OOC: I am publishing a book I wrote a while ago and just found on my computer. Comments and criticism is welcome, and tagging is allowed, but please do not screw anything up by saying stuff and attacking me or something. This is for reading purposes entirely. I might have some typos on here, but hey.
Three Fingers of the Mountain
By Jenrak (Duh!)
-Demons hath power to masquerade fools as Angels. Angels hath power to punish the fools of demons
Chapters:
1. Telling
2. The Rebel Correction Project
3. A Killer’s killer
4. An odd twist of fate
5. The Strength in numbers
6. Sarajevo
7. The Crusade for blood
8. At Point Blank range
9. The arrow through the heart
10. The three fingers of the mountain
11. The Precipice’s frigid truth
12. “I’m not a threat.”
Synopsis
In a carefully maintained and contained era, the government of warring states of earth placed careful laws on each of their own. They allowed international affairs and friendly brotherhood to spread across the globe, but there were regions where the law could not stay any more than a few seconds, before it dies out.
In East Africa, a terrorist group struck the country of Congo. Military forces could not have sustained themselves to fight the intrusions, and they withdrew 12 miles from any terrorist activity within the area. So, that area is now called the ‘Nest of Terrorism’. Groups became unstable, and in a fell swoop, the gang dissolved. Their traces were never found, and smaller clans were trying to take over.
Five years after the inevitable death of the original terrorists, diamonds were found near that location. The earth, having spread its singular government to every civilized corner of the planet, decided to wage war against these new terrorists. However, they were quite unprepared to face the tenacity of these relentless liberators.
Losing nearly every battle, the government faced two major clans within the Nest of Terrorism. The first was the Guild. Their highly disciplined armies proved unstoppable to the weakened battalions of the High Council of Earth. The Guild launched highly effective tactics of utmost complexity in massive guerilla warfare. The government began to retreat forces.
The second was the Arachnid. Seemingly Spider people, the Arachnid twisted the tide of war towards their own benefits. Using careful assassination opportunities at specific intervals allowed the forces of the government to fear them. Not as many in number as the Guild, but they were much more disciplined.
In response, the government created robots that looked exactly like humans. They featured ultimate knowledge of terrorist capabilities and tracking movements. They were perfect at nearly everything, and were mighty and charismatic. These robots were a project known as The Rebel Correction Project, a goal to create machines that thought and worked like terrorists to kill them. The project worked, but only to a certain degree.
The robots, killing important terrorist leaders with efficiency, also saw the leaders that created them as weak. They formed their own terrorist clan, and a kind of genocidal effort, began to wipe out terrorists and their creators alike. These robots were the perfect human killing machines, more efficient than mankind itself. They called themselves the Rithman-naar.
Over time these three superpowers of the terrorist world waged a bloody war against each other, with no alliances made or treaties suggested. The Rithman-naar, in a sense, had the complete upper hand, with their hard, strict tactics.
However, to gain inescapable control over their forces, the leaders of the three clans all created a religion to compromise with the minions under their control. Without anything in their own clans to rebel against, the leaders gained complete control. Over time, the religions they engraved became to manifest.
The clans took it seriously, and in an odd twist of fate, the three completely different religions had prophecies. These all came from the start, but the time was right. The three completely different religions all had their prophecies pointed into one location, a mountain in the massive desert in Africa, a barren wasteland, where great amounts of blood stains the sands.
All three major clans took it seriously, and in loyalty to their fabled beliefs, they launched a movement towards the mountain, and declared it theirs. To them, trespassers broke the sacred laws of their religion. Wiping out hostile forces from their newly claimed land, the three clans fought each other for complete control of the mountain. They had waged a holy war.
Chapter 1: Telling
A man of medium height trots into the tavern, with its glittering screens and flashing advertisements zooming across the ceiling. The man sat down alone at the bar and he bobbed his head up and a down, like broken toy in the middle of the road. No doubt depressed, he swayed his head upwards, and rocked it back and forth. People began to stare, and their eyes wandered to him, as his neck cracked as it jerked and twisted around.
Finally, the man sits down comfortably, and the glass bar had shone brilliantly. This man was not very well, and his deep green eyes showed a radiance of concern. Raising a finger, he beckoned the bartender to come along. The bartender came, and he was a jolly fellow, with crisp blue eyes and a carefully trimmed beard. His brown hair was combed over, and it was slick and glossy. He smiled broadly, and clean white teeth sparkled among his features.
“How ya doin’ eh?” The bartender happily asked. The man did not answer.
“Bad weather. Swear nothin’ good done if it keeps up like this.” The bartender claimed. He tried to make an enlightening conversation with the man, who was inescapably sad.
“Good thing them terrors died out. Or we’d have quite a tussle round here.” The bartender tried again.
“Good thing our gov’ is so good to us, and them savages got what they deserved, eh?” The bartender queried carefully.
“You try and handle savages.” The man finally answered.
“Oh!” The bartender said, surprised. “You one of ‘em soldier folk who never got out like before?” He asked, interested.
“Get me a wine, any kind you choose.” The man whispered.
