Brilliant Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  At that moment he became enthused with the power of wisdom and common sense. He had made up his mind never to press the button, regardless of any act of aggression by a foreign power... not unless the President ordered him to do so personally. In effect, that command could never be issued because the man lay unconscious in a coma in hospital. The Colonel felt satisfied with his decision although he knew it would draw tremendous anger from the people of the United States. The reasons were obvious. No one wanted to be the target of an unwarranted nuclear attack. It would be totally one-sided. Baker hoped that the enemy would launch only a single attack. But he would never press the red button unless ordered to do so by a higher authority. Whatever happened in the crisis, despite the fact that America and her people would suffer, the incident would not be allowed to escalate into a global war. The United States would deal with its enemies at diplomatic levels of negotiation in preference to acting in haste to annihilate them.

  The loudspeaker crackled again as the Radar Controller’s voice came through with an edge of excitement. ‘They’re turning! They’re turning round and going back! Well I’ll be the son of a gun! They’re going back!’

  The Colonel’s fingers turned white as he clutched the crucifix more tightly. He looked up at the ceiling with gratitude for the sudden change in the fortunes of the world. The crisis was over and, despite his decision not to press the button, he was released from all responsibility. The safety of the United States was secure and everything was returning to normality.

  ‘Change status from Red to Yellow Alert,’ came the voice of Captain Taggart on the intercom. ‘Keep tracking on all monitors!’

  A brief smile showed at the edge of the senior officer’s mouth. He started to relax but the tension had been too much for him to do so easily. He leaned forward slightly and closed his eyes as his lips moved in silent prayer. It was then that fate took a hand in the proceedings. He still gripped the crucifix tightly but the force exerted on the cross was so great that the string holding it round his neck snapped without warning. His hand came forward sharply and landed heavily on the red button which was depressed for the briefest of moments to its fullest extent. The instrument began to emit a sharp warning sound to indicate that the signal had been activated. Colonel Baker stared down at the instrument in horror. Within one hundred and twenty seconds, forty-four nuclear missiles would be despatched, aimed at specific targets in Eastern Europe, the Middle East and Asia... and only the President of the United States could do anything about it, except that he was in hospital... in a coma!

  Intruder

  The atmosphere was explosive. It was Saturday afternoon and the crowd comprising thirty thousand excited fans, rigged out in red or blue, yelled and cheered as they waited to see their favourite football teams battle it out on the pitch. It was a historic Saturday afternoon needle match in the third round contest of the Football Association Cup between two first-class London teams!

  Fletcher left the dressing-room with the rest of the players to start the run on to the football field as the roar from the crowd reached a crescendo. The air was filled with expectation and excitement... enhanced by the taste of cup-fever. However, on his way towards the pitch he halted in his tracks at the sight of a large spider resting in its web on the wall of the tunnel. For a moment, his pupils dilated and he felt an invisible band tighten round his chest causing him to gasp for breath. The symptoms of the malaise were recognised immediately... arachnophobia... a morbid fear of spiders. To the other members of the team, his Achilles heel was an amusing weakness. After all, Fletcher was a strong, giant figure of a man, a professional sportsman who threw himself into every game with force and tenacity, fearlessly receiving and meting out savage tackles without flinching. Yet his resolve could be turned to mere jelly within an instant at the sight of a small harmless spider. The goal-keeper running behind him in the tunnel recognised his predicament and laughed at his colleague’s discomfort, sweeping the arachnid off the wall with one blow from the leather gloves in his hand. As they emerged from the tunnel to the cheers of thirty thousand people in the stadium the incident was quickly forgotten.

  At the end of ninety minutes, the scores were level and it became necessary to play extra time to achieve a result. This proved beneficial for the home team as they scored a brilliant goal in the last five minutes to win, allowing them to advance to the next round of the cup. Fletcher gave a sound spirited display, showing his tremendous skills, offering the spectators excellent value for their money. He had already been capped six times for his country and the national Press would identify him once again as ‘Fearless Fletcher’ in the sporting headline of the next edition.

  But there was another side to this great sportsman. Far greater than his talent on the pitch was his tremendous sense of humour... often bizarre and way over the top. His colleagues had termed him as ‘the Joker’ and he truly lived up to his name. Despite the fact that he was totally reliable on the football field, for he couldn’t remember ever being out of form, his tomfoolery before and after the match was usually excessive. It was not uncommon for him to amuse the rest of the team with a variety of jokes, pranks and antics but the dark side of him pulled pranks which often stretched the patience of every member of the team. The problem with Fletcher was that there were times when no one knew whether he was pulling the wool over their eyes with a wild story or really being serious. And who could blame them? The yarns and tales which flowed from his lips... always framed by a very straight face... bordered on the edge of credibility yet, on many occasions, they proved to be complete fantasy. The players had decided long ago to take everything he said with a pinch of salt and to accept him for what he was... a joker... even though many of the practical jokes he played on each member of the team tested them to the point of distraction.

