72 Hours till Doomsday (4 page)

Gregor felt another bead of sweat roll down his forehead. His head was throbbing and his whole body was cramped from sitting on the concrete floor, limbs pressed up against the metal grate. It rattled loudly as he shook out of his tortured slumber. There was still fresh blood seeping from his hand, staining the white bandages. His stomach was in knots from the lack of nourishment. There was still water running from the taps but the only food was from the half-empty vending machine down the hall. Stale chips and candy bars could only go so far when you’ve got thirteen hostages to feed.

They’d taken his cell phone, which Gregor honestly felt was the worst part of all. He’d been unable to contact his wife, his children; unable to patch back through to Anna. He had no idea if she was still okay or even in the building anymore. The coworkers had lost contact yesterday afternoon when the takeover of Battersea Water and Power had been successful. Their captors were surprisingly adept despite their young and brash appearances; they seemed to have a highly intelligent plan in place in order to exact the necessary control to achieve their ends. Those ends were yet to be fully illuminated, but they seemed to encircle the ideas of wealth distribution and government corruption. They’d seen the opportunity and seized it. Unfortunately, there were bound to be casualties along the way. So far the damage tally included two overhead electric lines and one security guard.

Yesterday afternoon seemed like a dream, or something straight from the pages of a crime thriller. His chain around the generator room doors had bought him just enough time to hide, although not enough time to make it back to his team. They’d shot open the doors and pushed inside: two older guys made for the generators themselves while four others searched the perimeter, looking for stragglers. The rebels had found the cage first where two women and one man cowered in the dark, clutching wrenches behind their backs in their sweaty palms. Owen and Arthur had stationed themselves elsewhere throughout the giant warehouse room, ready to pick off the intruders as they came in. Gregor had shimmied himself behind a cooling tank along the side of the safety station. Ensconced in brick and metal, he’d waited with his breath in his throat as heavy footsteps prodded around. He could hear the clanking of guns and pipes similar to the one he’d held in his hand.

There had been a loud shuffle and a wet thud, followed by a deep guttural cry and an explosive crack: Owen’s wrench had met someone’s face and they had retaliated with gunfire. Gregor could hear several people wrestling and wailing, Arthur’s voice among them, shouting. Whatever these people wanted, it was clear they were ready to kill for it and be killed themselves. Suddenly the whole situation took on a different flavor, the acidic bite of a deadly attack instead of a merely inconvenient one. Then the power went down.

The warehouse was flooded with blackness and the generator’s whine grew deeper and softer before disappearing altogether. Their senses scrambled to reconfigure, now that they could hear everything and see nothing. It took Gregor a moment to regain his bearings, every sound slowly coming into focus. There was someone right around the corner, and he flexed his fingers, curling it around the pipe, ready to strike. He’d stepped out into the darkness and swung, meeting a fleshy resistance and prompting the young man to cry out. Suddenly something came down hard near his head and his vision went white, searing pain shooting up through his skull. He remembered falling and someone kicking the pipe out of his hand, slicing it open as they did so. He’d clutched his bleeding hand and curled up on the cold concrete as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the cage next to Arthur, Libby, Janet, and Trent, his hand freshly bandaged. That was around 8 P.M. according to the old plastic clock on the wall.

He’d stretched and asked to use the restroom. Someone in a black bandanna came and pulled him up, causing the room to spin; he would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach. The man escorted him out into the hallway and into the men’s bathroom, standing guard with a flashlight as Gregor relieved himself and splashed cold water on his face and scooped it into his mouth. He could hear the sounds of sirens and bullhorns outside, negotiating their release: the police had finally shown up! He knew it wouldn’t be long now and settled back into his corner of the cage, concentrating on eating his chips one by one. Then he’d fallen back asleep.

