by Randall Wood
Paul thought about this, but said nothing.
“Some changes are taking place. Calls to report crimes are up over forty percent nationwide. There are still a few copycats out there, but all around, it looks like the country is fighting back.”
Paul digested this without a word. A minute passed before he spoke.
“What do you want to know?”
“Sam’s story. Whatever you’d like to tell.”
Paul just looked at him.
“You trusted me once. So did our friend. Let me get your side out.”
“I saw your stories. They were...fair, I guess. Gonna get yourself a promotion are you?”
“Got an interview with the Washington Post next week,” Danny admitted.
Paul nodded in approval of Danny’s honesty before another long pause punctuated the silence of the room. Danny gave him all the time he needed.
“Okay, where do we start?”
“Wherever you’d like.”
Paul sat back and looked around the room for a moment before returning his gaze.
“Katie.”
Danny opened his notebook and began to write.
About the Author
Randall Wood is the author of the novels Closure, Pestilence and Scarcity. After a life spent in occupations such as paratrooper, teacher and flight paramedic, he eventually listened to the little voices in his head and now writes full time. He currently resides on the Gulf coast of Florida with his wife, their three children, two cats and one Great Dane puppy. He welcomes readers, and fellow writers, to his website at:
https://www.randallwoodauthor.com/
Excerpt: Another Jack Randall Thriller
PESTILENCE
Randall Wood
pest-ti-lence ’pest te len(t)s
n: a destructive, infectious
swiftly spreading disease.
—ONE—
World population projected to reach 7 billion in 2011
October 20, 2009—CNN
Muzzammil Hassan was one week past his sixteenth birthday. If the day went as planned he would not see his seventeenth. As he watched the men work he thought of the small party his parents had thrown for him. Like most families in his country, his was large and poor. His mother and father had worked hard for the extra food to serve that day. His father had spoken proudly of his son to all that were present, but Muzzammil knew he would never rise to the successes his father had predicted. It was enough to simply stay alive in his country. Muzzammil knew suffering. He had lost a sister and uncle to AIDS, and two brothers to the tribal warfare that often plagued his country. His hope was that his decision would not only bring pride to his father, but provide for his family. He had been promised repeatedly that they would be well cared for and would never again suffer from hunger or lack of medical care. That his family name would be spoken with honor and reverence and he himself would be elevated to a place of distinction few of his people could hope for.
But the price was great. He thought of the words he had spoken into the camera a short time ago. He had delivered them with force and volume as instructed and could only hope that his fear had not shown through. It was a speech he had heard growing up from others before him. He had learned the slogans before he was ten and delivered them with a fury he had not felt before today. The men he now watched working had observed silently until he was through, and then applauded his performance before returning to their shovels and buckets.
The men worked tirelessly as they had throughout the night. The bags were pulled from the pallet left by the forklift. There had been over two hundred total, but they were now down to the last ten. The bags were emptied into bathtubs that had been pulled from the rubble of the city. The mixing was performed by men wearing masks and supervised by the Arab. Muzzammil did not know his name, and neither did any of the others. While the man spoke his language, it was obviously not his native tongue. He barked at a man holding a jerry can of diesel and the man quickly poured some more into the tub until barked at a second time. The mixing resumed until it was to the Arab’s approval and he signaled to other men waiting nearby. They reached into the tub wearing leather gloves over the plastic ones they had donned first. This protected their hands from the nails and other small pieces of metal that had been added to the mix. The fumes were strong, and the Arab positioned himself in front of one of the multiple fans they had set up to circulate the air. The men packed the thick slurry into five-gallon buckets that were carried to the truck. Here the buckets were handed up and then down into the large tank where Muzzammil briefly saw the hands of his friend Hanni accept them. This was followed by the muffled noise of him packing the mixture inside the tank. Muzzammil smiled at his friend’s discomfort. Being young and skinny as he was, he was chosen for the job of packing the truck, as he was the only one who could fit through the opening. At least he had a gas mask that kept the fumes at bay. The heat could not be escaped. The empty buckets soon emerged and were passed back for another load.
Muzzammil’s thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see the robed man they all looked to for guidance standing over him. His one good eye sparkled with pride at Muzzammil, and he smiled at the boy before watching the last of the bags of ammonia nitrate being mixed in the tub. As the mixing process was finished and the last bucket loaded, the men slowly approached and offered their prayers and admiration to Muzzammil. All under the careful eye of the robed figure standing behind him. Hanni, his skinny friend, was the last to leave. Muzzammil looked from his friend’s sweaty face to the red irritated skin of his arms and legs. The mark of the gas mask ringed his face and gave a comical frame to the lopsided smile he offered. What little he had to say would not come, he simply smiled, clasped his friend’s hands in his own, and with a nod departed the garage.
