Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World

by Colin Robertson

  A lone guard, armed with an AK-47, paced the long, red carpeted hallway. Silently behind him, a grill dropped from the ceiling but did not hit the floor. Instead it stopped short, suspended by a pair of cable clamps, which then retracted. The grill disappeared back up into the ceiling vent. A moment later Pink Eye and Chicken Pox descended quietly to the floor below. Pink Eye immediately trained his silencer on the sentry. The guard, unaware of the laser dot dancing like a nervous gnat on the back of his cranium, continued his patrol.

  Chicken Pox counted doorways to find the one they wanted. "Found it. IBS, I need the door code."

  "571."

  "All caps?"

  "Lower case 7."

  Pink Eye remained focused on the guard. Should the guard turn unexpectedly, his finger would simply squeeze the hair trigger.

  "Damn it!" Chicken Pox swore under his breath. His gloved fingers had forced him to mash a typo on the numeric keypad lock.

  The guard reached the end of the corridor and stopped. Pink Eye's finger tightened on the trigger. The red laser gnat on the back of the guard's skull grew still. The guard paused to light a cigarette. Pink Eye imagined the bullet shattering the sentry's skull like a honeydew melon dropped down a mine shaft on a Tuesday. Or maybe a cantaloupe, he thought, yes, maybe a cantaloupe. The only other melon he could think of was a watermelon, and while the colour was right, the shape was totally wrong. That and the fact that watermelons were largely just empty calories. Whatever the melon, Pink Eye knew, if the guard moved, that's when the fireworks would happen.

  "Got it!" whispered Chicken Pox.

  The two Navy SEALs disappeared through the doorway, which they shut silently behind them.

  The guard turned and began to trudge back down the hall.

  Inside was darkness. Both men pulled their night vision goggles down over their eyes. And now, thought Pink Eye, the unseen becomes seen, the invisible becomes visible, and the obscure becomes scure. He made a mental note to check later to see if 'scure' was really a word. It must be, otherwise obscure made no sense and Pink Eye would have to question the underlying logic of the entire English language. The 'scured' room was clearly Ali Madda's office, just as Wetmop had promised. The details were exactly as she described, down to the discarded socks on the sofa. "Why he can't just keep them in his shoes I don't know," said the informer, "I mean, if you don't like socks, why put them on in the first place?" The sofa was part of a complete living room set. It looked expensive even in the monochromatic green of the goggles. Opposite, was a massive executive desk that looked as if it had been cobbled together from several smaller desks and a side table or two. They looked past all of this, however, to their objective. "We're in Urinary Tract Infection and have spotted Stendhal Syndrome." Urinary Tract Infection was, of course, the office itself, while Stendhal Syndrome was the safe on the wall behind the desk.

  "Good job," said Irritable Bowel Syndrome. "Be careful."

  "Roger that."

  The stealth helicopter still sat surreptitiously suspended in the air above the roof. The muffled beat of its propeller panted 'wuh wuh wuh' like an asthmatic bloodhound. Syphilis, the pilot, sat at the controls, ready to move at a moment's notice. Irritable Bowel Syndrome watched a row of small monitors that provided everything from satellite views, to recon data, to a live camera feed from each of the SEALs' helmets. Charlie and Alex both leaned over the seat backs to get a glimpse of what Irritable Bowel Syndrome was seeing. "Is everything going to be okay?" asked Alex anxiously.

  "Sure," said Charlie. At that moment lightning flashed, flooding the helicopter in white light. Thunder boomed and a coarse rain began pelting the windshield and hull. "Or not."

  In the second floor hallway, the guard continued his monotonous routine. To pass the time he'd begun humming the cha-cha in his head and sashaying his way along the carpet. To his right were doors leading to various bedrooms, the master's office and study. To his left was the bannister and a twenty-foot drop to the marble floor of the front hall. He could hear the muffled rhythm of Ah be Kardsim from the party room below. It seemed like a new version, he thought, with some sort of offbeat going on that didn't quite fit. One of those new Arab ska dubs that were so hot in the Riyadh speakeasies right now, he figured. The rain whipped against the glass front of the house. The entire foyer of the Spanish / Bauhaus-revival fusion structure was two-story glass, offering a panoramic view of the wind whipped palm trees and storm churned gulf waters beyond. The occasional lightning strike brought this all into stark relief, making briefly visible the neighbouring islands of England and Belgium. An unexpected storm to be sure, but a nice break from the mind numbing monotony of guard duty. He hadn't signed up for this. When he'd joined the Jihad he hadn't envisioned spending it patrolling the halls of a rich man's house, even one as important as Ali Madda. He'd wanted to be on the front lines, fighting the good fight, blowing up schools or setting fire to heretics. In other words, making a difference. The sentry brushed cold rainwater from his hair and continued several feet before stopping. Rainwater? The guard walked slowly backwards while looking up, until the wide open ceiling vent came into view. "Intruders!" he yelled, "Help! Intruders!" He then slapped the remote in his pocket, causing alarms to blare and strobe lights to flash.

