by Randall Wood
Ron shrugged. “Fifty-fifty.” He was about to elaborate when he noticed new activity around the trauma room. He walked back to the entrance to see the huddle working feverishly on something.
“What happened?” He asked the nurse at the door.
“Someone yanked a pacer pad off and they lost capture. The doc cracked his chest and pulled more blood off the pericardium, but he’s coded again.” The bodies parted for a moment, and Ron caught sight of Dr. Plaisier with his hand inside the senator’s chest. He heard him call for the paddles. A nurse shoved his way past, carrying more blood.
Ron watched as the doc repeatedly shocked the heart with the internal paddles. It was a repeat of the ride in. It lasted another fifteen minutes before he saw the doc check the time on the overhead clock.
Senator Harper of Georgia was dead.
• • •
Jack watched as his friend fought to stay on his feet. His face was pale, and the pain was evident in his facial expression. He kept his gun leveled, but moved it off target. There was no way Sam was going to beat him to the draw. Was this for the cameras? Jack had no doubt that this was on every channel, and Sam knew it, too. The reason Sam picked this spot in the first place. He had it all planned, just in case, Jack marveled. Jack would let him have his time in the camera’s eye, and then he would take him in. Get him to the hospital. Save him. It was what brothers did.
Another cough and more blood ran from Sam’s mouth. He seemed to be weakening. Jack was amazed by Sam’s determination. But then there was Katie. What would Jack have done if the situation had been different? He had no children, so he couldn’t relate. What should he do now?
“Jack.”
“I’m right here, Sam. Let’s end this. Let me take you in. It’s the right time. You did all you could.”
“All I could . . .”
“This . . .”
“The victims . . .”
“They understand,” Jack replied.
“They need closure.”
“I know, Sam.”
Sam lifted his head and gazed around the car before meeting Jack’s eyes.
“Are your guys any good?”
Jack’s blood froze.
“No, Sam, not like this.”
“I need closure, too, Jack. Thanks. Thanks for being a friend.”
Sam straightened up to his full height and pointed the gun at Jack. Before Jack could react, the window shattered and Sam was thrown to the floor. The empty pistol spun its way across the metal floor to stop at Jack’s feet.
Jack sank slowly into the seat and contemplated the Browning. The assault team stormed the car around him, but he hardly noticed. The vibration of the cell phone shook him out of it. He palmed the device and flipped it open.
“Jack?”
“I’m okay, Syd.”
“Your friend?”
“It’s over.”
In the United States of America, State and Federal prisons combined hold a total of 1,470,045 prisoners.
—EPILOGUE—
He jumped slightly as the gate slammed shut behind him. Before he had a chance to look around, he was following the man in front of him down the tiled hallway. They were soon at another steel door with a small four-by-four window. The man looked through the glass before stepping back and waving to the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. The camera was encased in a cage to prevent tampering. A loud buzz sounded, and the man pulled the heavy door open. They stepped through to be outside, but not really. A wire tunnel stretched across the open area to the next building, constructed with heavy gauge fencing topped with a razor wire crown. The joints were welded together, he saw. No one was in sight on either side of the tunnel. The peak of one mountain could be seen poking above a far wall. Otherwise, the view was of the Colorado sky and that alone.
Another heavy steel door with the accompanying camera slowed them, and they were joined on the other side by another man with the same serious expression. The man looked him up and down before shooting a questionable look to the first man.
“He’s clean,” the man offered.
With a nod, he led them down another hallway. This one cement, with no paint other than a yellow line on the floor. The lights were recessed into the ceiling and covered with Plexiglas. Their boots echoed off the concrete floor as they moved down the hallway. A couple of turns, both with mirrors and cameras, and they came to another door. This one opened before the wave was needed, and he was escorted in to a long room with a series of regular doors. A stern looking woman approached.
“Did you get a briefing?” she asked. Before he could reply to the affirmative, she spoke again, “Don’t touch the glass. Stay in the chair until you’re ready to go. Just knock on the door when you’re ready. I’ll be watching you on the camera. You have thirty minutes—no more.”
“I understand.”
She pulled a large ring of keys from her belt and unlocked number 6. He stepped into the room to find a chair and a small desk taking up most of the space. A mirror image could be seen through the thick glass. Instead of the phone on the wall as he expected, a microphone was present on the desk. Lacking something to do, he adjusted it to chin level. He waited.