The robed man took a seat next to Muzzammil and they both watched silently as the Arab moved around and under the fuel truck. Although less than half the size of a semi-truck, it still carried a 5000 gallon capacity. More importantly, it was indistinguishable from the other government owned gas trucks in his country. The steel reinforcements added to the front end and heavy bumper were hidden to all but the most careful observer. An effort had been made to preserve the well-used appearance of the truck, as anything out of the ordinary would compromise their mission. The Arab had been insistent on every aspect of the operation, and all of his wishes were followed. The fertilizer had been purchased in various quantities from several places and stockpiled until it was needed. The diesel fuel had been slowly siphoned from several trucks and saved as well. While the fuel was not necessary for the reaction the Arab desired, he had explained that its addition would increase the chemical energy of the mixture, hastening the violence of the detonation, and providing more of a shock wave. Now the man was busy completing the wiring he had started a day ago. After a few minutes in the cab of the truck, he walked to the two men and took a seat facing Muzzammil.
“You remember the instructions?” he politely asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, please tell them to me one more time?”
Muzzammil recited the instructions he had memorized the night before. “I drive the truck on its normal route at its normal time. I obey all traffic laws and do not speed any more than the other traffic. At the last intersection, I attach the cord on the wheel to my wrist and grip the wheel. I then wait for traffic to open up in front of me before using the space to speed up as much as possible. Others will help by shooting at the guards. I drive through the barrier and get as close to the building as possible.”
“Good, and then?” the Arab pressed.
“I simply pull my hand away from the wheel,” he replied.
“...and grasp the hand of Allah as he welcomes you to paradise,” the robed man finished.
“Yes, Teacher.”
The Arab looked at the boy for some time. Muzzammil met his gaze without faltering.
“They will speak your name around the world, my
young friend. You are already known to Usama, he speaks of you with pride,” the Arab lied.
Muzzammil’s back straightened with the statement. He stood as the other men did.
The Arab adjusted the boy’s clothes before stepping back to look him over.
“The clothes fit you well.” He checked his watch before looking at the robed man.
“A prayer, before you depart,” the man announced.
Mats were pulled from nearby chairs and the three men knelt together on the floor. When finished, the boy was escorted to the truck and the two men watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat. They looked for any hesitation or muscle quiver. Any sign of the boy changing his mind. The Arab pointed out the cord on the steering wheel and the boy nodded. A squeeze of the shoulder before the man left to open the garage door.
“I am very proud,” the robed man stated.
“Thank you, Teacher. I am proud to serve our cause.”
“The world will know your name tomorrow. All of your brothers and sisters await you. Allah be praised, go now, my son.”
Muzzamil started the truck and with only a slight jerk eased it out the door and into the rising African sun. The door was quickly pulled shut behind him.
The Arab searched his pockets for a cigarette as he walked back to the robed man.
“He will do it?”
“I have no doubts,” the robed man replied.
“If he develops any, we will help him.” The Arab pulled the remote detonator from his pocket.
“I do not think that will be necessary, but we cannot have him captured. It is becoming more difficult to find men willing to do these things. You will take care of the family as promised?”
“Funding is becoming more difficult, but improving the lives of his family will cost little. The boy is a fool, but it will be done. After all, we may need more ‘volunteers’ in the future. Come, my friend. This building will burn in less than thirty minutes. We must depart. And I wish to be well on my way out of this country. By the end of the day it will not be safe for either of us.”
“Yes, the Americans,” the robed man replied. ”Let them come.”
“Oh, they will my friend. You angered them once before, and they robbed you of an eye. I imagine they will want more this time. I would not underestimate them.”
“Yes, I will be leaving as well, but not for long. I will see you again?”
“Perhaps, Allah willing, but most likely not.” The Arab offered no explanation.
“I understand.”
* * *
Djimon increased the speed of the forklift after rounding the corner. After driving daily for three months now, he considered himself an expert. He had not spilled anything since his first day. He had feared that day was his last, but the Americans were forgiving, and he had been given a second chance. He had been offered the job after befriending one of the many officials who worked there. His sister was employed by the woman and watched over her child while she and her husband worked. While Djimon’s job did not allow him access to the embassy itself, he worked right next door in the warehouse, moving supplies all day and loading and unloading trucks.
Djimon was very proud of his job and worked hard for the Americans he had come to respect. The constant flow of humanitarian items he moved every day had removed any doubts he’d had before. Other boys his age would curse the Americans, saying they were taking over their country and treading on their beliefs. Djimon knew better. The job he did every day had proven it. How could he deny the generosity of his employer when he himself moved every pallet of food, medicine and clothing that came through the building? He saw the destinations on the crates. All for his countrymen and all for free. They paid him well, treated him with respect, and fed him twice a day, also for free. He had discovered chocolate from the Americans, and they would often dip into certain crates before they left the docks so he could take it home to his younger brothers and sisters. Not once had they questioned him on his religion or interfered with his prayers. No one had tried to convert him, or offered him anything that went against his beliefs. While his employers drank alcohol and ate things he found foul, he had soon realized that his people also did some things that the Americans found unpleasant. But he had come to accept them as he had been accepted by them.