He sat on the floor, drowsy but awake enough to know that he was angry. Angry with the rioters that held them hostage, for not giving them real food or water, for hurting his friends. Angry at the police for taking so damn long. Angry that he’d worked his whole life to be faced with this. Angry with himself for not listening to his wife, for coming to work yesterday, for not buying that gun beforehand. The rage bubbled up inside of him as he stared at those three men in the generator room who stood in the glow of a lamplight, their guns in their pockets, standing smugly in their power. Gregor felt his hands grip the cage wall behind him, pushing his body up to stand. He wasn’t as dizzy as he was earlier.

“Greg, what are you doing?” Libby whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Shh,” replied Arthur, “Gregor, just sit down man. It won’t be long now.”

“No. I’ve had enough.”

His fingers rested on the door, sliding it slowly open enough for him to creep outside. So far the insurgents hadn’t noticed, and Arthur got to his feet as well to follow. The two men tiptoed out to the left of the cage, just out of view. Unfortunately, the closest way out of that room was through the main doors—the back doors were too far in the other direction and they’d risk being seen. They both just hoped there wasn’t something awful waiting on the other side.

“We’ll be safe behind the station, but then we’ll have to sprint the last part,” Greg murmured to his friend. “It’s wide open.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Come on.”

They slid along soundlessly, keeping the brick safety station between themselves and their captors. Arthur peered around the other side when they reached it, eyeing the distance to the door.

“We’ll have to run. Then once we’re through the doors, turn right. There’s an exit door at the end of that hallway.”

“Let’s just hope nobody is standing there.”

“Yep. Ready?”

“Ready. You first.”

Gregor put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, readying himself for the sprint. There was a split second of hesitation, and then his friend shot out from behind the station, his long legs pumping towards freedom. Gregor followed, his stride only slightly shorter, keeping his eyes fixed ahead—it was too risky to turn and look back. There was no quiet way to get through those doors, and so as Arthur slammed the lever open, there was a shout from behind. They’d finally been spotted. 

“Hey!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

There were boots hitting the ground, coming for them. Gregor’s fingers were inches away from the lever when he heard a loud popping sound. Suddenly he felt like he’d been kicked in the back and his legs crumpled beneath him. His chest and face slammed hard into the concrete, his injured hand unable to break his fall. Libby’s scream echoed in his ears.

“What the fuck, Rowen?!” A man was yelling.

“Shit! Shit! I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

Gregor couldn’t feel his legs anymore, only a suffocating pain rising in him like floodwaters.

“Fuck!”

“The other one got away.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Now what? We just let him die?”

There was shuffling, bringing the argument closer.

The throbbing in his temples was finally subsiding, like all the pain receptors had decided to gather in his back. He felt like he was on fire and his shirt felt uncomfortably sticky. It wasn’t until he heard the word ‘die’ that Gregor realized that he’d been shot. His heart missed a couple of beats, fluttering to keep him alive, but it was too late.

There was now a pool of blood surrounding him and filling his nostrils with a sharp metallic smell, and his arms had gone numb as well. The feeling was draining away, replaced with a strange leaden sensation. It was like going underwater. His hearing muffled over and his brain began making up images that his eyes thought were real. The last thing he heard was a woman crying. Maybe it was Alice. She’d come to say goodbye. Then things went quiet.

He really should have stayed home.

Smoke and dust choked his nostrils and inflamed his mind. There was rubble everywhere, chunks of concrete and plaster scattered around him, some pieces as large as cars, some small enough to pass through his fingers. Photographs could do this no justice: there was nothing like seeing the effects of a bomb in person. Altan could barely recognize the street he was standing on, but he knew he was close to what used to be his home. He staggered up and over mounds of steel and brick, tears blinding his eyes and his heart in his feet. He knew the chances of finding them alive were slim.

After confirming his worst fears yesterday, he’d asked Sule to pack up their most precious possessions and prepare for a journey. They had to get out. Stay with friends in Italy until this whole thing blew over. The financial secrets of the company had been compromised when rebel hackers had infiltrated their system and exposed their secrets. Their private notes, underground relationships, oil reserve sites…all their dirty laundry had been aired. And their CFO was now dead. Altan knew it wouldn’t be long before they came for him, but he had overestimated the time they had to escape.

