End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  Craig lifted his head and tried to look as defeated as possible. Inside, however, he was exploding with anticipation.

  “All right, we start recording at my command. Adam, remember your lines. And you, American. Start talking when I say so,” the general said.

  He held up a finger and counted down. Qadar began recording. The general pointed to Craig with a forceful, thick finger. Earlier, they had taped the paper to the wall and made Craig read it again and again until he’d memorized it. The words were what he expected: sinister, twisted, and delusional. Now it was time for him to recite them.

  “My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen, captured in my home country illegally harassing innocent Muslims, detaining and torturing them. I am a part of the criminal cabal known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation which has, for the past century, terrorized its own citizens and others. I am here today to deliver a message to America on the part of the Islamic State. It is this: Your government’s domination of world affairs ends today. Throughout history, your government, duly elected by its people, have committed unspeakable atrocities against people of different…” Craig suddenly stopped, trying to remember the words.

  Qadar looked up from his camera as the general watched with his mouth open.

  “Uh…” Craig said.

  “Stop!” the general said. “Stop recording.”

  Qadar sighed and pressed the stop button on the camera.

  The general stepped forward and shouted. “Unspeakable atrocities against people of different faiths and backgrounds for over two hundred years! Get it right or we’ll be here all night!”

  “Maybe we can start from there and splice it together,” Qadar suggested.

  “No,” the general said. “Have him at least say it through in one complete take before we start doing different cuts.”

  Adam leaned down and held the knife in front of Craig’s face. Its sharp nine-inch blade glistened in the light. “Maybe you just need the right motivation.”

  Craig stared at the blade with his non-swollen eye, saying nothing.

  “Okay, let’s try this again. Go!” the general said, pointing.

  “My name is Special Agent Craig Davis, and I am an American citizen…”

  ***

  Husein walked carefully down the hall with the heavy pistol in his hands. He passed several darkened, unoccupied offices, getting closer to the warehouse floor, where he could hear several different televisions and see the shadowy movement of militants moving around at the eleventh hour.

  He stopped before reaching the end of the hall. The door to the basement was across the way, and it would be nearly impossible to walk through the place without being seen. Some of the ISIS men would recognize him, question him, and most likely detain him.

  He peeked around the corner of the hall and looked out to the busy warehouse floor. There were about thirty men in all, their backs to him, eyes glued to the television monitors displaying the carnage of the day. Calls for war were being shouted by pundits as solemn news anchors offered a complete timeline of where and when the port attacks had occurred. Almost everyone was dressed in desert combat fatigues, similar to what U.S. Marines wore. Husein wondered where they had gotten such uniforms.

  Months ago, he could remember hearing on the news that much of the equipment in the possession of ISIS was stolen from the American-backed Iraqi and Syrian rebel armies. It could have been the case.

  He saw men walking around with cell phones to their ears, talking rapidly in Arabic, a language he did not understand. Bright lights from overhead illuminated the warehouse floor. There were large industrial machines everywhere and bins and bins of empty plastic bottles.

  The militants were occupied with their seemingly urgent tasks, with no apparent shortage of technological devices at their fingertips. What did ISIS want? Did they really think they were going to defeat the Americans? Although his own country was no paradise, there was no place, at that moment, he would rather be.

  He didn’t dare stand there much longer. Craig was waiting for him. His legs froze in place, preventing him from moving. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer. It was time to move. With one step, he walked out into the bay, open and exposed. The basement door was only about fifty feet away, near a plastics molding machine, but as he moved—eyes on the ground—the door seemed farther and farther away.

  ***

  Craig was on his third run-through. He had stopped halfway through the second time. Three paragraphs of rambling ISIS propaganda were not the easiest to remember and recite. Adam held the knife in Craig’s view again and promised to cut him if he messed up again.

  The general slapped his hands together amidst all the grumbling from his crew. “Let’s quit the whining and do this already. The American is bound to screw it up a few times. But we’re close, I can feel it.”

  For Craig, the issue wasn’t so much reciting the message verbatim, as was the fear that once he did, they would kill him. He knew how mock executions went. He had studied their videos before. Captives were convinced everything was just an act, a piece of propaganda. For when a person knows they are going to die, it’s harder for them to concentrate on whatever message their captors want them to deliver. ISIS 101.

  Craig knew their game and was trying to make it as difficult as possible for them. No matter how many times Adam flashed the knife in front of his face, Craig believed they would not kill him until he delivered the entire message.

  “All right, let’s try this again,” the general said, lighting up another cigarette. “Go!”

  Craig recited the first part without issue, and then continued.

  “Your government’s crusade throughout the Middle East has murdered hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqi and Afghanistan people, all through a misguided, imperialistic campaign of lies. You have since been at the forefront of the aggression toward the Islamic State, interfering with our affairs, which should be no concern of yours. Your day of reckoning has now come. You will answer for the crimes of your government, the atrocities of your people, and your wrongdoings against Islam, in a just manner as dictated by the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

  Craig stopped. All eyes focused on him in anticipation. He was close to finishing. The general’s cigarette dangled in his mouth as he stared at Craig, frozen and waiting for him to finish. Instead, Craig began coughing.