  At the end of the match, Fletcher ran off the pitch ahead of the others to make his way home as quickly as possible. In the normal run of things he would head for the changing rooms and enjoy the camaraderie of the communal bath with the rest of them. On this occasion, however, he had no option but to make haste for romantic reasons. The club had hired a new secretary... the beautiful, voluptuous Sharon... a young, blue-eyed, honey-blonde model, with hair reaching down to her shoulders, and she had agreed to meet him after the match outside a local cinema. It was a date he had been looking forward to all week. But luck was against him. The need to play extra time set him back nearly an hour. Added to this was the journey home which took a further twenty-five minutes. Consequently, he was in a hurry to shower and dress, with little time to spare.

  As soon as he arrived home he realised something was amiss. The television set in the kitchen had been switched on and he could hear the sound of one of the early-evening popular Saturday programmes. Picking up a walking-stick from the hall stand, he brandished it like a weapon outside the swing-door of the kitchen and then rushed inside to apprehend the intruder. But no one was there! The black plastic bag he used for disposing household refuse had been ripped to pieces, with the debris strewn all over the floor. It appeared that the intruder had entered the dining-room, turned on the television accidentally as the swing door of the kitchen hit the on/off button on the television set, and had then rummaged through the refuse bag. Yet, strangely enough, the television had been left on and nothing else seemed to have been taken or damaged. The sportsman was perplexed but, in his haste to meet the lovely Sharon, he shrugged his shoulders and hurried to the bathroom, peeling off his clothes in the hallway before he got there. As he stepped into the shower cubicle he looked round the bathroom. In the bath, in the area of the plug-hole rested a small spider. The footballer shuddered as his tortured mind groped to decide how to deal with it. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the hard plastic curtain across the shower cubicle and strove to drive it from his mind.

  For the next few minutes, he sang noisily under the shower of warm water reflecting Sharon’s beauty and the wonderful evening the
y were going to enjoy. She was beautiful... voluptuous... stunning! He continued to daydream for a while and then, suddenly, he became filled with a sense of malaise, causing him to become breathless again. He turned off the shower and cocked his head to one side listening for noises but there was sheer silence. Nonetheless, by instinct, he knew that something was wrong. He stood shivering in the damp atmosphere for a while, hardly daring to move, before sliding the hard plastic curtain aside a fraction. It was foolish to be scared or unsettled and he chided himself for acting like a fool. However, as he peered through the gap, the blood began to race through his veins, tremors ran through his body, his heart pounded in his ears, and his brain seemed to freeze in an attempt to shield him from the shock. His wildest nightmares had come true. He was horrified to find himself staring directly into the eight eyes of a spider... not just any spider... it was three feet in height. Instinctively, he slammed the plastic curtain across the face of the cubicle and stood with his back against the wall, insensitive to the clammy coldness of the damp tiles. The pupils of his eyes dilated and his breathing became short and erratic as an invisible band tightened around his chest. For a moment he thought he was going to faint but his athletic legs managed to support him. Closing his eyes tightly, his face became contorted with fear as questions triggered through his mind at tremendous speed. How on earth did the spider get there? They were never normally larger than three-and-a-half inches across in the whole world! How did this one manage to attain the height of three feet? He thought briefly about his date with Sharon. How could he get out of the shower without being attacked by the monster? Was it dangerous? Would it try to attack him or devour him? He sank to his haunches on the floor and moved the curtain open slightly again. It was not a mirage: the spider was still there, as large as life! He stared at the legs covered with fine black hairs and slammed the curtain shut again. His breathing became extremely shallow causing him to become faint. What was he going to do? He could hardly remain in the shower for the rest of his life! Sharon would be waiting for him outside the cinema! His legs started to shudder violently as the phobia took a closer hold on him, while his mouth opened and closed as though he was about to convulse. He had never been affected so badly before, but then he had never encountered a spider three feet high!

  Eventually, he began to rationalise the situation. A creature of this size was unknown anywhere in the world. They grew to the size of a hand only in tropical regions. It was nonsense to suspect this phenomenon had been born in his house. No such monster ever existed and it became obvious he was the subject of a practical joke being played on him by his colleagues. They had decided, at last, to retaliate. They were getting their own back. He could see it all now. His phobia was no secret to them. They all knew about it, and they also knew of his date with Sharon. His previous pranks had often irritated his colleagues. Now they wanted to get their revenge. When the match was over, one of them had raced over to his house ahead of him to play this practical joke. Everyone knew there was a spare key above the lintel over the front door. It was quite clear to him now. Their aim was to open the bathroom window. They had bought a model of a large spider and now pushed it through the opening. Despite this assumption, he failed to galvanise himself into action and remained in the cubicle for some considerable time. When he decided to move the curtain, he discovered the bathroom was empty. The window was still open. ‘Could it have been an illusion?’ he asked himself. ‘Did I imagine it? He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No... they must have hauled it back out of the window on a slender piece of string.’ That was the answer! After taking a deep breath, he pulled himself together and stepped out of the shower cubicle wrapping himself tightly in a thick towel. Fearfully, he poked his head into the hallway to determine whether the intruder was still around, but no one was there. Of course it wasn’t! One of the members of the team had removed it. No doubt they would tell him who had played the prank when they met for training on Monday. As he dried himself, he glanced at his wrist-watch resting on the wash-basin realising he would soon be late. Darting into the bedroom, he opened the wardrobe to remove a clean shirt and a smart blue suit. In the stillness of the room, as he clutched the clothes, his back arched as he heard a faint swishing noise behind him in the doorway. Slowly, filled with fear, he turned, the blood freezing in his veins as he faced the spider he had seen earlier in the bathroom. ‘Oh, my God!’ he blasphemed, looking directly into the eight eyes of the monster. The spider stared back at him, poised on its eight legs in the doorway, without moving at all. Fletcher waited for it to advance, retreat, or attack but it remained motionless as though unsure how it should react in the presence of a human-being. To any onlooker, it appeared that the man had hypnotised the spider, while the spider mesmerised the man.

