25 Hour Watch

Author’s Note

The story is about religion and ethics and the raging war of ideology taking place right now. East versus West, in religion and in politic.

The United States’ war against terrorist violence has mostly kept radical suicide bomber attacks away from the continental United States. However, across the world, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of cities, all living in this sort of reality; One where you can be bombed and killed while at the market or on the subway. Anywhere. Everyday.

Terrorist groups routinely steal young men and boys from their families to enlist them for terrorist training, sometimes as suicide bombers.

Taliban and Al Qaeda forces are massively funded by drug trade and supplying opium to young recruits is a common practice for terrorist groups. Abuse of these drugs make minds easily shaped, twisted, washed and reorganized.

This story came together the same week an arrest was made in Aurora, Colorado involving a suspected terrorist and his possible accomplices from New York.

I also wrote this piece off a writing prompt where something bad happens, but the story ends just before the bad thing happens.

I really wanted to make my descriptions and scenes unique and fill-in each part of the story with every paragraph.

I hope you enjoy it!

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Thank God It’s Friday

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Water poured into the streets from the rooftops above a bustling city. The roads quickly swelled with water and another rainy weekend seemed all the more likely.

She frowned and spun the chair around to face the stack of paperwork that had dominated the day, the week, her life. Still, from sixty-three floors above the lobby, how bad could a little paper work really be? A deep sigh before she scribbled a set of initials across the edge of a document. It was almost time to call it a day; 3:00 on a Friday seemed reasonable enough! Another scribbled symbol in the corner.

Long and skinny, the minutes crawled. It was barely 2:00 and she tapped her foot against the base of the chair a few times. Still raining.

The man sat in the truck, waiting. Buried deep in the alley, the rain helped keep him far from visible. No one here knew his name and he did not know theirs. He felt the anticipation rush and well up again in his gut. He wondered, how fast, how hard can the human heart really beat? He twisted and turned in the driver’s seat seeking comfort, but feeling overly anxious, the man stuffed a finger-tip sized pouch between his cheek and gum.

He sat.

Waiting.

Then he felt the panic melt away to opium. Warmth inside the truck, the rain was soothing. He checked the dashboard clock before closing his eyes to enhance his high.

“Not long now,” the man thought. A faded digital clock inside the truck turned from last to first. 2:00.

She clicked the desk lamp on. The pages turned bright white but she remained unimpressed and uninterested in the jargon. Reaching back, she pulled her wavy red hair out of her eyes and into a pony tail. Sliding her black-framed glasses back atop the bridge of her nose, she stared down passed her necklace, at her paperwork. It was almost time to go, and this contract had to be signed or else the wrath from the board of directors would be brewing all weekend. She didn’t agree with the company doing business in Africa, not like this, but she had been wrong too often as of late. She could sense the board was ready to snuff her completely out of the company.

On the wall, a minute hand hung barely lower than nine and her dark green eyes returned to course the remaining pages. She poised herself to bear down and finish the last bit of reading, then she would sign the company into agreement.

Flicking a cigarette into the washed out alley, the shadow inside the truck lit another one. It glowed from behind the windshield but went unnoticed. Everyone was lost in a scurry under the rain, and he knew no one was paying attention to the truck. Thirty minutes had passed and the opium still had his body buzzing and brain slow. He peeked back into the bed of the truck, at the 210 gallons of hydrogen peroxide. The man smiled because he knew the sins of the world had to be made right. He was certain of it. He stuffed two more pouches between his lips and gums and salivating, he drank it like elixir. The man felt the world dissolve around him and drip away like the rain on the windshield. He felt nothing and everything all at one time. Euphoria! 2:49.

Finger to thumb, her wrist took over and she scripted Angela Appenshaw on the dotted line below her colleagues’. A sigh of relief, she closed the folder and smiled at the face on the wall. Time to go. Her toned arms pushed the desk away and her fingers snapped the desk lamp to darkness; Angela packed her life into her messenger bag.

Her casual long strides to the elevator started a familiar trip from the executive top floor to the lobby, signifying the end of another day. Wrapping her coat around her frame, her bag dangled from her shoulder and she stared out at the rain.

“Gonna have to run for it,” she thought, and she bound into the afternoon storm on her way across the street, for coffee.

