by Ray Wil
Mr. Eight, the Englishman, sat down resuming his interface operations. “We are wasting time.”
“Yes we are.” Mr. Hundred agreed.
It was only a moment I took my eyes off the large man and relaxed my grip on the firearm before he had grabbed the weapon and knocked me off my feet with a sharp crushing blow to my face.
Kuff!
The unbending wall received me with a force, tinged with vengeance. I was sure bones in my jaw were broken. Numbness oozed into my skull while I slipped painfully in and out of consciousness. A heavy throbbing tainted the left side of my face.
“It is a matter of principal. No?” A murky voice warbled and I assumed it was Mr. 604. The sounds now a muted muffle.
“No one appreciates getting shot. He could have killed me. He’s now become more of a liability than a simple anomaly. Like an annoying dog.”
They returned to their desks and I could make out the squeak of chairs on the floor and sporadic conversations followed by the clicks and beeps of the holographic computer interfaces. Nothing was broken but my head was foggy and blood flowed from a cut in my lip.
“What did you do with the animals?” I mumbled. It somehow felt like a good question to ask. After all what could they have done with all the animals on the planet.
No one heard me. I stood up and stumbled through the doorway before maneuvering into a short hall to finally the main area of the bank. Still repeating my question. There was no one behind me.
Outside, the storm had settled and I struggled passed the heavy glass door to the street with my blood stained hands smearing it’s handles. I had left the knapsack inside but I wouldn’t be going back looking for it. My legs wobbled underneath, tipping my delicate balance but I managed to keep upright until I reached the van outside.
From the street, I could now hear someone shouting from behind trying to get my attention. Mr. Three had followed my exit and stood at the building entrance motioning for me to return. I ignored him until I was able to lean against the van gathering my strength but could still hear his footsteps approach.
“You can’t really escape you know Mr. Cain. This time tomorrow you’ll most likely be dead. There’s so much you don’t know.”
I was wiping the blood from my mouth and the throbbing made it difficult to speak. “So, I should be thanking you, is that what you expect?”
The numbered man moved closer and I could see he was chewing what I suspected was his beloved chocolates. I then noticed my newly acquired gun was also in his hand. He held out the weapon to eventually place in my hands.
“I have no expectations for you Mr. Cain. My expectations of you are irrelevant. We all have a role to play at this point. I’ve always believed that there are no accidents in the universe. Even you as the anomaly. There is a reason for you, short lived or otherwise. There is a reason this operation has been so successful. Why a handful of men have remain undetected and so secretive not even I know who the two other most powerful men on the planet are. There is a reason for that. Do not complain Mr. Cain. Small men complain and question their government, society, family, God. While strong men create their own destinies. We are creating our destinies Mr. Cain. I can see that you’re afraid and on the brink of losing yourself. Here, take it.”
I retrieved the gun from him eyeing it with despair.
He continued. “Because you are unaffected by the sleep pulse a more powerful intense emission will be triggered. We’re estimating a few more anomalies may be awake. If the second pulse doesn’t kill you, it will cause irreparable damage to your frontal and temporal lobes, leaving you quite frankly impotent and mad. Which will eventually kill you, including anyone else who fits the description. The rebuilding is in its finals stages. If you want to avoid any pain, I suggest you make better use of the time you have left…then use what you hold in your hands. I apologized for the harsh reality. I am not a man of violence.”
A crippling silence hung in the air until a precipitous thunder growled and hummed in the distance. My trembled hands wiped the warm angry blood from my chin. Mr. Three had already disappeared back into the bank building. I jumped into the beat up old van slamming on the gas and slashing through the ruined unlit roads putting as much distance as I could from the numbered men. But I was fooling myself.
* * *
About ten blocks away I came upon the green garbage truck with the words ‘Our Clean City’ written on the side that I normally used for my street clean ups. It had been four forgetful days since I did any rounds in the big vehicle. The clearing routine served to balance my sanity and sense of order. The large steering wheel made me feel powerful and certain. Its engine was loud but today its dragon like rumble was masked by the downpour that began to fall again. As I drove towards the bank with the wheeze and huff of the diesel intake another round of thunder rolled overhead. The windshield wipers danced frantically to the sides while large wakes of water jumped high behind the big dangerous wheels plowing through the road. It was beautiful how the big potent machine became an unstoppable force and had given me a breath I couldn’t ignore.