  "Keep going," urged Pink Eye. He didn't look at his partner as he spoke. Instead, he kept his focus on the office entrance, pistol aimed, ready to shoot.

  Downstairs dozens of guards ran for their guns. Blinded by flashing lights and dry ice from the dance floor, several crashed into each other. Others then tripped over those who had already fallen. Someone shouted that whoever had thought strobe lights in the event of an emergency was a good idea was a "complete idiot." The fact that several of the guards had been drinking didn't help either. None of the complaints, nor attempts to organize for that matter, could be heard regardless. This as a result of the incessant alarms and the fact that no one had thought to turn the music off.

  "Got two out of three cherries," said Chicken Pox. He was waiting for the electronic safecracker to complete its work. The digital device was using magnetic pulses to hack the computerized locking mechanism. This was only possible because of the intel received that had told them exactly what model of safe Ali Madda had purchased from Amazon.com. Whatever people might say, the NSA had its uses. "Bingo." Without hesitation, Chicken Pox yanked open the thick steel door. "We got Restless Leg Syndrome." He reached in to grab the shiny canister, while simultaneously pulling the counterfeit from his bag. "Making the switch..."

  At that moment the door to the office flew open, instantly flooding the room with light. To the two men in night-vision goggles, it was as if someone had set off a flash bulb in their eyes. The goggles automatically re calibrated, but the SEAL's eyes could not. Pink Eye fired blindly into the light. The terrorist guard fired back. As his eyes adjusted Pink Eye was able to see the silhouette of the sentry and unloaded the rest of his clip. The guard staggered backwards until his hips met the bannister, and he toppled over. He was dead before his body hit the marble floor below.

  "Chicken Pox, we gotta—" Pink Eye stopped as he saw his fellow soldier slumped behind the desk, head lolled. A Pollock of blood splattered the wall behind him. Chicken Pox had pulled the night vision goggles from his face and his eyes now stared with the look of someone surprised to find himself the guest of honour at a funeral. In each hand Chicken Pox clutched an identical silver canister. As Pink Eye stared in shock, Chicken Pox convulsed in a death rattle, relaxed his grip, and let go. The two canisters clattered and rolled. Pink Eye instinctively stopped one with the toe of his boot. The other came to a rest just out of reach beneath the massive desk.

  "Upstairs!" someone shouted in Arabic.

  Pink Eye deliberated, distressed by what to do about Chicken Pox. Never leave a man behind, he thought. This time, however, the stakes were simply too high. He picked up the canister at his foot. As he did he noticed the blood running down his own boot. For the first time, he realized that he
too had been shot. A quick look at the wound showed it to be soft tissue only. Did he have the real device? Pink Eye's mind raced. He must have, he decided, there was no time for the alternative. Pink Eye shoved the canister into the satchel and ran for the office door.

  A contingent of over a dozen guards cautiously climbed the stairs to the second floor. Some were in various states of dress, having been either roused from bed or the party below. All were armed with AK-47's. When it came to weapons, Ali Madda was a traditionalist. He loved the reliability of the AK-47, calling it the "Toyota Corolla of guns." The guards proceeded cautiously down the hallway towards the open office door. They had all stepped or stumbled over the corpse of their fallen friend in the hall below and none had any desire to join him. Feeling a draft, one of the guards glanced up to find himself staring into the open air vent in the ceiling. He could see there the bottom of the wounded Navy SEAL's boots as he struggled to ascend the shaft.

  "Up here!" he yelled and raised his gun to shoot. As luck would have it, a drop of blood fell from Pink Eye's boot and landed squarely in the guard's eye. The terrorist fired blindly, spraying the surrounding ceiling with bullets and forcing the other guards to drop to the floor. Pink Eye pulled himself up and rolled onto the roof, safely out of sight from the floor below.

