’re telling me you know nothing about this murder. There are many witnesses who can identify you at this location around the same time as the homicide so cut the bullshit.” Ivadot leaned forward again. “I know you didn’t kill Samuel, but no one else will believe that. We believe a professional killer named Remmie Take committed this crime. He’s an international security expert who works for profit.”

  “That’s a nice clean name for a terrorist?”

 
“He commands a dozen or so men as dangerous as himself and Remmie doesn’t fool around with dickheads like you unless there’s something in it for himself.”

  Rosky’s associates were fidgeting as if anxious to use force.

  “Tom, if you’re associated with this traitor, this scumbag, this maggot to earth’s society, then you’re signing your own death certificate,” Ivadot warned.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Tom asked.

  “Have you ever heard of the KCB?” Ivadot replied.

  “The KGB,” Tom said admittedly.

  “No,” Ivadot replied. “The KCB, it stands for Kill - Covert - Bury.”

  “These are hard words to die by,” Tom said bravely. “That’s what you guys do? ‘Cause those words would scare the guilty, but they don’t scare me.”

  “No, of course. That’s not what we do, and I’m not here to scare you,” Rosky said. “We’re here to help. We’re an organization that receives funding through private donations from wealthy citizens,” Ivadot explained as he laughed. “The government has no knowledge of our existence; and if they did, they’d be lying.”

  “The government lies about everything; you guys are just a figment of my overactive imagination. I bet if I close my eyes and reopen them, you’ll be gone.”

  “If that’s what you believe.”

  Tom shook his head, “I don’t believe anything anymore.”

  “Then believe me. Our central purpose is to eliminate global crime and make this world a safer place to live. That’s the reason I’m sitting here. It doesn’t make much sense that you’d sign up with a professional killer like Remmie Take so you’ll have to trust me,” Ivadot said convincingly.

  “All right, for now,” Tom replied, but he wasn’t fully convinced. “If I cooperate, what’s in it for me?”

  “You’ll get your life back.”

  “That’s it!”

  “What more do you want?” Rosky seemed surprised.

  “I was expecting a gold watch--maybe a new refrigerator,” Tom said, casually joking.

  “Tom, I’ll be in touch with you soon so relax and go about your normal daily chores like nobody’s business,” Ivadot said as he stood and walked toward the door.

  Tom noticed the agent man had a debilitating limp.

  “Think about what I said; then decide.”

  “Yeah, I’ll file it under things to forget,” Tom admitted carelessly. He held his hand to his face and breathed an anxious goodbye to the secret agent and the pair of goons as he closed the door. He was now silently committed to both of these dissimilar organizations. He could try to satisfy both sides. First, though, he would have to do what Remmie demanded; then do what Rosky instructed. This seemed to be his only way out. He definitely didn’t want to wear a ball-and-chain for the rest of his depressive life or have Remmie kill his family over some rich kid who meant nothing to him.

  He went to his bedroom and selected an appropriate suit to wear to the meeting later in the morning. When he was leaving his house, he took one last look at the living room. It felt like he’d never live to walk through the front doors of this place again. He rattled his wristwatch with the dull digital glow of 4:45 a.m.

  Sunrise would soon wake the neighbourhood, and Tom could hardly wait.

  The drive back to McBridle’s house was peaceful and quiet, which was unusual for a Friday morning, even at this early hour.

  Tom’s mission was clearly defined in his mind and that was to convince McBridle that he should attend this meeting. It was his prime objective. Since he had only one opportunity of gaining access to Carravecky’s complex before the weapon system exchange took place, he’d cry at her feet and outwit her negative decision if it came to that.

  He entered McBridle’s house, went up to her bedroom, changed his clothes, then sat by her bedside and waited like a good boy for the alarm to wake her.