Save the Last Bullet for God

by J. T. Alblood

  “Greetings to the second best,” Fatin chuckled. “I’ll send you the pictures of the awards I won.”

  Dr. Feryal Özel now entered the labyrinth in a dark cream-colored suit accentuating her beauty. A pink scarf completed her outfit. She chose one of the walls and put her hand on it, and without drawing it away, she began to move, trailing her hand against the wall as she went. It was a very strange method, but interesting to watch, especially on the pilot camera. She navigated the maze in a different way from all the others. She was proceeding toward the exit, though slowly, and it seemed as if she was going to take the wrong path at any minute—but she made zero mistakes. When she reached the exit, the screen froze at zero meters, ten minutes, forty-three seconds.

  In the lounge, we turned to Feryal, even more surprised than we had been at the previous winners.

  Feryal smiled. “In fact, it was very simple, something my father taught me as a child. If you proceed while constantly touching one of the walls of a labyrinth, though it may take you a while, it always takes you to the exit.”

  I was next. I took a deep breath as I saw myself on the screen wearing a blue leather outfit and a black belt. Although I felt uncomfortable at first, I had become accustomed to the clothing. I approached the entrance of the labyrinth and, after a little pause, I took my armband with the sensor off and attached it to my left shoe. Then, I took off the shoe and threw it over one of the walls, toward where I thought the exit was.

  I relived those stressful moments, as on the screen, I watched myself begin the arduous process of proceeding back and forth down the corridors looking perplexed and aimless. I had considered the possibility of an elimination or disqualification but as I manipulated the rules of the competition, I worried that I was just making a fool of myself. The count on the clock got higher and higher, and, after a long time and quite a few attempts, I reached the place where my shoe had fallen. At that point, I made the logical choice and simply accepted my score. I didn’t know where the exit was and didn’t want to push my luck by throwing my shoe in what might be the wrong direction. The display clock stopped at 251 meters, 18 minutes, 12 seconds.

  When the others turned to me, I said, “Do not ask me anything. That was the best I could do out of desperation.”

  Gizem was the last competitor. She wore a very nice turquoise outfit that brought out the sheen of her red, wavy hair. When she passed the entrance, she held in one hand a folded astrological chart, and, in the other, tarot cards. She was very focused and confident as she stopped at the first intersection and proceeded, sometimes looking at the cards, sometimes at the page in her hand, and sometimes touching a bright red stone on her neck. This ritual took place at each of the intersections without exception, and at first she was successful. The meter countdown proceeded rapidly and I began to feel her excitement: 270, 269, 268, 267—

  But then, she came to one more intersection. She knelt down and spent some time looking at the written pages in her hand and mumbling to herself. Then there came a sudden faint movement that only I seemed to notice. Something was there with her: a thin, gray layer of smoke hovered over the papers on the floor and changed their order. Like the others, Ms. Gizem probably hadn’t seen it, because the red light began to flash shortly after she rechecked her papers and took a few steps. I was shocked, but no more than she was. The clock read 268 meters, 12 minutes, 23 seconds.

  The show was finished and nobody wanted to talk. We turned the screen off, stood up, and went to our rooms. I had just opened my door when I heard Fatin whisper, “The problem is not only to win, but also to decide who will lose.” Moving away, he turned his back to me and opened his own door. As he entered his room, a thin, gray smoke followed him before he disappeared behind the door.

  The Exchange

  In pitch-black darkness, I suddenly woke up from a deep sleep with a deep sense of uneasiness. I became conscious of a dense, sulfurous smell and sensed that there was something else lurking in the dark.

  Though hesitant to move my head, I nervously began to look around, scanning the empty darkness. Suddenly, two small, bright-red globules appeared before my eyes. I blinked to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming. The two red dots faded away slowly, then reappeared, brighter than before. My heartbeat became a violent storm and I started to shiver.

  A headlight beam of a moving car outside my window, ripped apart the darkness for a moment, and, in the upper corner of the room, I saw a creature with its hands on the ceiling, its feet on the walls, and its head, against all logic, turned fully backward staring at me. It was still, and its shade was darker than the darkness itself. My body melted in a wave of adrenaline. I could neither move nor scream.

  Making a crackling sound like that of an insect rubbing its legs together, the creature crept down toward the floor in a manner that mocked all the rules of nature and physics. Suddenly, I jumped when I saw the speed with which the creature reached the floor. It rose up on its feet without taking its eyes (now more yellow) off of me. Then it stepped toward me as its head, completing another full rotation, turned abruptly to face me. I felt its breath on my skin and suddenly knew the source of the sulfur smell.

  My face was bathed in a cold sweat, my lips trembling, and my jaw was clenched. Nonetheless, I managed to speak, my voice trembling in the darkened room. “Who are you?” I asked.

  The creature cast its eyes to the floor and replied, “Do you still have to ask this?”

  My eyes followed the creature’s gaze downward, and I suddenly shuddered with recognition when I saw its misshapen tail with thin fur and its cloven feet. Somehow, I managed to meet its eyes again as I asked the only logical question. “What do you want?’”