“Wine it is.” The bartender said happily. He bounced as he walked gleefully to the rack, it’s crossing sections full of glass wine bottles, and he took a blood red bottle and reached for a nice glass cup. He pulled off the cork, and a loud pop filled the bar. Pouring it out into the glass, the bartender filled it halfway and stopped as the wine sloshed around the cup. A little of the wine spilled onto the glass bar, and it stained vigorously like blood.
The bartender reached into his pocket, and pulled out a brand new yellow handkerchief. Lifting the cup, he skillfully swept the stains away and wiped the bottom brims of the cup. Putting his handkerchief back into his oversized pocket, the bartender walked over to the grimly depressed man, happily bouncing on his way.
“Thank you.” The man said emotionlessly. Sloshing the wine around in the cup, he sniffed the wine heavily and, although he did not smile, an aura radiated off of him and the bartender sensed he was pleased.
The man slowly lifted his head and drank a small amount, and he stared back at the bartender, who was obviously watching him. “What do you want?” He asked angrily.
The bartender smiled, unaware he was annoying the man. “Nothing.” He said happily. “It’s just that, well, I’ve never been in any type of warfare before, nor were I affected. Ever!” He ended with a crackling snap of his fingers.
“You want men to describe the conditions of war?” The man queried. He sloshed his wine even further.
“Oh no. No. But, I would like to know everything that happened in that frightening war.” The bartender snapped joyfully.
“Why should I tell you?” The man asked sharply.
“Because,” the bartender began, “I will pay off for the wine you drink if you tell me your story. I want a complete and accurate story. I presume you’re in the war? Correct?” The bartender asked. His gleeful accent died out, and he adopted a more serious mood, and he was ready to listen. He jingled his keys. The jingling sound filled the room and seemed to speak to the depressed man.
“Alright.” He said heavily. His chest rose and it fell, as a creaking sound came from his heart. The man looked down into his cup, and the stains stayed there. The bartender waited.
“Well? When do them terrors die?” The bartender asked heartily.
“I will start from the beginning.” The man said the roots of his greasy hair drying up. He drank from his glass, and his sleeve slipped down his arm. Down the row, a long line of crystal blue veins was creeping across his skin. He finished his glass, and he stamped the glass onto the shiny counter. Putting his sleeves back on his arm, the drunken man began to talk incoherently.
“It...dark.” He mumbled softly. The man tried to straighten himself up, and he shifted in his chair. The bartender smiled widely, his toad like lips a pungent red in the lamplight. The bartender then stood up quickly and walked over to the other end of the counter, and pulled up a chair from the table. Dragging it over to the counter where the depressed man sat, the bartender sat down on the chair and cleared his throat. Hem. Hem.
The man snapped to life, and blinked his eyes with lightning speed. His pupils shifted in size and a strange thing happened: his eye color changed from a crisp blue to a chestnut brown. The man shook his head profusely and sighed heavily.
Pushing the glass aside, the man blinked once more, and he sighed again.
“What happened during the war?” The bartender asked seriously. He gripped his chair handle in frightening suspense.
“It was forty six years ago, thirty nine days and sixteen minutes.” The man mumbled. “Blood was everywhere. The sky filled with tears and red drops of blood everyday. Mutilated corpses scattered the sands of Sahara, and the screaming…the screaming!” He began, as his voice dramatically grew louder and more panicked.
A couple came over and asked the bartender for a martini. He jumped up joyfully and quickly, but skillfully, grabbed a few things and concocted a shining red martini. The couple moved to a nearby table, and the bartender finally moved back to the depressed man, with his shining grins.
“There were no clouds in the sky at all, but oceans of blood kept us from drying up. The sand…every grain was like a knife, stabbing into your foot. The burning of the sun, the red sun scorched across the sky like nothing you’ve ever seen before.” The man continued. “But I will tell you, something they did not know. Something very few people knew, and not many know now.”
“What it is?” The bartender asked, completely spellbound by the story.
“I’ll begin telling the truth behind this…massacre, right now.” The man began.
OOC: I need you guys to rate this and tell me how good/bad it is, since I'm publishing it.
Chapter 2: The Rebel Correction Project
Jones looked up at the sun, with the dust swaying on the road, and the houses with open windows, trying to attract a breeze with flooding relief. He grazed up and down the street, with his horn rimmed glasses lined around the inside of his blue leather pocket. Jones was from Africa, not known where exactly, but he was born before the government got a responsive action on the terrorists.
At the fine age of one hundred and sixteen, Jones was a war hero, and now a scientist. Heralded by hopeful students, who enter his academy followed him wherever he went. But something in the past changed his peaceful life. Jones now works for the government military research and defense against mobile terrorist actions. The increased activity near civilized systems caused Jones to aid the government in wiping out the terrorist factions that call themselves the Guild, and the cybernetic hybrids that were dubbed the Arachnids.
Jones adjusted his sleeves and dipped his hand into his pocket for his pocket watch. Drawing out a gold-framed watch hung by a silver string, Jones glanced at the speedy five hands on the watch. They spun around, and they told him he was simply late for work. Pocketing his watch, Jones checked his other source of time: his wristwatch. He glanced carefully at his watch, and he pocketed that. Jones looked around for a cab in the rushing wave of cars, and finally he found it. A dark yellow streak rolled across the road, and Jones ran towards it with all the speed he could muster.