  For a moment, Pink Eye simply lay there on the rain soaked roof, heart pounding, staring at the helicopter hovering overhead, unable to move. I'm like a beached whale, he thought, and if I don't move soon, my goose will be cooked. The Navy SEAL forced himself up, stood swaying for a moment, then staggered forward, waving for help. Despite the danger of striking a nearby satellite dish and signal tower, the pilot lowered the helicopter to within a foot of the rooftop. Charlie crouched at the side door, then jumped down. "Quickly!" he shouted as he ran foreword. He grabbed the wounded SEAL's arm to help him navigate the wet piping and cables that snaked the roof top. The stairwell door swung open, and a contingent of terrorist guards who had been frantically trying to pull on the push door, spilled out onto the roof.

  "Take it, leave me," Pink Eye gasped, offering up the satchel.

  "No."

  Amid confused shouts, the terrorists began shooting erratically at the two men, the helicopter and various rain drops. Several shots struck Pink Eye's body armour, causing him to stagger. A single shot found a gap and drove deep into his torso. Another bullet hit Charlie in the shoulder. He registered this only as an abstract burning sensation. The endorphins flooding his brain softly reassured him "don't worry, it's only a flesh wound." Charlie helped Pink Eye to the helicopter door, then, with adrenaline fuelled strength, heaved him inside. As he followed, several more bullets struck Charlie's own kevlar vest, throwing him face first onto the steel floor. Both men were then pinned by the sudden acceleration of the helicopter as it hurtled high into the sky. Alex stared at them, in shock, trying to process everything that had just happened. Numbly, Alex accepted the satchel offered by the outstretched arm of the Navy SEAL. Charlie lifted his head in time to see Pink Eye spit blood and mumbled broken words "You need... know... made... switch..."

  "You made the switch?"

  The Navy SEAL opened his mouth to speak, but began to cough uncontrollably. Charlie held his hand, turned to Alex and shouted, "Is that it?"

  Alex opened the satchel. In the dim green cabin light, he could just make out the sheen of the canister it contained. Outside, a smattering of bullets continued to clatter against the steel helicopter hull.

  "Well?"

  "Um, I think so?"

  "Do you know so?"

  Alex wanted to say he couldn't tell for certain. How could he? He stared at Pink Eye, now dead at his feet, yet somehow still staring back at him expectantly. Alex looked into Charlie's anxious eyes. "I know so."

  Acting on impulse, Charlie reached up, grabbed the boy and hugged him fiercely. It was the first time he'd hugged a human being since before the funeral. The pitch and yaw of the helicopter made him feel as if he were teetering on the brink of everything and nothing. The ocean filled the open door on one side of the chopper, while dissipating clouds filled the other. He felt like a snowflake in a storm that had somehow found a twin despite the soul crushing improbability of it all. At that moment one last bullet ricocheted off the roof of the cabin and drove neatly into Charlie's back. He collapsed into Alex's arms.

  "Charlie? Charlie?" shrieked Alex.

  Back on the roof, two-dozen terrorist guards stared forlornly into the night. The helicopter had vanished from sight several seconds earlier. The rain had finally broken and exposed the moon, an iridescent crescent in ascent.

  One of the guards threw his gun down in frustration. "Twenty of us shooting and still they escape? Did any of you attend the training camps? Hmm? I always said the webinars wouldn't work! Virtual monkey bars are not the same as real monkey bars!"

  "You were shooting too, Mousa."

  "I had infidel blood in my eye," he shouted. "Do you know how hard that is to get out? It's not like the blood of martyrs you know. It clots."

  "Oh, yes?" chimed in another of the men. "Because you're such a marksman with both eyes? I've seen you at the range. Every time, the poor Jihadist is full of bullet holes. Meanwhile, the woman and child? Not a scratch!"

  "Take that back," demanded Mousa. "Take that back!"

  "Oh, I'm so afraid! What are you going to do, shoot me?"

  The others broke out into snickers and snorts. Mousa seethed and clenched his fists angrily.

  "Enough."

  The men turned to see Ali Madda standing at the rooftop exit. For a moment he glowered at them sternly, like a disappointed father. Then, slowly, a sly smile traced his lips. Lifting his ample thawb robe, he unveiled the shiny metal canister within. He began to chuckle, then laugh maniacally. His henchmen cheered. Ali Madda lifted the device high above his head in and shouted "Allah!" The men gave another cheer, followed by shouts about God's all around greatness and tossed their guns into the air in celebration. They were then forced to cover their heads and run out of the way as the weapons fell back to Earth once more.