He’d gone into work one last time this morning, cleaning his office of personal things and shredding some of the last documents. All their phone lines had been bugged and their computer hard drives compromised. He was planning to leave on the last ferry out of Istanbul that night, traveling under the cover of night, sailing as tourists.

They’d had it all planned out. He’d told Sule to stay home and ready the children, but now he stood in the remains of his estate, mere hours before their departure time. Turkish soldiers and medics were now combing the area, working to pull bodies from the blast sites. All he could do was sit and watch them, praying to Allah to spare his family as the shock seeped into every corner of his body and soul. It was impossible to recognize the layout of his home now that it was in pieces, but he knew they were nearing the spot where the kitchen might have stood.

One of the German Shepherds barked, signaling her handler. She’d found someone. They began digging where she had marked, lifting stones and cutting metal as they went, desperate for a live find. It would be their first of the day. Suddenly the air was filled with shouts and medics ran to the area with gurney in tow. Altan’s heart leapt into his throat and he held his breath. He couldn’t see around the mass of people, but then he spotted something between the mix of legs. A hand. Then an arm. The gurney was moved into position. Then a flash of turquoise and gold, matted in dust and blood. It was Sule’s favorite dress. Every cell in his body screamed at him to move and he lifted his shaking limbs towards his wife. He made it only ten paces when the rest of her was freed from the stones, and he saw that her body was limp. The medics didn’t put on an oxygen mask on her seeing that she was already gone. They must move their resources elsewhere. He fell to his knees as he watched his wife carried away to the other side of the street and lay in the line of the others. His Sule, his queen; her life snuffed out.

Altan heard their shouts to one another, loud above the sounds of rumbling tankers, and he recognized the words ‘alive’ and ‘child’, imbuing him with a drop of hope. His legs moved again, running now towards the gaping mouth of rubble, waving his arms to attract a soldier’s attention.

“Please! My children! There! Please save them!”

There were tears making muddy tracks down his face.

“Sir, calm down. Please.” A medic took his arm.

“Fahri! Fatma! Can you hear me?”

“Sir, you are looking for someone?”

“Yes yes! My children! In the rubble. There!”

He pointed to where his wife was unearthed. The medic called out to her teammates, explaining their quarry in rapid-fire Turkish. They moved into place once again and pulled open the gash further.

“Sir, we found a child earlier in the area, but he was not alive. Do you want to see him?”

Every nerve was warning him not to look, not to fill his mind with any more death or sadness, but he knew he must see the boy. He had to know the truth. The medic guided him away, towards the row of bodies, towards a section of small ones at the end. She knelt down beside one of them, peeling back the sheet from the child’s face. It was Fahri. Seeing his dust-painted face and his hands folded peacefully on his chest made Altan feel the bile rise in his throat. He felt dizzy and clamped onto her to keep from falling.

Someone announced themselves behind them, a soft and defeated sounding voice. They’d found another child. The man held a small girl in his arms and before he ever saw the face, Altan knew it was his Fatma. Ten tiny spots of pink nail polish gave it away. It was her favorite color- she’d probably just put in on this morning in anticipation of vacation. It was too much to even comprehend. He stood up quickly, leaned against a half wall, and vomited. It was like he wasn’t even awake. Like another dream. Except without vultures, although he wouldn’t be surprised if they were circling above his head right at this very moment. He took one last look at the bodies of his family and staggered down the street.

He collapsed into the dirt behind a corner store and spotted a pistol lying a few feet away. Then the thoughts flooded into his mind and he knew. Everything suddenly made sense. He crawled towards the hot black metal and felt his shaking fingers curl around the grip. He slumped down onto the ground with his back on the cool brick and studied the gun, turning it over in his hands. His eyes were blurred with tears as he brought the muzzle to rest in his mouth. Allah would forgive him. Then the wall was painted red.

The sins of the father were paid. The stones had bled.