3:08, the engine revved exhaust into the alley. The man’s lips parted, the cigarette again glowed. He thought about the timing of it all. It had to be right, had to be just right or else it wouldn’t be good enough. His heart beat fast again and he felt the knot in his stomach twist a little. He had to be sure to get it right. Focused and determined, he gained control of his reality and watched the sinners hustle through the downpour, along the street.

The truck crept from behind its dumpster closer to the mouth of the alley. The man watched the cars splash through the thoroughfare. Blinking lights from towering ads above the street glowed against the wet pavement and offered another highlight to his trip. He watched a woman leap and bound through the red reflection most vibrant to him before she found cover inside a coffee house. 3:13.

“Grande double-shot-two-pump-vanilla-expresso-latte, with room,” she requested her favorite drink and handed her card over to the cashier. AA signed and returned a spoon-pen to the counter.

“Nothing like hot coffee on a rainy day!” She gave a leaving smile and waited.

Minutes passed, it seemed like an eternity! How many people were ahead of her in line? Waiting for coffee was the worst! Looking aimlessly around the coffee house, she saw signs for coffee house specials, live-music events, posters for community gatherings. Angela thought about the contract she had signed; about the millions, perhaps billions of dollars that would change hands beginning Monday morning. The company was in good. Blinking, she felt her conscious twinge when her eyes crossed the counter and landed on a picture of an African boy, taped to a coin-filled coffee can.

The boy stood on a frail frame looking back at her with the experienced eyes of a much older man. It was obvious the boy was starving, slowly dying, somehow aware of his own hopelessness, his helplessness to change. The coffee house was gathering donations to send him and others like him, in Darfur.

Angela’s conscious panged. She blinked away guilt and regret. Her brain was being trained to see child labor another way. The contract was simply the means, and in the end, her company was only posturing itself to help the kids make money. Money to buy food, shoes, and clothes. The company was helping, just like the coffee house!

Angela traded her guilt for delusion, justified regret with self-preservation, and she continued waiting for her caffeinated drug of choice to finish brewing.

The last seconds of the minute were fast blinking away on the digital clock above the radio dial. The truck was humming, everything was charged, and he was ready. He drank in more of his salvation and began weeping. He thought about his brother, about his home, about the day they came and showed him the way. Turned the boy into the man. The knot returning to his stomach, he wretched and twisted and came up wiping vomit from his lips. By Allah, he was about to sacrifice his own life for the good of the world! Death to the infidel! The holiest of holies will be eager to reward such dedication and valor. His brain remained inflamed and the taste of acid and opium coated his throat as he began to pray.

Eyes closed, his fist gripped the shifter. He pulled the dial to ‘D’ and knew there was no turning back. The engine revved and the truck lurched forward with drums of peroxide sloshing side-to-side. Like an ocean of redemption preparing to wash away the sins of Time Square, the man set out to complete his mission. Out into the rain, tires screamed before he sent the truck squalling into the street. Across six lanes of traffic, horns blared, tires squealed, the truck gathered speed while everyone either stopped or swerved. His path was being cleared! “Allahu Akbar! God is great.” 3:16.

“Angela?!” A barista appeared from behind the counter with her drink and she nearly leapt for it. Add cream, add sugar, finger to thumb, she swirled it all together.

Rotating the watch on her wrist around for a face to face, she barely caught a glimpse.

Then she heard it.

Tires squealing, horns blaring.

Searching the rain soaked window for explanations, she peered through the glass to the street and found them.

She saw it all unfolding, as though she had seen it all before in some surreal movie. She knew what was about to happen.

Wide eyed and for the first time fully aware of feeling alive, she saw the truck too late to turn, or run away. Instead, Angela squeezed her eyes shut tightly, finger to thumb, she twisted the cross on her necklace, and she prayed.

The man closed his eyes and released the wheel. Front tires banked up hard against a curb that lifted the truck from the ground. A four-wheeled beast raised to two and time stood still for everyone. Aggressive roars from an engine seeking traction gave way to shattering glass and momentary screams, the truck smashed through the big glass doors of the coffee shop.

In its final resting place, the truck was humming.

Fully charged and ready, the man pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and pressed ‘End.’