  Chapter 20

  "Tea with sugar's often the answer, but always a solution."

  – M. Hatter

  The President had once more written a poem, and his Chief of Staff had once more intercepted it. There was now an understanding with trusted staffers to redirect all of the President's so-called 'memos' to Jim's desk. It made perfect sense and followed protocol, but was clearly not what the President intended. Still, he seemed to be forgetting these things as quickly as he wrote them down. There were no questions, no follow-up, no wondering what the public's reaction had been to his mad musings. Instead, he simply spent the day fingering his growing whiskers, and walking barefoot through the Rose Garden, sometimes with Reverend Norman, sometimes alone. It wasn't just that the poems were inappropriate or bad, they were outright inane.

  2nd Amen-dment

  The flag is made with stars of light

  Like a tyger burning bright

  What immortal hand or eye,

  Could shoot that tyger?

  Die! Die! Die!

  Jim crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. After watching it burn a moment, he raked the coals to ensure no evidence remained. While some might argue that it was harmless, or even charming that the President had taken to writing nonsense poems, Jim saw it as potential political dynamite. Poetry was the province of artists and elite ivy league academics, not 'real Americans'. Worse, this poetry wasn't charming or folksy, it smacked of intellectualism. Of course, the President had gone to Princeton. That had all come up during the primaries but, as the then-candidate explained, he was young and foolish at the time. During the debates he'd joked that, "while I experimented with academics, I didn't inhale." Jim smiled. He'd written that line himself. There were scurrilous rumours that the President had once been a closet intellectual. The claim was that, realizing how damaging this could be to his political ambitions, he had undergone hypnotherapy to suppress th
ese tendencies and replace them with dogmatic beliefs. Being an intellectual, after all, was a choice. All of this had supposedly happened years ago, before he and Jim had met. The campaign denied it all as malicious lies spread by political opponents, and staunchly maintained that the President was "no smarter in the past than he was today." Still, Jim had to admit, the President did have a way of occasionally slipping up in ways so ironic, they seemed almost unconsciously intentional. Such as the time he'd referred to Wall Street investors as "job cremators" during an interview on CNN. Almost, but not quite as bad as being accused of being an intellectual, was the notion that the President might be clinically insane. Privately, Jim had concluded that the Commander-in-Chief was now as nutty as a fruitcake. Still, he was the President of the United States and one had to respect the office. Regardless, Jim had taken an oath to serve him to the best of his ability and that was exactly what he was going to do.

  * * *

  The President wandered in the desert, sipping on an iced tea. Reverend Duke Norman walked beside him. The Reverend was wearing a suit and was sweating profusely, dabbing his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He'd assumed they'd stay inside the President's air conditioned house the whole time, not take a constitutional around the grounds in the sweltering one hundred and seventeen degree heat. After all, he thought, who goes for a stroll in Palm Springs in the summer? One of the secret servicemen had already collapsed from heatstroke and been carried away. The Reverend guzzled his own tea and began crunching the crushed ice between his teeth. They were in Rancho Divertido, the President's private retreat, just a few miles from the Rancho Mirage home that had once belonged to President Gerald Ford. The scorching sun, however, wasn't the only thing burning. The decision by the POTUS to take a few days vacation amid the current crisis had sparked a political firestorm in Washington. The President, despite this, seemed blissfully unconcerned. He strolled over the baking sands, wearing just a loin cloth and belly length beard, as if he hadn't a care in the world. He even seemed untroubled by the rapidly reddening skin on his shoulders. Officially, the Reverend was here for a prayer meeting in the tradition of Billy Graham. In reality, he was here to help the President reach his 'true potential'. For years, the Reverend and his fellow faithful had only dreamt of having a 'true believer' in the highest office. Again and again, even the most faithful Presidents had disappointed them, picking politics over God every time. Separation of church and state, Duke Norman believed, was the greatest mistake the founding fathers had ever made. It made sense to separate the bad religions like Islam, of course, but not Christianity. He called it "the madness of Madison" in his sermons. "America is the chosen land," he preached, "and yet, again and again, it fails to choose itself." Finally, it seemed, they had a President who realized this and had the guts to do something about it, whatever the cost. If it took the end of the world to save America, then so be it.