by Tariq Saleim
“We are going to put you to sleep,” said Coco, bending over Nile. “When you wake up, you will be fine.”
“I thought I was dead,” replied Nile.
“Not on my watch.”
“Promise me something,” Nile said softly.
“Anything you want.”
“Tell my wife and kids that I love them.”
“That will not be necessary. You will be fine.”
“Fine for what, more torture?” Nile had fully recovered and remembered everything.
Coco and her staff were now ready for the surgery. They needed to open Nile’s abdomen to see which organs had been damaged. He had lost a lot of blood and needed transfusions as well. She looked at the anesthesiologist and asked her to start the procedure. They had lost a lot of time and Nile’s condition was worsening.
“Tell me about your kids,” Coco said affectionately.
“My son is the eldest,” replied Nile, forcing a smile on his face. “He is very handsome. Looks like his mother. He…he…plays football for his school. He is…very…” Nile was finding it difficult to concentrate; the anesthesia was working.
“And your daughter? Tell me about your daughter,” said Coco.
“Daughter…daughters…I have two lovely…” Nile drifted into unconsciousness and Coco promptly went to work on him.
***
In his office, through the camera feeds, the Commander watched the proceedings on his computer screen. Twelve.CO is a good doctor, he reckoned. Too bad she will be demoted, possibly lose her job. He sympathized with the young doctor. She should not have come here in the first place. He watched intently as she worked on saving his prisoner’s life, motivated and committed, fully convinced that she could save Nile.
When the operation concluded he called for the doctor. A tired yet triumphed Coco entered his office. He gestured for her to sit in the huge chair opposite his desk—a chair that made her look like a midget.
“How did it go?” the Commander asked.
“He will survive, but he needs medical care for weeks to come. Several of his internal organs were cut. He had lost a lot of blood as well.”
“And you want me to feel bad about it?”
Coco decided not to reply to the Commander. She had had enough for one day. Also, she was aware of the Commander’s reputation and was sure that her career and potentially life were at stake.
“I was not going to burn him,” said the Commander. “I was only threatening him.”
Once again, Coco was silent. He sensed that she was not going to say anything so he spoke again. “Once Nile recovers, we will transfer you back to civil service in your hometown.”
Coco was pleasantly surprised at this development. She looked at the Commander with gratitude, but still refrained from talking.
“You are not comfortable here and I am not comfortable with you,” said the Commander. “If you will challenge me on every interrogation, then it will become very difficult for me to do my job.”
That finally prompted a response. “I am sorry for what I did earlier. I did not mean to challenge you. I interrupted only to request that you spare Nile’s life. He does not seem like the ORRF type.”
The Commander felt no urge to suppress his anger in response to Coco’s statement. He stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Don’t you dare challenge me on my professional expertise! What do you know about ORRF? What do you know about terrorism or, for that matter, Nile? You dare to tell me that I am wrong?”
“I did not mean to say that.”
“Get out of my room!” shouted the Commander again. “Don’t show your face during your remaining time in this facility. Do your job and get lost from here.”
The Commander stared at Coco, who stood up and quietly left the room. I will surely get her fired, he thought. He recalled his earlier conversation with the UPF chairman. There was more than just professional commitment at stake, and he was determined to not let her down.
CHAPTER 10
Sector 3, Sub-Sector 1 (formerly known as New York City, United States of America)
Ken’s worst fears had come true. He turned off his computer and walked to the window of his apartment. It was early morning and people were hurriedly walking to their offices. They were focused, engaged, unaware of the plague that had engulfed them all. Ken had nowhere to go—no office and no friends. Even his family had trouble believing him. Now they will believe me, he poignantly reflected.
He felt like calling Spike and talking to him. He missed his little brother. Things had changed so quickly between them and he wondered why. Why did we grow up? Why could not we stay kids? He was annoyed at his parents as well. No one has called to check up on me. Surely they know that annual draws were finalized last night and announced this morning. He looked at his watch. It was already eight a.m. Spike must be on his way to the office. He could have called to check up on me. My family has totally written me off. Perhaps it is good that I have been selected.
He walked to his bed, sat down, and opened the second drawer from the top in his nightstand. There it was: a black, shiny handgun, waiting to be fired for the first and perhaps the last time by its registered owner. He had bought it years ago, but had never had a use for it, until recently. In anticipation of its probable usage, he had it serviced three months ago.
He took out the empty magazine and stared at it meaningfully. Do I need to fill up the whole magazine? Is one bullet enough? He did not know, so he decided to fill the whole magazine. He reached for the box of bullets, resting next to the handgun. One by one, he started inserting bullets.
“One…two…three…,” he counted as he loaded bullets. After twelve bullets, the magazine refused to accommodate any more. He inserted the loaded magazine into the gun and chambered the bullet. He was ready now.
The firearm felt heavy in his hand. He straightened his arm and aimed at the lock on his apartment’s window. He struggled to keep his hand steady and aim properly.
