Fun World

by Kirk Withrow

  Frank and Lila heard the thunderous din and turned to see the fireball billowing into the sky behind them. They stopped and watched as so many hopes and dreams went up in smoke. Lila cried for her parents, she cried for all the poor people who lost their lives in the park, and she cried for a loss of innocence. She did not cry for Fun World. After all, in spite of what many people believed, Fun World was nothing more than an amusement park.

  EPILOGUE

  Earlier today, experts at the CDC released a statement regarding the ongoing influenza epidemic, and as it turns out, there might be an end in sight. While this season has proven far more severe than any in recent years, many southern states including Florida reported a significant decline in the number of new cases last month. This is particularly good news for the tourism industry, which has been hit hard by the virus and the fear it strikes in the hearts of many. On another note, this holiday weekend is shaping up to be the hottest on record. Be sure to wear your sunscreen, because it’s going to be a scorcher out there. Dan Roberts…reporting for WFLU.

  Hareef Mirani absently watched the morning news as he did everyday before heading to work. When the satellite phone on the coffee table rang, he regarded it with a quizzical expression, as though surprised to learn the device actually worked. To be fair, it was the first time it’d rung since he received it several months ago. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was on the other end of the line; only one person knew the number. Hareef’s usual nonchalant demeanor became considerably more serious as he reached for the phone. With equal parts fear and nervous anticipation, he answered the call.

  “As-salamu alaykum, my brother. It’s good to finally hear your voice,” Hareef said. He paused to listen to the caller.

  Clearing his throat, Hareef replied, “Yes. The package arrived last week and everything appears to be in order.”

  When the man on the other end of the line resumed speaking, Hareef began scribbling detailed notes.

  “I understand. You can count on me. Please forgive me, but I must go now so that I’ll not be late for work. Ma’a as-salaama, my brother.”

  Hareef disconnected the call before dropping the satellite phone into his lap. He quietly considered the information he’d just been given. Despite the deadly implications, his resolve remained steadfast. He placed the phone in an old pillowcase before heading to his condo’s one-car garage. Five heavy blows from a hammer reduced the phone to an unrecognizable pile of plastic fragments and electrical components. The ten-mile drive to work would provide ample opportunity to scatter the phone’s remains.

  As he walked past the mirror next to the doorway, Hareef paused to scrutinize his reflection. The attire required by his employer looked as alien as he felt so far away from home. Were it not for the thick beard and the jagged scar beneath his left eye, he would’ve hardly recognized himself. He found solace in knowing that his time in America was nearing its end.

  A neurochemist by training, Hareef had been working in the United States for nearly eight months. He’d been hired due to his unique expertise in the field of olfaction and odorant production. When he first received the call, he thought the offer was a prank. Why was a massive theme park in the US interested in the synthesis of volatilized aromatic compounds? As the park’s Director of Patron Engagement explained, Fun World had invested millions of dollars into various technologies aimed at enhancing the customer experience through the targeted exploitation of human senses and psychology. Basically, Fun World Inc. wanted him to produce very specific, highly concentrated smells that could be strategically deployed at various locations throughout the park for the sole purpose of encouraging people to part with more of their hard-earned money. It was the most American thing he’d heard in a long time—psychological warfare purely for financial gain. Even though the amount of money they were offering surpassed what he’d made in his entire career to date, the thought of facilitating the capitalist pigs in such an endeavor was repulsive. When the imam implored him to accept the offer, however, it was a done deal.

  During the week, Hareef spent his time in the lab designing and synthesizing the various odorants requested by his employer. On the weekend, he ventured into the park to test the compounds and to reload the TOMs. TOM stood for Targeted Olfactory Manipulator, an acronym he’d thought of himself. Twenty long hoses that led to inconspicuous vents protruded from the top of each TOM like the snakes on Medusa’s head. A dozen of the complex machines had been installed at various locations throughout the park, and few people even noticed their vents, much less considered their purpose. As much as he hated to admit it, it was an ingenious addition to the park’s already impressive marketing plan.

  Given each TOM’s large dispersal area, it was necessary to replace the odorant canisters weekly. Although Hareef had done this dozens of times before, today was different, and he would’ve felt much better if he were wearing a respirator as he loaded the canisters into the back of the utility vehicle. As he couldn’t afford to rouse any suspicion, a respirator was out of the question.

  Despite their appearance, these weren’t the typical canisters. Although they were labeled identically to the ones they would replace, their contents couldn’t have been any more different. Instead of the aromatic compounds he’d designed, these canisters had been filled with the contents of the package he’d received. Should anyone notice the odor’s absence, it would be too late. Besides, he could always blame it on a new compound he was testing.

  Hareef worked quietly in order to avoid drawing unwanted attention. He moved slowly and methodically while exchanging the canisters, and still it took very little time. Most of his day was spent driving between the installations scattered throughout the massive park. His muscles tensed as he rounded every turn, and every bump in the road made him hold his breath momentarily. He couldn’t recall having ever been so nervous.