  I’m the Devil

  I sat in the top corner of the dark room, at the furthest end that the universe could offer me, deliberately flexing the rules others imposed. Oktay was suitable for the purpose I was seeking. I had been staring at this creature for a long time. “For a long time” is an understatement: I had been observing these creatures and the community they formed since the beginning of their existence. It was a flawed, pathetic community that somehow still managed to surprise me with its unnecessary self-glorification.

  At the beginning of their creation, I had scorned these creatures mercilessly, but in time, they had improved themselves. Not having the talent for seeing that future only increased my anger and cruelty.

  I had been perched in the corner of this room for a long time, spying on the creature called Oktay, and sharing his reckless sleep. Oktay had a beautiful way of masking the weird thoughts and outbursts that arose in his mind, but his foresight distracted me from my usual preoccupation with the sweet troubles and ambitions of the other seven billion. This is what led me here.

  Whether he was truly ill or not, there was something in him that hadn’t been noticed or revealed by anyone in thousands of years, and it filled me with questions. Were the rules of the game, formed by a universe that I didn’t create, changing?

  The social progression of a community controlling its destiny and extending its boundaries with the movement and psychology of a herd, with fear, fanaticism, and the numerous unbridled human impulses that formed the order I wanted and had been trying to maintain. An automated system nourishing itself. I was there to intervene, or at least to see and understand if the thoughts of Oktay’s “ill” mind could affect or change anything.

  As he awoke, I hoped he wouldn’t wet himself or scream in hysterics. The sneaky fear of the risks raced through my mind.

  He noticed me and his sudden wave of fear licked at my face. I rose to my feet, fixing my eyes in a stare—it was my favorite move. Then I sat beside him. The creature barely moved as more sweat dripped down his face.

  Then, with a courage that impressed me, he spoke. “What do you want?”

  “To eliminate the cliché. Let me tell you, I don’t want your soul, and I won’t offer you anything in return.” I was pleased with my ability to joke. I touched him between his sweaty for
ehead and hairline. “I want to know what you really know about this nonsense book.” My tone made it clear that this wasn’t a request. “And please, tell me all about it without repeating the nonsense you have been saying on TV.”

  I suddenly noticed the freak’s voice take on a growl, and a thin blue light suddenly appeared in his eyes. My own inner voice rang in my brain: Am I losing control? With an unexpected strength, the creature turned to me and demanded, “What do you mean?”

  I had lost control. The human freak, Oktay, now spoke with power in his voice. “You have already revealed too much,” he said. “I can sense your desperation. You’re afraid of me, even in my miserable state. You are afraid of making a mistake even when you have arranged all the cards in your favor. This can only mean that you want something very badly.” Oktay straightened his posture and stared at me.

  Without hesitating, I pulled his hair forcefully and slammed his head against the wall. The dull thuds of his head mingled with his cries and groans.

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” I said, pulling his head back. “You were told to prostrate yourself!”

  There was no turning back now; I knew nobody could stop me. Death was coming. As I punched his face in rage, blood and bone particles scattered around. His nose had already lost its shape, and I couldn’t see his mouth, which was covered in blood. I now held his neck between my hands, preparing to break it.

  Suddenly, I was surprised by the sharp smell of mint and a thin, weak, lace-like light began to cover everything. In the peace and calm now dominating the air, I heard the sound of a reed flute coming from far away.

  A hand on my shoulder turned me around, and I came face to face with an old man in a green robe. He was hardly distinguishable from the darkness as he stared at me with light-green, shining eyes that touched me deeply. I wanted to move, to finish Oktay, but my movements were suppressed by the old man’s hand’s grip on my shoulder.

  “Who the hell are you?” I yelled. My collapsed shoulder was aching now. I had lost, and now I needed to minimize the damage. Resolving to fight another day, I ran out of the room immediately.

  I’m Hizir

  I’m Hizir al-Khidir, and I have been observing mankind for a long time. The human—the most strange, unpredictable, and surprising creature in all the universe, as far as I have observed—has always given me hope. For thousands of years, I have observed as this community looks for its light. As such, I like to help humans and show them the right path. It is something like what a teacher feels while helping a child. To me, a human is like a young child. If I can nurture them and the child grows up, I have raised a human being.

  But here was a man who was scattering his thoughts in a strange new way, but it would be a lie if I said such distinct thoughts had not existed before in history. Such inferences, whether right or wrong, hurt only if they are not kept secret.

  But, when these thoughts and their conclusions are incorrect and affect the lives of others, intervention is needed. Of course, there is another possibility: if everything he said was right and was transmitted to other people, then everyone and everything could be rebuilt.

  The poor boy was lying on his bed semiconscious and covered in blood. His weak moans echoed slightly off of the walls in the dark. It wasn’t the right time.

  Murmuring a prayer, I touched his head, and, with each light touch, his broken nose, fractured skull, internal hemorrhaging, and, finally, the wounds on his face, slowly disappeared.

  To wipe his memory, I touched his head once more, sealing the neuronal synaptic connection in his hippocampus. I could hear the sound of the morning azan from far away. By the time I left, only the memory of a faint menthol smell would remain in the room.