They were waiting for him to come to them. The fuckers can wait, he smiled. They will not get the pleasure of torturing me to death. I will spoil their plans. He had already told Spike where to look for evidence. Spike did not know it yet, but someday he would understand. The day he deciphered Ken’s message, he would get to the information that Ken had prepared for him. Ken did not expect anything from Spike; he only wanted to prove to Spike that he was not a lunatic.
Ken wore his belt holster, removed his weapon’s safety, and secured his firearm in the holster. He then put on his oversized jacket to conceal his weapon, picked up his cell phone, and walked out of the apartment. He did not bother to lock the door—there was no need.
Once out on the street, he looked for familiar faces. He spotted one of the men sitting across the street on a roadside bench. Their eyes met and the other party smiled. This time, Ken smiled back. He reached for his cell phone, dialed Spike’s number, and lifted his phone to his ear. His sibling answered after a few rings.
“Ken,” said Spike.
There was no reply from Ken.
“Ken,” repeated Spike.
There was still no reply from Ken. He was busy removing his firearm from its holster and aiming at the person sitting on the bench across the street. There was a sudden commotion around him. People had spotted the man with a weapon in his hand and started yelling. The man sitting on the bench stood up immediately and took out his own handgun.
“I love you, Spike,” said Ken and then he fired his gun. He missed his target. As Ken prepared to shoot a second time, multiple bullets ripped through his body. The person on the other side could aim better and shoot faster.
People screamed hysterically as they heard gunshots and ran away from the crime scene. Ken’s dead body fell on the roadside. One of the bullets had punched a hole in his brain, killing him instantly.
***
Spike heard his brother’s words and before he could understand what happened, he heard gunshots. “Ken! Ken!” he shouted into his
cell phone. There was no reply. Spike looked at his phone. Ken’s call had been disconnected. He frantically tried to call back, but Ken’s phone was switched off.
***
Ken’s murderer walked to his corpse and looked at him with disgust. Why couldn’t he just kill himself? The asshole had to pull this stunt. Couldn’t even fire a gun properly, bloody loser. He looked around and spotted two security cameras. He was sure there were more. Good that he fired first. He looked at Ken’s broken phone. It had slipped out of Ken’s hand and the battery had ejected on impact. There was no need to check who he called last. His calls were being tracked so they would know anyway.
He took one last look at Ken. For the last several months Ken had kept him busy. He was ordered to follow Ken, make him aware of his presence, but never to talk to him. He had joined two others who were on the same project with the same instructions. They did different shifts. Today their project had ended. They could take a few days off and report back to the office.
He was told Ken was working for ORRF and needed to be kept under surveillance in order to gather intelligence. He did not, however, understand why they could not follow him discreetly. His orders were to make himself obvious, something that had baffled him all along.
Ken never met anyone from ORRF. He did not have any friends at all. He had met his brother and parents only twice in the last several months. If Ken was indeed working for ORRF, then he surely kept it well hidden.
They had searched Ken’s apartment several times looking for data, pictures, videos, and documents, but found nothing. Ken did not know that his apartment was bugged and had been searched several times. They always rearranged the apartment the way Ken had left it. Ken was not that observant anyway. He would not have noticed, even if a few things had been arranged differently.
Good-bye my friend. Rest in peace, thought the murderer as he strolled away from Ken’s corpse in broad daylight. No one dared to question who he was or where he was going.
***
Spike had no idea where Ken was, but he thought Ken’s apartment would be a good place to start. He rushed into the central tube station and took a northbound train. Ken lived outside the Sub-Sector and it would take forty-five minutes to get to his place by the tube. Spike had thought about taking a cab, but in this rush hour a cab could take longer.
As soon as Spike boarded the tube, he called his father. A grumpy voice answered his call.
“What’s up, son?” said the old man.
“I think something happened to Ken,” replied Spike.
“What?” The old man sounded worried.
“He called me, said he loved me, and then I heard noises that sounded like gunshots.”
“What are you saying?”
“It is true. I am trying to call him now, but his cell is off.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to see Ken.”
“Where?”
“At his apartment.”
“How do you know he is there?”
“I do not, but I have nowhere else to go.”
The old man thought about it for a while. Spike was right. He looked at his wife, lying next to him, still asleep.
“Your mother was not feeling well last night. She is sleeping right now. Do you want me to come? I will, although I do not wish to leave her alone.”
“There is no need, for now,” replied Spike. “I will update you once I get there.”
“OK.”
“I will hang up now. I will call you later. Please don’t tell Mom anything yet.”
“I won’t. When were the annual draws due?” the old man asked, suddenly remembering that they were due soon.
“Results were announced this morning, Dad.”
“Was Ken on the list?”
“I do not know. I was getting late heading out for the office and thought I would check on it once I got there.”
“This is very disturbing.”
“It is, indeed. The timing is very bad.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I have to go, Dad. I will talk to you later. Bye.”
“Bye,” replied the old man.