  “Can’t I just do it?” Adam shouted out. “Why are we even wasting our time with this American? Let me say the words and let’s be done with it!”

  The general stepped forward. “Because this is what Ma’mun wants. And what Ma’mun wants is what Allawi wants. Got it?”

  There were no objections from the group. The general tossed his cigarette and spat on the ground. “Now from the top. Let’s go!”

  ***

  Husein moved quickly across the bay, behind any machine he could hide behind, trying to remain invisible. No one seemed to take notice of him, but he didn’t want to look around to find out. He was close, the door was a quick sprint ahead, when suddenly a man he did not know walked out of a nearby restroom and made direct eye contact with him. Husein looked immediately to the ground and tried to walk past the man. His hand went to the pistol stuffed into the back of his jeans, and he went on, staying as inconspicuous as possible.

  A hand touched his shoulder, causing him to stop. He could barely bring himself to look up. When he did, he saw the stern face of a man with a chin beard, thick eyebrows, and glasses. The man spoke in Arabic as Husein stared blankly ahead. On a gamble, Husein spoke back in his native tongue. To his surprise, the man smiled and responded in Chechen.

  “You’re from Chechnya?” he asked. “My mother was from there. What part?”

  “Grozny,” Husein said.

  “Ah. Mother was from a small town. Argun. Are you Russian?”

  “No,” Husein said. He had always been taught to hate the Russians.

  The man looked intrigued. “I don’t think w
e’ve met. I’m Ismael.” The man stuck his pudgy hand out.

  Husein shook it. “I’m Husein.”

  “What are you wandering around for? There is much work to be done. Walk with me.” He grabbed Husein by the arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.

  Husein resisted, thinking of the first name that came to mind. “The general requested my presence in the basement.”

  Ismael stopped. “Hm. What would he want from you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ismael turned and pulled Husein around again, back to his original direction. “Let’s find out then. I don’t trust him, myself. Did you know that he was a former Shiite? They never change, if you ask me.”

  Husein yanked his arm free, causing Ismael to stop. His face went from friendly to offended and angry in an instant.

  “No offense, brother,” Husein said. “He asked for me and me alone.”

  Ismael gripped his arm and pulled Husein toward him. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Let me talk with him.”

  Husein swallowed. His throat had long been dry. He didn’t see any way out. He looked toward the operations area of the bay. The men remained fixed at their monitor screens.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Ismael pulled him along as they approached the basement door, certain to surprise those involved in the production taking place downstairs.

  ***

  “Can we do this sometime today?” the general asked in an exhausted tone as he leaned against one of the basement pillars.

  “I told you what the problem is,” Adam said, pointing at Craig with his knife. “Let me do the lines. I’ll explain it to Ma’mun.”

  “Not happening,” the general said. “Now, let’s take it from the top.”

  All eyes went to Craig. His distant, vapid stare showed them a man who had mentally checked out.

  Adam could take no more. He swung his leg and kicked Craig directly in the back, sending him to the ground. Craig saw a white flash the moment his face struck the cement. He lay there in a puddle of drool, all the while holding onto the shard of glass.

  “Enough!” the general said. “You kick him around anymore and we’ll get nothing from him.”

  Adam looked at the general and shrugged.

  “Get him up!” the general shouted.

  Adam reluctantly lifted Craig up by his arms, leaving him wobbling in front of the camera. Then he pushed him down onto his knees.

  “From the top…once again,” the general said.

  He gave the go-ahead and Craig tried again. He had neared the final paragraph last time and didn’t know how much longer he could stall. He began from the start and went through it without issue. As he neared the final sentence, Adam gripped the knife tightly in his hand and got ready.

  “The port attacks on Long Beach, Houston, South Louisiana, Wilmington, New York and New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Florida were intended as a wakeup call and nothing more. Now that you know we’re serious and that war is upon you, we welcome your aggression. But we will not subject ourselves to your indiscriminate drone killings, responsible for the daily deaths of innocent civilians. You will not play judge, jury, and executioner any longer. We are fighting back, and we’re taking the fight directly to your shores as a matter of unilateral action.

  “We are everywhere. In your towns, neighborhoods, and communities. We are in your shopping malls, movie theaters, and restaurants. We’re already here, and there is nothing you can do about it. We will, however, give you one option. If the U.S. abandons all military bases overseas and agrees to stay out of the affairs of our people, we will end our jihad. If you choose not to comply, you will suffer a fate far worse than today. For what we have planned next is certain to reduce the United States to a crumbling pile of ash.”

  Craig stopped. He had one line left. The general leaned forward in deep anticipation.

  “Come on…” Qadar said quietly from behind the camera.

  Craig continued cutting the rope. He was almost there. It was nearly split in half.

  “In closing…” Craig began. He stopped and waited. He could feel Adam’s looming presence above him, knife in hand. “In closing…” he repeated.