  I’m Oktay

  When I awoke in the morning, the sun had already risen and the hour was late. After a two-minute indulgence, I stood up and felt a slight headache and some stiff muscles. I went to the bathroom and noticed that an area on my chest was sore. I slipped off my undershirt and saw an oddly shaped bruise. Where did that come from? Had I bumped into something when I was asleep? I went through my memory of the night before, but I couldn’t associate the bruise with anything. There was no pain. I felt good.

  When I returned to my room, I found a document with this week’s task:

  This week, each competitor is going to produce something using his own knowledge and experience. Each contestant will present what he has produced in the next round of competition. If your creation is accepted by the others, then you will remain in the competition; if not, you will be eliminated.

  Good luck.

  BBM Competition Coordinator

  What do they mean? I thought. What does it mean to produce something? Such a subjective definition—it could be anything from lyrics to a drawing or some kind of mathematical formula. Did they want us to create something that would be demanded and sold? In order to sell someone what you have made or produced, the person has to want it desperately and be ready to pay any price. I would need to produce something that someone would desperately want. But, this left me at the mercy of the desire and taste of another human. Maybe I could poison someone and wait for him or her to buy the antidote, I thought, laughing.

  When I went into the lounge, everyone was there. They all looked sleep deprived as they sat yawning and chatting quietly. Greeting them, I sank into the armchair beside them. “So, what do you think about this week’s competition?” I asked.

  “Dr. Özel can explain more scientifically, but I think this will be an opportunity to realize why we live and what we can bring to society,” said Hıdır.

  I liked him. Although we didn’t chat a lot, my sense of his warmth and confidence strengthened my opinion of him as time went on.

  “A correct analysis, indeed,” Dr. Özel agreed. “But in the end, if you want your creation to be bought for certain, you have to oblige the buyer. It is based on real need. A war economy, for example, requires increasingly superior weapon systems and the weapons needed to shield against them. This mentality relates to most things. Think of computers. Although no one at first needs an antivirus software program, if you spread viruses on the internet, there will be a demand for antivirus programs.”

  “By that logic, if you let people suffer from hunger, they’ll buy food from you,” Fatin jumped in, smiling.

  “You have only barely perceived the subject,” I snapped at Fatin. He had begun to bother me after his smoke trick from the night before. He looked me over at length, like he had something on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say anything.

  Feryal’s sweet voice took away the tension. “Once upon a time, I wrote an article on a similar issue and had the opportunity to study this in depth. If we look around us at the experiences of domesticated creatures, we can understand this issue better.” She again spoke to us as if we were her students. “In fact, everything that survives pays a tribute or a bribe. Cows survive and continue their bloodline by continuously producing milk. In order to ensure their breed’s survival and not become one of the animal species that we have destroyed, they, ironically, offer their milk and meat. Cows and chickens and other such animals escape extinction and the cruelty of nature by behaving this way.”

  Feryal leaned in as she continued. “We don’t let a wolf wander around the city, and we don’t make an effort to breed it on a farm so that it can continue to have offspring. This is because it doesn’t pay us a bribe and thus, like many others, it is either destroyed or pushed away from our living areas. If horses didn’t offer their strength and their ability to carry us, and if they weren’t submissive enough to be tamed, do you think man would let them live on and take care of them? Would they even be able to continue their bloodline?”

  I looked over at Ender, who was nodding as he listened to Feryal’s argument.

  “That’s interesting,” Ender said. “I had never looked at it that way until you said that. You are saying everything has to pay a price to exist, even human communities. That’s what you mean
, right?”

  “Naturally. Driving incompatible stereotypes out of the community is also an indicator of this phenomenon,” Feryal explained. “Throughout human history we have tried to limit the possibility of breeding for people who are of no use or who can hurt us. We put them in jail or give them the death penalty. And who doesn’t want to get married to a smart, beautiful, and hardworking person and make children? But this means that we are somehow trying to prevent the continuation of others’ bloodlines by not marrying the opposite kind of people.”

  Fatin became agitated at this. “So, you’re admitting that you people are part of an order based on a relationship of interest and benefit, only masked with morality. You crush one another or even cause one another’s extinction with the rules you set. Because you invented the rifle, you think you have the privilege of killing and exploiting the communities that still use arrows and spears. Afterward, you offer them a few tokens or claim a holy mission. America did this. They carried out genocide on the native people of an entire continent, only leaving a handful to live on reservations. You are calling this ‘natural selection.’ Maybe this is why the concept and format of this competition seems natural and nice to you. You find it natural and exciting to cause another’s extinction, and you think I am the evil one.”

  “You don’t need to persuade us by dragging us into a fight,” Hıdır said calmly. “It is only a matter of perspective and interpretation. Sometimes we shouldn’t question what we don’t understand.”

  “Sometimes, I think of this world as my personal hell and you as the demons punishing me,” Fatin retorted. Then he stood up and walked toward his room. The sound of a slamming door punctuated his departure.

  “He has begun to act like a teenage boy,” I said, trying to ease the silence.