A burning yet quiet inflection poked me while I stood by the van looking at Mr. Three walking back to his collective plan of world remodeling. The devilish kind of disturbance and tremble you feel watching someone you hate. Studying his composed sure gait in his sophisticated designed uniform, I felt a disgust I had not experienced before. A hate that bubbled new and strong.
I pushed the gas on the green workhorse hurling me faster.
Krrraaaassh!!
When I plunged into the building the beast was travelling over seventy miles an hour. The front entrance had two flights of steps and would pose a problem so I came from a side street barreling over a patch of grass and a staff parking area slapping aside two small cars. Inside the cabin of the truck I was tossed to and fro until I hit the exterior cement back wall collapsing the front windshield.
Boooooommmm!!
I careened forward from the impact and caught a glimpse of the five men enveloped in the exploding brick, mortar and thick dust. Their bodies hurled and smashed into the flying breaking explosion. The monstrous relentless bullet crushed its way clear through multiple walls and out to the lobby destroying the cashiers desks. A billowing cloud of broken glass, shattered wooded desks and heaps of paper money ended my murderous run.
Through the splintered windshield of the truck raked a large hole shooting debris into the cabin, striking my forehead and also what I could feel, breaking my left arm. I ignored the pain and slowly climb out of the cabin. Behind the thick smog of dusty smoke and exposed electrical wires, numerous light fixtures hung from the ceiling. A naive notion came over me to go into the mangled meeting room but the snapping electricity and crumbling rubble changed that thought. They were dead for sure. This insidious new world had turned me into a killer of men.
I left the destruction, stumbling out into the rain seeking to escape the wreckage. Lightening struck a skyscraper several blocks away illuminating the city like a bright white shall. The accumulating injuries showered with each step. My skull throbbed and I crumbled to my knees with crushing frailty.
The coarse pavement seemed to shake and buckle while the smell of burnt grease permeated the air. Like someone was cooking French fries in old oil. I couldn’t move. My eyes were shutting down. The sound of buzzing bees sizzled in my ears. Then the sweet aroma of fried apples with cinnamon perused and faded from my memory. Traipsing alongside chilly winter mornings. Old brick houses and decorated rooms twirled and flew about as if a tornado carried them around and around to no end. Early memories of street ball between friends and schoolmates slipped like fading daylight into the air. My first innocent kiss at the age of thirteen with a girl down the street vanished without a trickle like morning mist. Pictures of playgrounds, plastic backyard swimming pools and family dinners swashed and broke into a thousand million pieces. Morsels of emotions were jumbled together as I grasped to hold onto them for only a moment longer. Ye
t I failed.
My name was fading. Who I was, was now just another piece of information I couldn’t make sense of. Like a thick dense cloud was between me and awareness. Slowly enveloping by ability to thing. The only sure thing I did remember was that I had killed five men, I was hurt and things were not how they should be.
I tried to stand but the burning in my arm was agonizing. Despite the pain, I gritted my teeth determined to continue. Knowing I had to find a place to hide before any more people arrived. Something behind me though, perhaps a glint of light pulled my attention. I didn’t hear any car engines but the rain filled the air with distractions.
Something was moving in the distance. The drizzle peppered my eyes and I squinted to get a better look. It was a person. He moved cautiously closer. He wore what looked to be a plastic see through suit over black clothing and held a large black umbrella. I could make out it was a muscled male not much older than me. I was too hurt to run.
“I am from the Nine Hundred Roving group. Who are you?” He asked.
I didn’t have anything to tell him. My body was in pain. I wanted out of the wet, prickly rain.
“I’m not sure. There was an accident. People were killed.”
“OK. We heard an explosion. Where is the rest of your group?”
“The group…The group is that way. All dead, except me.” I said and pointed toward the bank.
He knelt down so his eyes met mine. The numbered man’s looked was less shock than incredulous.
“Dead. How. What is your designate?”
“I don’t…like I said there was an accident.” I said.
“What kind of accident?” He pressed again.
“I think someone ran over them with a big truck.”
I couldn’t tell him what I had done. Besides, there were only bits and pieces of failing images.
“What do you mean you think? Who couldn’t possible have done that?” He continued.
“I don’t know.”
“What is your designate?” The numbered man asked again.
“I think…” I began, hesitating at the answer.
“Tell me what is your designate?” He demanded.