  As he walked toward the second to last installation, a careless employee overburdened with plush Larry the Lion dolls slammed a door into him, knocking him off-balance. The canister fell to the ground and skittered across the concrete. Hareef recoiled initially as though he thought the canister might explode like an IED. During a fleeting moment of weakness, he considered making a run for it right then. Steeling his nerves, he moved warily toward the canister lying on its side in the nearby grass. He was relieved to find that it appeared undamaged. His focus shifted when the inattentive man who was busy wrangling the herd of plush toys called out to him.

  “Bro, you really need to watch where you’re going!”

  Frayed nearly to his breaking point, Hareef spun around and replied, “You think I need to watch?! Well, I think you are the one who needs to be doing more of the watching, asshole!”

  With a nudge, Hareef stormed past the angry man, canister in hand. His extreme anxiety left his awareness impaired, limiting it to the big picture only. As such, it was no surprise that he didn’t notice the tiny crack in the canister’s seam, and considering the contents, the miniscule breach was all it took.

  The annoying song filling the air in the distance told him he was nearing the Happy Little World ride. Hold it together, Hareef. Just two more canisters left. When he exchanged the last canisters a few minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  It would be ten hours before the TOMs would transition to the canisters he’d just loaded. Although he knew the nature of what had been in the package, he didn’t know exactly what it was. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to be around when the transition occurred. Nervously, Hareef glanced over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t being followed as he climbed back into the utility truck.

  The park’s main thoroughfares stayed so clogged with tourists that it was difficult for pedestrians to navigate, never mind a vehicle. For that reason, alternative routes existed for service and maintenance personnel just beyond the park’s magical veneer. From that vantage, Hareef observed thousands of people rushing from one place to the next—all of them oblivious to the maelstrom
they were about to face. If miserable, record-breaking temperatures and holiday crowds weren’t enough to keep people away, he wasn’t sure anything could. Any doubt he’d harbored regarding his mission vanished as he watched the park-goers carrying on as if Larry the Lion was their God and Fun World their temple. Like so many Westerners, they were content to follow their false gods and false prophets into the darkness as long as it was fun and didn’t inconvenience them too much. Freeing these people from the prison that is their life will be a gracious act of mercy.

  It was hot outside, but to Hareef it felt as though the temperature was soaring. He began to sweat profusely, his saturated shirt sticking to his skin. Even not having slept well the night before, he felt overly tired considering the time of day. Both of these things left him feeling much crankier than usual. When he saw the railroad-crossing arm lowering as he approached the Fun World Express’ tracks, he banged his hands against the steering wheel several times and shouted, “Dammit! Mother bitch!”

  A guy dressed like Freddy Frog glared at him and shook his oversized green head in disapproval as he passed by. Being scolded by a cartoon amphibian made Hareef blush with embarrassment, and he sank down in his seat. The annoying crossing bell clanged loudly at least a million times as he waited for the seemingly never-ending train to pass. When he thought he could finally see the last car in the distance, he opened his mouth to praise Allah but instead broke into a violent paroxysm of coughing that lasted nearly a minute. When the end of the train passed shortly after his coughing subsided, he stepped on the gas, nearly colliding with the crossing arm that just managed to get out of the way in time.

  Given Fun World’s immense size and the obstacles he’d encountered, it took Hareef almost an hour to reach the employee parking lot on the opposite side of the park. He wondered if he might actually burst into flames due to the intense heat that rolled out after he opened his car’s door. When he settled into the driver’s seat, the fabric scorched his skin through his clothes.

  “Ou…shit! This is worse than the Cholistan Desert,” Hareef groused.

  As he leaned forward to adjust his rearview mirror, he was startled to see a network of scarlet lines streaking across the whites of his eyes. Rather than being flushed, as he would’ve expected, his sweaty skin was pale and waxen.

  “This is a hell of a time to be getting sick! All these people with their damned flu—they don’t have the sense or decency to stay home,” Hareef said angrily.

  He reached into his pocket and felt for the other item he’d received in the package: a one-way ticket back home. It was the culmination of why he’d come to America in the first place—for the glory of being welcomed back as a hero, a true jihadi warrior, and a favored son of Allah. Night after night he’d dreamt of what it would be like to walk amongst his proud brothers, recounting to anyone who would listen the story of how he made the capitalist dogs suffer. He pulled out the ticket and held it before him with a reverence typically reserved for sacred relics. Despite feeling increasingly sick, the sight of the ticket made him want to smile. Smiling, however, sent him into another coughing fit, this one more violent than the last. When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to see blood splatters marring his precious ticket.

  With the air conditioner on full blast, Hareef pulled out of the Fun World parking lot for the last time. A middle finger out the side window was the only goodbye he offered Fun World, and even that was more than it deserved in his opinion. Much to his relief, traffic moved quickly on the way to the airport. He parked his car in front of an abandoned hotel a couple of miles from the airport—keys inside and windows down. It wouldn’t last ten minutes in a neighborhood like this. A passing cab picked him up and drove him to the international departures terminal.

  Hareef handed the cabby a twenty-dollar bill and said, “As-salamu alaykum.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Do need change?” the cabby said gruffly.

