The Armageddon Machine

by Mike Ramon

Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dallas, Texas

  June 10 -- 20:12 UTC/3:12 pm local time

  Khee Jun-yeong sat on a bench outside the Grand Pines Mall, watching people go in and out of the building. Set next to him on the bench was a black duffel bag, and on the other side of him his hand rested on a brown paper bag in the shape of a bottle. He lifted the bottle-shaped bag up to his lips and took a swig of amber liquid. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red. He had tried to stay away from alcohol, knowing how important his job was and having a strong sense of duty to the cause, but the stress, the waiting, constantly looking over his shoulder had all become too much for him, and he had broken.

  He knew that if he went back to the safe house there would be hell to pay. They had all been warned of the consequences of any actions that put the operation in danger, and he in particular had been warned about drinking. Drinking made him sloppy, and he often talked too much for his own good when drunk. Loose lips sink ships, the saying went, and this was one ship that must not be sunk. So he had sworn to stay sober and alert, and he had meant it. But he had always been a weak man, and in truth he did not think he was worthy of the trust that had been placed in him.

  Khee Jun-yeong took another drink, relishing the pleasant burn as it slid down his throat. The heat was nothing compared to the hatred that burned within him, hatred of the pigs passing him by, so drunk with their money and absolutely certain of their righteousness, flocking to this temple of consumption. He could still remember the feeling of hunger, true hunger, the void within oneself when one has become accustomed to eating one meal every other day and considering themselves lucky for it. How many of these proud people had known such hunger?

  He finished the last of the liquor, set the empty bag-wrapped bottle down on the bench and stood up. He picked up the duffle bag and slung it over one shoulder. It was a warm Texas afternoon, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with one sleeve, took a deep breath and entered the shopping mall. The interior of the place was noisy, like a hall of echoes.

  Khee’s head whirled and he stumbled to the right a few steps, gravity playing a nasty trick on him. He regained his balance and pretended he didn’t see the looks cast at him from a few people nearby who had seen him falter. To hell with them, he thought. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of even acknowledging them.

  He walked on with no real destination in mind. He had no money to buy anything, and had no urge to either. He looked around as he walked. This, he thought, was the disease that he and his brothers were going to wipe out, this sickness of gluttony.

  A man bumped past him, but he didn’t mind. A righteous fire burned in the pit of his stomach, and a great power coursed through his veins. He was pure, he was reborn. He was a brother of the Violet Dawn. He was proud.

  Khee stopped in his tracks, slid the bag from his shoulder and set in on the floor less than a foot away from a dried piece of gum that someone had dropped there. The sight of the discarded gum caused a flash of anger inside of him for reasons he didn’t understand. No matter now.

  He bent his knees so that he was crouching near the bag. He unzipped the bag, reached in and brought out a belt that he wrapped around his waist and cinched tight. Hanging from the belt were a dozen curved magazines, each holding thirty 9mm rounds. No one took notice of him; people simply surged around him as if he were a large rock in a lively stream. He reached into the bag once more and pulled out a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. He stood up, lifted the strap over his head and made sure that it was set to single shot.

  The first scream of the afternoon rose up as a woman in a green dress noticed the man with the gun. Her scream was cut short as Khee Jun-yeong squeezed off two rounds. The woman fell to the ground, silent now. A deep red stain spread across the front of her dress. The world erupted in noise, screams, and shouts. And gunfire.

  Khee walked and fired, fired and walked. He did not discriminate when choosing targets. Men and women, young and old--it did not matter to him. They were all diseased. When the first clip was empty he ejected it, grabbed a fresh one from his belt and slid it home. He resumed firing.

  Glass shattered, littering the ground like scattered diamonds. A mother threw herself over her child--a boy--moments before three bullets ripped into her. She slumped to the ground with the boy trapped beneath her. Khee did not check to see if the kid was still alive. People were rushing in every direction, diving behind signs, benches and other people. One man dropped to his knees and raised his hands to Khee, clasping them together as if in prayer. He shot the man in the throat.

  He finished the second clip and started on the third. A man tried to rush him as he changed clips, but Khee was fast, and he dropped the guy while he was still at least five steps away. Khee stepped onto an empty escalator and rode it to the second floor. He looked about for more targets. The rats were hiding, but he would find them.

  He kept walking, ducking into a shoe store. He found a group of people huddling together near the back of the store. Khee switched to full automatic and took them down, then switched back to single shot. He left the shoe store to search for more people. His head throbbed, his pulse a jackhammer banging away at the interior of his skull. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, tightened his grip on the weapon.

  The distant sound of police sirens came to his ears. Fine, he thought; let them come. A woman broke from cover and ran for a stairway leading down to the first floor of the shopping mall. Khee swung the MP5 around and fired twice. Both shots missed, and the woman disappeared down the stairs; he didn’t bother trying to catch her. He switched to three-round burst and blew out the windows of an electronics store. From somewhere in the store there came a frightened scream in response to the shots and the shattering glass.

  A shot rang out, and Khee heard something whiz past his ear. He spun around and saw a mall security guard crouching on one knee and pointing a pistol at Khee. A second shot caught Khee in the gut; it felt like someone had slammed a hot sledgehammer into his stomach. Khee pulled the trigger of his own weapon, and three bullets knocked the guard to the ground, his pistol clattering away from him. Khee changed back to single shot and fired one more round into the guard before turning and walking on.

  As he walked he put one hand against his abdomen--he didn’t want to look down, didn’t want to see the wound--and raised his hand up to his face. It was covered on blood. He lowered his hand, taking a few more steps before stumbling. He fell to the ground, the MP5 letting off a single shot as he accidentally pulled the trigger. The shot rang off a trash can.

  He pulled himself over to the wall and sat with his back pressed up against it. His abdomen was a hot nest of pain. It felt like someone had placed dozens of red hot needles inside of him. Breathing had suddenly become a difficult task.

  Voices were shouting at him. He looked to the left and saw two cops leaning around a corner. They were shouting, but it felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton and he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  To hell with it. They would all burn soon.

  Khee Jun-yeong raised the MP5 up to his chin and pulled the trigger one last time. Then all was darkness.