The sound of heavy doors slamming preceded the arrival of the man he was here to see. When the opposite door opened, the man gazed at him with no expression as the cuffs were removed. When they were gone, the man rubbed his wrist without shifting his gaze, which had become one of curiosity now.
“Thanks, Marty,” he spoke.
“Welcome, Paul. Enjoy your visit,” the guard replied before shutting the door.
Paul strode forward and sat down. He reached out and adjusted the mic before speaking.
“What do you want?”
“Your brother-in-law and I have a mutual friend. He thought I could help you, and he arranged it so I could see you.”
“Jack sent you?” Paul’s anger flared.
“He pulled a string for me, yes.”
Paul thought about this, but said nothing.
“Some changes are taking place. Calls to report crimes are up over forty percent nationwide. There are still a few copycats out there, but all around, it looks like the country is fighting back.”
Paul digested this without a word. A minute passed before he spoke.
“What do you want to know?”
“Sam’s story. Whatever you’d like to tell.”
Paul just looked at him. Expressionless.
“You trusted me once,” the reporter said. “So did our friend. Let me get your side out.”
“I saw your stories. They were . . . fair, I guess. Gonna get yourself a promotion, are you?”
“Got an interview with the Washington Post next week,” Danny admitted.
Paul nodded in approval of Danny’s honesty, before another long pause punctuated the silence of the room. Danny gave him all the time he needed.
“Okay,” Paul said. “Where do we start?”
“Wherever you’d like.”
Paul sat back and looked around the room for a moment before returning his gaze.
“Katie.”
Danny opened his notebook and began to write.
E • N • D
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Randall Wood is the author of the novels Closure, Pestilence, Scarcity, and Security, and the creator of the ongoing serial The Twelve Shepherds. After a life spent in occupations such as paratrooper, teacher and flight paramedic, he eventually listened to the little voices in his head and now writes full time. He currently resides on the Gulf coast of Florida with his wife, their three children, two cats and one Great Dane puppy. He welcomes readers, and fellow writers, to his website at:
www.randallwoodauthor.com
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Other Works by Randall Wood
Closure
Pestilence
Scarcity
Time
Insight
Security
The Twelve Shepherds: Season One
PESTILENCE
(Excerpt © 2014, Randall Wood)
“Like Closure, Pestilence drew me in and kept me wanting to stop my life so I could find out about theirs. I'm a fan, you’ll become one too.”
—GG, Amazon Reviewer
“Wood is in line to make a name for himself, keep your eyes open because this author is on a roll!”
—JK, Amazon Reviewer
“A little of Michael Crichton, a little John Saul, (or insert your favorite medical thriller author here), with a chase scene that reminded me of one of the Die Hard movies, all tied together in a heck of a thriller.”
—Jim D. Andersen, Amazon/Goodreads Reviewer
• • •
World population projected to reach 7 billion in 2011. —CNN, October 20, 2009
—ONE—
Muzzammil Hassan was one week past his sixteenth birthday. If the day went as planned he would not see his seventeenth. As he watched the men work he thought of the small party his parents had thrown for him. Like most families in his country, his was large and poor. His mother and father had worked hard for the extra food to serve that day. His father had spoken proudly of his son to all that were present, but Muzzammil knew he would never rise to the successes his father had predicted. It was enough to simply stay alive in his country. Muzzammil knew suffering. He had lost a sister and uncle to AIDS, and two brothers to the tribal warfare that often plagued his country. His hope was that his decision would not only bring pride to his father, but provide for his family. He had been promised repeatedly that they would be well cared for and would never again suffer from hunger or lack of medical care. That his family name would be spoken with honor and reverence and he himself would be elevated to a place of distinction few of his people could hope for.
But the price was great. He thought of the words he had spoken into the camera a short time ago. He had delivered them with force and volume as instructed and could only hope that his fear had not shown through. It was a speech he had heard growing up from others before him. He had learned the slogans before he was ten and delivered them with a fury he had not felt before today. The men he now watched working had observed silently until he was through, and then applauded his performance before returning to their shovels and buckets.