  Although he tried answer, he only succeeded in coughing all over the man as he shook his head.

  “Jesus! Cover your mouth you fucking asshole!”

  Hareef heard the man spouting all manner of racial epithets as he closed the door and started toward the airport. He paused when he caught his reflection in a van window. Although he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he was sweating even more profusely. Every inch of his clothes was drenched in sweat, while shaking chills racked his body. Even wearing sunglasses, he looked terrible. There was no way TSA would let him board the plane in his condition. He tried to think of a way out of his predicament but it was becoming increasingly difficult to think clearly. One thing was certain—when he made it home, the first person he was going to see was the local doctor.

  All of a sudden a forceful spray of cold water hit his leg. Annoyed at first, an idea soon formed in his mind. He stood by as the sprinklers continued pelting him all over his body. The cool water was refreshing, and when he felt he had the energy, he stormed toward the terminal’s main entrance. Once inside, he made a beeline toward the first employee he saw.

  “Do you see what your sprinklers have done to me? My clothes are ruined. I demand to speak with someone in charge!” Hareef said with as much anger as he could muster.

  A moment later, a nerdy man wearing glasses and a cardigan came over to speak with him. “I’m Tommy Thompson, the terminal supervisor. I’m so sorry to hear about your unfortunate sprinkler accident, Mister…?”

  Keeping up the tirade, Hareef said, “Don’t you mister me! I am going to be missing my flight because of you. I need to get through screening now so that I can buy some new clothes before my plane departs!”

  Mr. Thompson looked at Hareef’s tickets, cringing slightly when he noticed the blood splatters. “Right this way, Mr. Mirani. I think I can help you out.”

  Hareef tried to remain calm as he followed Mr. Thompson toward the screening checkpoint. As they walked, the supervisor radioed to someone to have a change of clothes waiting just past the security line. Using the priority line usually reserved for pregnant women and the handicapped, Hareef breezed through security faster than he ever had before. Most of the time, the screeners gave him a hard once-over, stopping just shy of a full body cavity search. Many people stared at him due to his wringing wet clothes and disheveled appearance. Mr. Thompson did his best to move him through quickly in order to avoid making a scene. As ordered, a man that looked like he could’ve been Tommy’s twin brother was waiting to present him with a new set of clothes. Hareef accepted the offering and began walking toward his gate.

  “Have a nice flight and thank you for flying with us, Mr. Mirani,” Mr. Thompson said in a tone so bubbly Hareef wondered if the man might simply float away. He didn’t stop or even acknowledge the supervisor’s words.

  When Hareef was out of earshot, the supervisor turned to the other employee and said, “That guy sure was strange, Tom.”

  Nodding his head, he replied, “You can say that again, Tommy.”

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Hareef had settled into his seat and was already dozing fitfully. He asked every flight attendant that passed for a blanket, but after two, they refused to give him any more. The minute they were in the air, he fell fast asleep in spite of his shaking chills.

  When the flight was well underway, the flight attendant rolled her cart past Hareef’s aisle and stopped to take drink orders. The man next to Hareef ordered a whiskey and Coke. He looked frazzled and periodically glanced at the sleeping man with concern. The flight attendant, in turn, asked Hareef if he would like anything, but she received no reply.

  Putting her hand on his shoulder, she shook him slightly in an attempt to rouse him. “Sir, may I get you anything to drink? Sir? Are you okay, sir? You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

  Hareef opened his eyes; his dark sunglasses hiding the increasing blackness that made him look like a demon on earth. He was thirsty and he tried to answer, but he was having difficulty forming words. Truthfully he was having difficulty doing much of anyt
hing. In fact, he felt as though he were fading away, like something else was physically taking control of him. His awareness seemed to come and go, as if he was viewing the world from outside his body. Soon, even that awareness became more fleeting. He certainly wasn’t aware when he sank his teeth into the stewardess’ hand as she tried to rouse him a second time. Her ear-splitting screams filled the cabin.

  * * * * *

  “Tower, this is Emirates Flight 486 requesting immediate priority landing. We have multiple passengers and crew in dire need of medical attention. I repeat, they are in dire need of medical attention,” the pilot said over the radio. His voice was professional but the tension was readily apparent.

  After a brief pause, the radio crackled to life. “Emirates Flight 486. Permission granted. Emirates 486 has been moved to the front of the queue. Medical personnel will be on hand upon your arrival. Await final approach instructions. Have a safe landing. We look forward to seeing when you touch down.”

  Despite the fact that the weather conditions were perfect for flying, whatever was happening in the passenger cabin combined with the fact that his copilot hadn’t yet returned left him feeling uneasy. Biting, fighting, panic…it sounded like a real shit show was taking place back in coach. “I swear, people these days aren’t much better than animals,” the pilot muttered to himself. He couldn’t wait to get this plane on the ground so he could relax and throw back a couple shots of whiskey. “Who knows, maybe that cute little flight attendant we picked up on our last layover might be looking to cut her teeth in the captain’s chair,” he said with a wry smile.