Spike quickly accessed the annual draws results from his cell phone and searched for Ken’s full name. He looked at the screen in horror—Ken had been selected.
“Shit,” shouted Spike. “Has Ken taken his own life?”
People standing next to him glanced at him briefly and then looked the other way. Spike sent a brief message to his dad from his cell phone, updating him that Ken had been selected. His father replied instantaneously and asked for an update as soon as Spike knew more.
Spike stepped out of the tube on the last stop and rushed out of the station. Ken’s apartment was ten minutes’ walk from here. Spike ran as fast as he could, trying to get there sooner. He did not have keys to Ken’s apartment and wondered how he would get in. I may have to break the door, he reckoned.
None of that was necessary, however.
A small army had gathered in front of Ken’s apartment building. Spike could see an ambulance and several Militia vehicles. A dead body was lying on the roadside and a photographer could be seen taking photos. The crime scene was cordoned off and uniformed men were ordering people to keep walking and not to block the roadside.
As Spike walked closer to the crime scene, he recognized Ken’s oversized jacket. He froze, unable to move, accepting for the first time the possibility that Ken was indeed dead. His office satchel slipped from his shoulder and fell on the pavement, next to his feet. He wanted to run to Ken, pick him up, hug him, save him, but it was too late.
From this distance he could not see the dead body’s face. Maybe it is not Ken, he comforted himself. Slowly, he started walking again toward the crime scene, leaving his office satchel lying on the pavement. As he walked closer, the dead body’s face became recognizable. It was indeed Ken, a violated version of him, with a hole in his forehead just above his left eye. He was looking at Spike, eyes wide open, probably waiting for Spike to believe his story, written in his blood.
“Where do you think you are going?” a uniformed officer asked, stopping Spike from going any farther. “This is a crime scene.”
Spike looked at the officer with tears in his eyes. “That is my brother.”
“Step aside,” the officer said rudely. “We are collecting evidence.”
“That is my brother,” Spike repeated sharply.
“Are you his accomplice?”
“Accomplice in what?”
“We suspect your brother was working for ORRF.”
Spike stepped back, amazed and afraid. Was Ken with ORRF? It is not possible.
“Ken was not with ORRF,” replied Spike.
“Let us decide that.”
“Did he kill himself?” Spike asked, trying to understand what had happened.
“No, he tried to shoot an on-duty Militia officer who was on surveillance detail. The officer responded and this terrorist died resultantly.”
So Ken was being followed. He was not paranoid, Spike realized. “Ken couldn’t kill anyone.”
“He did try.”
Spike turned around and started walking toward Ken’s apartment building.
“Where are you going?” the Militia officer asked.
“To my brother’s apartment.” Spike didn’t look at the officer.
“That is a restricted area—extended crime scene. You cannot go there.”
Spike turned around and shouted at the officer, “Where the hell can I go, then? I cannot go near him. I cannot go to his apartment. What is wrong with you people? That is my brother lying on the ground with holes in his body.”
The Militia officer was unimpressed by Spike’s words, aggression, and tears. “You need to come with us.”
“Why?”
“You need to come with us,” repeated the officer. “We need to ask you some questions.”
“I am not going anywhere.” Spike was adamant.
Suddenly, he wa
s surrounded by several Militia officers, all staring at him assertively.
“I am not going anywhere,” Spike shouted again.
Two officers grabbed him by his arms, one from each side, and dragged him to a Militia car. Another officer picked up Spike’s office satchel from the pavement.
Spike looked at his brother’s dead body with a feeling of regret and remorse. Ken was being followed. He was trying to talk to me. He was trying to tell me things, and I did not care. I am so sorry, Ken. I failed you. Please forgive me. Tears rolled out of his eyes again and he sobbed.
“I need to call my parents,” said Spike, just before he was pushed inside the vehicle.
“You can do that later—once we are done with our interrogation,” replied the officer.
Spike was handcuffed and placed on the backseat, inside the cage. His pockets were searched and his cell phone confiscated.
“Where are we going?” Spike asked as soon as the car started moving.
“One more question and I will put a bullet in your filthy mouth,” replied the officer sitting next to the driver. “Bloody terrorist.”
The rest of the journey was quiet. Spike cried intermittently. He was sad, afraid, and confused. He had never been arrested before. He had never seen a loved one dead. He had never sat in a Militia vehicle, inside a cage meant for serious offenders. His life was rapidly swirling out of control.
A half-hour ride brought them to the center of the town. The car stopped in front of a Militia office and Spike was escorted inside. He walked past a crowded hall where no one seemed to care about him being handcuffed and pushed around. There were desks, chairs, uniformed officers, handcuffed people, junkies and seminaked women—all scattered randomly across the crowded hall.
He crossed the hall, still being escorted by the two officers. They walked into a door on the left side and entered a corridor. The two officers pushed him inside the first room on the right side of the corridor. He was asked to sit on the sole chair in the room. The two of them left and a few minutes later a third person appeared. He was not wearing a Militia uniform.