The men worked tirelessly as they had throughout the night. The bags were pulled from the pallet left by the forklift. There had been over two hundred total, but they were now down to the last ten. The bags were emptied into bathtubs that had been pulled from the rubble of the city. The mixing was performed by men wearing masks and supervised by the Arab. Muzzammil did not know his name, and neither did any of the others. While the man spoke his language, it was obviously not his native tongue. He barked at a man holding a jerry can of diesel and the man quickly poured some more into the tub until barked at a second time. The mixing resumed until it was to the Arab’s approval and he signaled to other men waiting nearby. They reached into the tub wearing leather gloves over the plastic ones they had donned first. This protected their hands from the nails and other small pieces of metal that had been added to the mix. The fumes were strong, and the Arab positioned himself in front of one of the multiple fans they had set up to circulate the air. The men packed the thick slurry into five-gallon buckets that were carried to the truck. Here the buckets were handed up and then down into the large tank where Muzzammil briefly saw the hands of his friend Hanni accept them. This was followed by the muffled noise of him packing the mixture inside the tank. Muzzammil smiled at his friend’s discomfort. Being young and skinny as he was, he was chosen for the job of packing the truck, as he was the only one who could fit through the opening. At least he had a gas mask that kept the fumes at bay. The heat could not be escaped. The empty buckets soon emerged and were passed back for another load.
Muzzammil’s thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see the robed man they all looked to for guidance standing over him. His one good eye sparkled with pride at Muzzammil, and he smiled at the boy before watching the last of the bags of ammonia nitrate being mixed in the tub. As the mixing process was finished and the last bucket loaded, the men slowly approached and offered their prayers and admiration to Muzzammil. All under the careful eye of the robed figure standing behind him. Hanni, his skinny friend, was the last to leave. Muzzammil looked from his friend’s sweaty face to the red irritated skin of his arms and legs. The mark of the gas mask ringed his face and gave a comical frame to the lopsided smile he offered. What little he had to say would not come, he simply smiled, clasped his friend’s hands in his own, and with a nod departed the garage.
The robed man took a seat next to Muzzammil and they both watched silently as the Arab moved around and under the fuel truck. Although less than half the size of a semi-truck, it still carried a 5000 gallon capacity. More importantly, it was indistinguishable from the other government owned gas trucks in his country. The steel reinforcements added to the front end and heavy bumper were hidden to all but the most careful observer. An effort had been made to preserve the well-used appearance of the truck, as anything out of the ordinary would compromise their mission. The Arab had been insistent on every aspect of the operation, and all his wishes were followed. The fertilizer had been purchased in various quantities from several places and stockpiled until it was needed. The diesel fuel had been slowly siphoned from several trucks and saved as well. While the fuel was not necessary for the reaction the Arab desired, he had explained that its addition would increase the chemical energy of the mixture, hastening the violence of the detonation, and providing more of a shock wave. Now the man was busy completing the wiring he had started a day ago. After a few minutes in the cab of the truck, he walked to the two men and took a seat facing Muzzammil.
“You remember the instructions?” he politely asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, please tell them to me one more time?”
Muzzammil recited the instructions he had memorized the night before. “I drive the truck on its normal route at its normal time. I obey all traffic laws and do not speed any more than the other traffic. At the last intersection, I attach the cord on the wheel to my wrist and grip the wheel. I then wait for traffic to open up in front of me before using the space to speed up as much
as possible. Others will help by shooting at the guards. I drive through the barrier and get as close to the building as possible.”
“Good, and then?” the Arab pressed.
“I simply pull my hand away from the wheel,” he replied.
“. . . and grasp the hand of Allah as he welcomes you to paradise,” the robed man finished.
“Yes, Teacher.”
The Arab looked at the boy for some time. Muzzammil met his gaze without faltering.
“They will speak your name around the world, my young friend. You are already known to Usama, he speaks of you with pride,” the Arab lied.
Muzzammil’s back straightened with the statement. He stood as the other men did.
The Arab adjusted the boy’s clothes before stepping back to look him over.
“The clothes fit you well.” He checked his watch before looking at the robed man.
“A prayer, before you depart,” the man announced.
Mats were pulled from nearby chairs and the three men knelt together on the floor. When finished, the boy was escorted to the truck and the two men watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat. They looked for any hesitation or muscle quiver. Any sign of the boy changing his mind. The Arab pointed out the cord on the steering wheel and the boy nodded. A squeeze of the shoulder before the man left to open the garage door.
“I am very proud,” the robed man stated.
“Thank you, Teacher. I am proud to serve our cause.”
“The world will know your name tomorrow. All your brothers and sisters await you. Allah be praised, go now, my son.”
Muzzammil started the truck and with only a slight jerk eased it out the door and into the rising African sun. The door was quickly pulled shut behind him.
The Arab searched his pockets for a cigarette as he walked back to the robed man.
“He will do it?”
“I have no doubts,” the robed man replied.