“Three…Mr. Three. My designate is Mr. Three.”
A bright kick of lightening snapped into the falling weeping sky.
* * *
Continues in book 2 titled
THE DEVIL’S NUMBERS
About the Devil’s Playground
This story came to me as an evolving concept. As with many sci-fi ideas it began with the question of “what if”. What if the world fell asleep and only one person was awake. What would the last man on the planet do if everyone around him were like a still photograph. Ideas trickled in small doses hence the short book structure. I also didn’t want to prolong or stretch out the plot just to fill pages or a certain quota. I felt I could write something short and potent and I can be somewhat impatient following plots. Fortunately when I finished The Devil’s Playground, I still had things traipsing around that needed to be answered. Other characters asked to speak inside my writer’s brain. So I added two additional pieces to take care of those important questions. Initially the theme of the story concerning world events didn’t develop until later on in the process. But it was a challenging theme I welcomed. I wanted to push the envelope and blur the lines between right and wrong. The old axiom, the road to hell is paved with good intentions comes to mind.
About the author
Above all else I’m a creative almost to a fault, finding myself distracted by my daily musings and daydreams. Contemplating the inner workings of alien spacecraft and zombie innards. The writing process has always been a fascination to me as much as anything an artist puts his time into. But we all are creatives, some more so than others. I have a great love of all things art, from films, which I have my hands in to music which I also have my hands too. A father of two kids, girl and boy I’m amazed at the things available to them that I didn’t have as a kid. As a child, the first things I read on my own were comic books, which surprisingly ushered in my love for books and reading.
Born in Jamaica I emigrated to Canada at the of seven. It was literally a month before my 8th birthday. I have lived in Toronto for most of my life but crave living in warmer weather. Like many young boys, I began reading comic books because of the colorful artwork and cool superheroes. I also loved to draw and considered a career in comics as a young adult. I credit my appreciation of sci-fi on books like The Fantastic Four and X-men. I also credit my love of the written word on some great English teachers that I’ve been lucky to have as well as some phenomenal authors.
Here’s a short excerpt from book 2 that is also available for download
THE DEVIL’S NUMBERS
I stumbled haphazardly underneath the threatening black sky despite the windy downpour and Mr. 917 urging me forward. The broken arm burned and my shoes sloshed into the wet pavement slowing my steps. Memories betraying me the more I attempted to connect the events from only a few hours before. My companion said very little and only offered a halfhearted nod every few feet before we reached the vehicle. With one hand gripping his umbrella and the other on my shoulder, Mr. 917 ushered me into the SUV that sat dark and ominous in the middle of the street. Another large man was in the passenger side dressed very much like the first, wearing a jumpsuit covered by a plastic see through rain protector. I leaned painfully into the leather seats before we drove off.
With both hands studiously on the wheel, the numbered man looked unflinchingly at his partner in a calm matter of fact tone. “This is…This is Mr. Three. He needs to be repaired.”
“This cannot be Mr. Three.” The other man responded without even looking back at me.
“Why not?” Said Mr. 917.
“He is too young. And his attire is not correct protocol.”
Mr. 917 had stopped the SUV to zip down the hooded portion of the plastic protection suit. He then went about wrapping up his umbrella. The other numbered man watched him patiently. He then placed the umbrella in the backseat beside me.
Mr. 917 continued. “It appears his memory has been compromised. Apparently members of group C have been killed. Which is not good.”
We were driving now, the hurried wiper blades squeaking and slapping away the whirling rain. The other man persisted, not deterred in the least with his suspicions.
“Killed, group C? Now, inside the last location?”
“I believe so. Should we return?” Asked Mr. 917.
“Our protocol doesn’t include body clean up. The One Thousand Group is more equip.”
“I’ll put in the alert for them to investigate.” With one hand on the wheel, Mr. 917 took out an electronic tablet and tapped the surface.
The other man glanced back at me scrupulously and then went about making sure Mr. 917 could handle the multitasking. He checked the driver’s device closely for accuracy.
“I don’t believe he is Mr. Three. We can easily check him in the database when we reach a Linking Station. Finger print and eye recognition should identity him. Our devices should be capable but they are not.”
My wet shirt and jeans clung tightly to my injured body, dripping blood onto the seat and the car floor. I couldn’t hold the silence any longer. When I spoke my voice slurred like a drunken man.
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