Today his supervisor was a man named Ken. A simple name he had easily remembered. Ken, he had learned, did not work for the American government, but for one of the drug companies that were supplying the medications that fought AIDS. Medications his country needed desperately. Ken was a stern man, not as friendly as his other bosses. When the medications arrived they were always brought by the same three men: a driver, a passenger, and a man who rode in the back with the pallets. All of them were heavily muscled and heavily armed. They were polite but serious men, and Djimon feared them greatly. Violence in his country was a fact of life, and Djimon knew the look of men who were no strangers to the deliverance of death. He always worked quickly to unload the crates when they arrived, the sooner to get the men on their way. Today was no different, and Djimon was now placing the crates in their proper locations according to the numbers stamped on each.
But he had a problem. He had been treated to a good breakfast by the Americans. Complete with orange juice, which he loved. He had drunk his fill to the amusement of the bosses and was now going on several hours of driving back and forth with a full bladder. There were three crates left, but he had to pee. Now.
The current pallet on his lift contained shrink-wrapped boxes of medicine vials. Today they were yellow tops, as opposed to the red tops that had arrived last week. It had confused him at first. The vials were the same in every other way. Same size, same shape, same number on the side. Yet he was told he could never mix the boxes. The yellows went in their designated area, the reds in theirs, and were stored in separate ends of the warehouse.
Surely he could park the lift in the red zone for a moment? Just long enough to pee. He looked around for Ken, who usually watched his every move when moving the drugs. He saw him at the other end of the warehouse. He was talking on his cell phone and not looking his way. Djimon quickly parked the forklift in the red zone, leaped off and ran toward the bathroom on the other side of the office. He only needed a minute.
* * *
Muzzamil stared at the street light. Normally he was impatient and often would run the lights, but today they seemed to be blinking green just for him. He dared not run it. His truck was heavy and slow, and the cargo too precious.
He squeezed his eyes shut in a silent prayer and mopped the sweat from his face. He had always been comfortable in the African heat. It was all he had ever known. But today he was sweating. Despite the sweat in his eyes, his vision was unusually sharp today. He found himself noticing every little detail of life swarming around him. He was also keenly aware of his heart beating in his chest. Something also unusual, but it had been with him since he had departed the garage. The act he was about to perform was keeping the adrenalin flowing through his system.
A blaring horn forced his eyes open. The light was showing green.
“Allah Akbar,” he mumbled as he slipped the truck into gear.
He could see his target over the cars in front of him from his elevated position in the truck. Keeping his acceleration slow, he opened a gap in the traffic in front of him. He looked for the promised snipers on the buildings around his target, but saw nothing. Soon the gap was large enough and he floored the gas pedal, working the clutch and gears, coaxing as much speed as he could from the heavy vehicle. The weak point in the concrete barrier was marked with graffiti and he kept his eyes focused on his target. He was within one hundred meters when he heard the first shots. Two of the guards at the gate fell to the pavement, and the third took cover behind the kiosk. As he shifted gears, Muzzamil ducked down as low as possible as bullets from the embassy rooftop shattered the windshield into a spider web of cracks. The truck had reached its top speed and he angled not toward the gate
and its snake-like concrete entrance, but to the outside barrier ringing the building. The embassy had not upgraded the perimeter with concrete and steel posts as other embassies had, and was instead utilizing pre-formed concrete fencing of the type seen on highway projects. They were not anchored down and the graffiti directed him to the joint where two barriers met. Muzzamil sat up and braced himself before impact, gripping the wheel tightly, he must not let go too soon. Shots continued to ping the truck around him, but the shooters had the wrong angle to reach him in the driver’s seat.
The impact threw him forward and his nose crunched as his face impacted the wheel sharply, almost causing him to lose his grip on the wheel. His view was a kaleidoscope of sun, glass, and the interior of the truck as he was thrown violently around the cab. His face struck the wheel a second time as the truck suddenly stopped and listed to the right.
Muzzamil pulled himself up and assessed his position. It was strangely quiet. As he gazed through the shattered windshield he discovered he had penetrated the barrier and come to rest against the wall of the embassy itself. He looked down to see his hand still gripping the wheel in a white knuckled grasp. The wire was still attached to his wrist. His hearing suddenly returned as a bullet impacted his chest. He saw his blood pour down the front of his shirt to join that streaming from his nose. He breathed deep and coughed, adding more blood to the mixture. His gaze once again fell on his left hand.
* * *
Ken Gates was not pleased. He had just received a verbal lashing from his boss half a world away and was now looking at an empty forklift. Worse yet, it was parked in the red zone with a load of yellow tops still on the skids. He’d told the boy very plainly how important it was to not mix the two. Something he kept an eye on at all times. The goal of this drug treatment was too important, and while Ken was sure he wasn’t privy to the whole plan, he had received the lecture and taken the shot. He was committed. He really had no choice. Everyone was committed, one way or the other, everyone.
He was about to hop on the forklift and move the pallet himself when he heard the sounds of gunfire. He stopped and listened closely, but sound was dampened in the large warehouse. As he listened he heard the sound of the toilet flushing. He turned to see Djimon hurrying around the corner from the bathroom. He opened his mouth to admonish the boy for his violation, but before he could do so, the wall in front of them disintegrated in a ball of fire, throwing debris across the room, crushing them both.