The Shift of Numbers
Page 17
*
A foot missing its mark, an arm out of control, a hand holding a chunk of metal, a pain of epic proportions - all experienced in a heartbeat. The out-of-control appendage had relinquished its orbit around Richard’s body and re-entered the atmosphere in the region of his groin. The fingers of the hand sprung open as the rest of him hit the floor in an undignified manner. The heap of arms, legs and fingers rolled into a ball, gasping for a breath that would take the throbbing away. His eyes opened quickly, searching, realising something. With a monumental effort he repositioned himself, pulling his arm out from under the twisted wreckage of his body. He sat up, staring into his palm and at the small piece of metal contained therein, much smaller than it should have been.
*
Gordon felt the floorboards under him shake before he heard the huge bang. A silent scream bounced around the cavernous interior of his mind as his eyes sprung open, glimpsing the same fear in Sophia’s wide eyes. This was it. The knife almost fell from his grasp as the window behind them smashed inwards showering his back with shards of razor sharp glass. He instinctively turned around, drowning in a tidal wave of adrenaline, slowing down time. Feet shod in combat boots burst through the remains of the window, landing heavily on the floor. Attached to the feet was a soldier, a modern day ninja, clad head to toe in black and entangled in a web of high tensile rope. The soldier tried to lower his gun and point it at them but the tip was jammed, stuck under the rope. He fumbled with a steel buckle at his waist. Gordon almost felt sorry for him - he had trained for this moment, perfected it. Yet here he was messing it up in the most ridiculous way, a footballer tripping over his laces at the World Cup Final. It didn’t last long, though; the rope was off in seconds, the rifle dropped to the floor and a handgun pulled hastily, yet precisely, from its holster.
It was long enough for Gordon. The man didn’t seem to notice the knife handle sticking out of his neck as he stumbled backwards towards the window. Gordon watched the eyes behind the gas mask, blinking in disbelief, as he fell. The building shook with muffled explosions, noise and flashes of light as he turned back to her. She seemed to smile, a liquid smile of resignation and acceptance, in contradiction with the sadness of her eyes, a poorly put together collage of emotions. She walked past him, picked up the gun from the floor and pointed it out of the window.
Her hair looking shampoo-perfect was lifted away from her face by the percussive blasts of explosive shells. The gun looked comfortable at her hip, spluttering in slow motion, flashing out light and spitting out chunks of lead into the distance. Circumstance was her photographer, posing her, positioning, then clicking and capturing echoes of her light, tugging at the essence behind it. Empty shells littered the floor around her, each expelling smoke and adding a stinking ambiance to her defining scene, an advertising shot for hopeless rebellion, a panorama that generations would ponder over and learn about in text and picture, the content of a million T-shirts and countless discussions by eager students, all wishing to be part of something bigger than themselves, pretending to understand. His knees hit the floor, eyes fixed on her, arms outstretched. Behind him, the eye of a camera blinked in cold mechanical disbelief.
*
Tim watched the set of buildings light up as the soldiers advanced, each window glowing briefly, accompanied by a muffled explosion. For a second he thought he could make out the figures within. As he blinked, not believing the images being fed into his consciousness, soldiers began fleeing the compound. His heart leaped as the small distant figures ran up the field towards the safety of their vehicles. They’ve beaten them, he thought, as muzzle-flashes of gunfire lit up the blackened windows within the houses and bullets whizzed and zipped over his position. He smiled as the Commander stumbled behind his car, tripping over a radio. Could I kill him? The idea flashed into his mind as his hand reached for his gun. Contemplating distance and accuracy, a hand touched his shoulder. Tim turned to see a finger pointed to the sky. Hearing a dull chugging noise, he looked up.
*
A helicopter rose slowly over the compound, blasting out exhaust and purpose. Inside, the pilot became aware of a high-pitched hum via his headphones. Target locked. A gloved thumb flipped open a metal casing. The same thumb pressed down on a button and a nightmare was unleashed, the silent smile of nothingness propelled through the chain of command, sucking away life in an accurate rubber-stamped official manner.
*
Pelexia Brown sat at her desk, the smell of fresh coffee contrasting with the stale office air. The letter had arrived by special delivery two days previously but she had been too busy covering the fallen soldiers to open it. She ripped open the exterior, marked important in handwritten capitals, and began to read.
To Pelexia Brown,
By the time you read this, we will most likely be dead, killed by the real terrorists. I want you to tell our story. Perhaps it can change things. Overleaf is a web-link and password to a collection of video files, including those of our last moments. It also contains information as to our purpose.
Sophia Gravari
Epilogue
This place - so beautiful, I can’t believe it. The smell of a flower planted by people who only want others to breathe in its sweet scent. No charge to see this. It makes me complete. The trees, the flowers. I’m fulfilled on every level. I walk down a winding path surrounded by millions of different colours and it happens. Bouncing on a melody dreamed by another, no fear exists here, only dreams. I am complete.
I’ve given up paying to exist in the other world. The more you own, the safer you can be, enhancing my consumption by feeding my fear. I want to be in control. I want to laugh in the face of my aggressor. I want to be safe, the way a superhero is safe, with me choosing the battle, knowing the worst that could happen. Maybe I will lose my x-ray vision or the ability to fly. At least I won’t be the people I am sworn to protect.
But I am the people. Feed me burgers and I will buy your diet pills. Show me how to escape for a while and I will work for hours to afford your drugs. Show me your enemies and I will work to buy guns for your soldiers. Feed me your lies and I will accept and consume until the day I die. On that day, the people who care about me will spend their hard-earned money giving me a decent burial, but if no-one can afford it, then up in smoke I go, numbers floating ever upward into the clouds where the superheroes dwell, the most expensive smoke you will ever see.
But that’s not my world anymore.
THE END