  The upstairs door opened. All heads turned. They figured it was Ma’mun, for he was the only one who could get away with interrupting a video shoot. But as the two pairs of legs descended the stairs, the general became annoyed.

  He was even more surprised to see Ismael come down the stairs with Husein at his side. He immediately walked over to them.

  “What the hell are you doing down here?” he seethed.

  “Husein here says that you asked for him. Do you not understand how much work there is to be done? You look like you have plenty of people here. What on earth are you bugging a young man like this for?”

  Whatever their relationship, Husein didn’t know. He saw Craig in the corner of the room on his knees and with a knife at his neck. There were three masked fighters standing behind him like statues with rifles in hand.

  Craig shot a knowing look at Husein and nodded. No one seemed to take notice.

  “Get the hell off my set,” the general said to Ismael.

  “Don’t you dare disrespect me,” Ismael said. “Wait until Ma’mun hears about this.”

  “Should I stop?” Qadar asked, rolling his eyes.

  “Keep filming,” the general said, waving him off.

  The shard of glass made one final cut, slicing through the last strands of rope. Craig could feel himself free. He took a breath and glanced again at Husein. "I was saying,” he began.

  To their collective astonishment, he pulled his hands free from behind his back and jumped up in the air.

  “God bless America!” he shouted.

  He turned to Adam and jammed the shard of glass up into his throat. Adam stumbled back, gagging. Blood poured from his mouth. The onlookers in the room were stunned. Craig kicked Adam to the ground then turned to Husein. “Weapon, now!”

  Husein pulled the pistol from the back of his jeans and tossed it over the general’s head directly into Craig’s waiting hands.

  Before the others could even comprehend the situation, Craig turned around and fired the pistol into the head of each masked gunman. The blasts sent the general and Ismael scrambling to the stairs. Husein wisely jumped out of the way and crawled to the corner of the room.

  He looked up just in time to see Qadar take a bullet between the eyes. Yassif ran from his guard position near the lights toward the stairs. The back of his head split open with one shot, and he went down. Like a steady assassin, Craig moved toward the two men left. He shot Ismael in the back without hesitation. The large man’s body slumped to the ground. His head hit the bottom stair and went motionless. Craig adjusted his aim and fired two shots into the general’s leg.

  The general screamed in agony and crawled toward the stairs. Craig approached him slowly, confident he had enough rounds to finish the job. Husein squatted in the corner of the room with his hands over his ears.

  “You American pig,” the general said, crawling away. “You’ll never make it out of here alive.”

  Craig hovered over him with the pistol aimed at his head. “I haven’t gotten a chance to repay you yet for kicking me in this face.”

  The general grunted and inched desperately toward the stairs. “Go to hell.”

  “You lose,” Craig said, firing a single shot into the back of his head. The general went limp as blood and brains and bone flew from his skull. Twenty seconds after Husein had tossed him the pistol, there wasn’t a man left alive in the room.

  The Will to Survive

  It was evening, and the planned ISIS video never made it to prime time television. Craig had won the first battle, but knew that he had a long way to go if he expected to survive.

  “How many upstairs again?” he asked Husein while moving quickly through the room and grabbing the weapons of his dead captors. The pistol was out of rounds, leaving him with three AK-47s. He checked
the magazines for each rifle and did a quick functions check. Afterwards, he handed one to Husein, who then nearly dropped it.

  “You expect me to shoot this?” Husein asked.

  Craig pulled him to the side, under the stairs, as footsteps sounded from outside the door. “Listen,” Craig whispered. “We’re sitting ducks here. There’s a good chance they heard the shots. We have to be ready.”

  “I’ve never shot a gun before,” Husein said.

  Craig gave him a cockeyed look. “Never? Well, there’s nothing to it. You just point and shoot.” He slung one AK over his shoulder and held up the other one. “Just don’t shoot me.”

  Husein struggled with the weapon, trying to find the right placement for his hands.

  “Here,” Craig said. He took the rifle, pulled the charging handle back, and locked the bolt back to the rear. He then released it with a loud snap. “That’s all you have to do. Just pull the trigger and you’re ready to go.”

  Husein couldn’t have imagined that Craig, who—only a day ago—had put a gun to his head, was now giving him one. He reluctantly took it back. It felt big and awkward in his hands.

  Craig could sense the hesitation. “All I need you to do is cover me. Don’t just shoot into the air, because we need every last round.”

  Husein scanned the room, observing all the limp, lifeless bodies. It had been a massacre. He didn’t know how much more he could take. His ears rang, and the gunsmoke in the air gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. He did, however, understand that in order to survive, he’d have to follow Craig’s every instruction.

  Craig stood up straight, poised and ready to make their escape. “The only way out of here is through the front door. Are you ready?”

  Based on what he had seen of the warehouse, Husein racked his brain to think of any other exits but couldn’t come up with anything. “There’s just so many of them up there. I don’t know how we’re going to do it,” he said.

  “We’ll find a way,” Craig answered.

  Husein took a deep breath and followed as Craig carefully approached the stairs and moved up each creaking step with the rife aimed steadily toward the door. Once the door was opened, there would be no turning back.