  ‘Can you speak?’ asked the footballer in due course. He had seen science fiction films where animals were able to talk... and in English too! However, on this occasion, the spider failed to respond, causing Fletcher to feel idiotic for asking such a bizarre question. Of course it was unable to talk... it was a spider! Nonetheless, he persisted on the whim that it was possible such a phenomenon could occur. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ he repeated, against his better judgement, ‘can you speak?’

  The spider continued to stare at him without moving. Almost instantly, Fletcher began to experience breathing difficulties and clutched at his throat in an effort to ease his discomfort. He tried to calm himself by using logic. After all, he could hardly blame himself for being terrified when faced with a spider of such giant proportions. Ninety-nine per cent of the population would flee in a state of panic on a similar confrontation. But what was to happen next? His breathing continued to become laboured and he tried to concentrate on working out a means of escape. The creature was blocking the doorway. Unless it moved, there was no possibility of getting out that way. He looked at the windows with flickering eyes. Unfortunately, they had been fitted with special locks designed to inhibit burglars from breaking in. He had secured them and returned the keys to a rack hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The only way to retrieve them was to get past the spider. The experts had never conceived the windows should be designed for letting people out! He was trapped in his own bedroom! There had to be an alternative means of escape. What else was there which might be useful? His eyes moved round the room slowly. There was a telephone! Of course! He could call for help without having to make any sharp movement that might frighten the spider into launching an attack. He slid his hand slowly to the receiver at the side of his bed and raised it cautiously. But who should he call? The authorities didn’t work on Saturdays. It seemed inappropriate to call a zoo for a spider. No... it had to be the police... they would be able to assist him. He pressed the appropriate buttons on the instrument in turn as casually as he could. The dialling tone continued for a while and then stopped. ‘Which emergency do you require? Police, fire or ambulance?’

  ‘Police,’ he muttered tersely, keeping his voice down. There was a long pause before another voice emerged. The spider continued to stare at him without moving.

  ‘Police. Can I help you?’

  He cleared his throat gently, speaking softly to avoid arousing the arachnid. ‘Yes, you can help me. I have this spider in my bedroom which is three feet tall,’ he whispered, hardly daring to move his gaze from the eight eyes staring at him. ‘Do you understand? It’s three feet tall.’

  ‘Would you speak up, sir?’ responded the policeman. ‘I can’t quite hear you. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to state your name and address?’

  ‘I said I have this spider in my bedroom which is three feet tall,’ he repeated. ‘You’d better send a team of men round here right away to do something with it. I’m trapped in my bedroom and can’t get out so they’ll have to batter down the front door to get in. No, I tell a lie. The spare key’s above the lintel over the front door. At least I think it is. I mean if some of the team played a practical joke they may not have returned the key to the li
ntel.’

  The man at the other end of the line sighed deeply.

  ‘You say this spider is three feet tall.’

  ‘Well it may be slightly over or under.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but may I ask whether you’ve been drinking?’

  ‘Not a drop. You see I’m an international footballer. I don’t drink... certainly not during the football season.’

  ‘Have you ever suffered from delirium tremens... the DTs?’

  ‘Of course not. This is a real three foot tall spider I tell you!’

  The policeman gave another sigh before giving up on the conversation. ‘Look, sir, we’re very busy at the moment trying to cope with a multiple accident that’s just happened on the motorway. We haven’t got time to come down to look at three-foot tall spiders. My advice to you is to take a couple of headache tablets and just lie down for a while. I’m sure that by the time you wake up it’ll be gone.’

  ‘But you don’t understand! It’s standing in my bedroom doorway... ’

  The line went dead and Fletcher grimaced at the lack of interest in his fearful plight. The spider remained absolutely still and the footballer considered it may have died on its feet until its eyes shifted slightly. Someone had to be able to help him! Tiger Smith... the full-back. He lived only a short distance away. That was it! Tiger, weighing eighteen stone, claimed that he was unafraid of anything on legs. Well this monster had eight of them. Yes, Tiger would be able cope with the problem! Fletcher dialled again with his heart in his mouth.