The taxi dropped by and Jones opened the door, and got in. He handed the driver four blue coins, and quickly said, “Paris Arms Institute, please.” Jones said abruptly.
“All right.” The driver said, without a backward glance at him. He put the coins in his pocket and pressed on the gas. The car drove out of the parking and turned left. The lights on the nearby alleyway flashed vibrantly in stark contrast with the night, and the man known as Saint Jones will no longer be what he set out to be.
Jones was asked by the government briefly over the telephone about his recent unemployment for creating an ‘indisputable monstrosity’, a car with a built in shotgun in it’s chromed hood.
Jones’ employer was scared of losing his business, so the foolish man fired him coldly on the spot. Then Jones was left without a job and without money. Then, in an odd twist of fate, the government called him in the middle of the night, when he huddling on his bed, his telephone rang clearly and echoed throughout the green, elaborate wallpaper.
“We are the department of Defense against Mobile Terrorists, and we would like you to join us. We have heard of your recent unemployment,” the caller said, “we will pay you triple what they paid you.” They applied.
So Jones, with some hope, pressed his luck and joined immediately on the phone. Now, he was in a massive Academy in the beautiful City of Lights, and he enjoyed every single minute of his old aged life.
The man stopped reminiscing and looked out more carefully and he saw many things. Two pretty girls in long jeans strolled across the street in scooters, a tall man in a chestnut brown jacket walking into a variety store and a shaggy dog with his shaggy hair owner. Jones looked straight up out of the window and he saw the stars twinkling before the orange sun began to set.
It enflamed and burned violently, and the stars twinkled magnificently in contrast with the moon, which over the past 200 years became closer than ever to the Earth. The turrets on the moon seemed like warts and pimples on a young boy’s face, and the scars looked like slits of eyes, peering down malevolently on the Earth.
Aircraft flew around in the sky, and the driver suddenly, without warning, turned sharply to the left. Jones felt his stomach somersault violently inside his body, and he pierced a disapproving gaze at the driver’s sharp blue hat.
“What happened?” Jones asked friskily.
“Are you alright sir?” The driver asked.
“I’m fine. How about you?” Jones replied.
“I’m fine.” The man shrugged casually. “Bit doggy, but me hand’s got it right.” The driver said, his accent becoming much heavier.
“Why did you turn so hard?” Jones asked briskly.
“Seems like an accident. On the road ahead of us, I mean.” The driver said, turning his left and trying to see over the crowds of people. Smoke rose nearby, and screaming coupled with sirens pierced the calm night air. Then, the crowd dissipated, and the driver lost interest.
“Sure you alright?” The driver asked intently once more.
Jones shifted uneasily and then on top of his hands. He removed them almost instantly when he realized where they were.
“I’m alright. Let’s keep going. Next time, try not to do this.” Jones gurgled out. He reached his old wrinkled hands into his pocket and pulled out a series of brass coins. The driver lifted his hands, and reached for them.
“Alright,” the driver promised, “I’ll try me best.”
The taxi then started up and began to start again and the car began to move. The driver drove quickly up a steep hill and then he cut through a neighborhood, then, finally got to Paris Arms Institute. The driver smiled at Jones, and then unlocked the door. Jones opened the car door and got outside, into the hot dry night, with the Academy flashing it’s lights in every direction. Jones stretched his arms, snapped his knuckles and smoothed the fringes of his white bushy beard.
Jones straightened his suit, and he went to the driver to pay him. Holding out four silver dollars, the man happily took his tip.
“Thanks.” He said heavily.
Jones merely smiled, and looked back at the Academy. The Paris Arms Institute was a massive corporate like building, and the windows were much like the homes he saw on his way here. Wide open, in the false chance that a breath of relief would swoop in and rejuvenate them. Jones smiled and looked at the brass turnstile doors, and the triangle shaped roof, with its singular precipice. He also smiled at the homey garden lights, blinking through the to guide visitors and keep mosquitoes away. But what made Jones smile the occasional face that passes through those windows, or the cars parked in the strip of tar that was the parking.
Relinquishing his smile, Jones leapt up the stairs, holding the railing in case he fell. In the faint distance he heard the zooming of the taxi and the driver’s sharp slippery turn. Jones counted the steps up to the turnstile entrance, and he lost count at 35. Finally Jones reached the turnstile and pushed inwards. He pulled himself in, and was inside the Paris Arms Institute. Stepping out of the rotating circle into the main lobby, Jones fumbled into his crisp blue suit’s pocket for his access card.
The red curtain draped lobby, with its magnificent shawls wrapped around its ceiling, made Jones feel very respected. The floor had a fake bear rug and a glossy gold counter laid beside to the right. There were neither windows nor vents, but the air was fresh and the lights hung from the ceiling. They radiated vibrancy with the carpet, which was also a patch of magenta woven magnificently into the background wallpaper.
Jones walked over to the receptionist, a tall clad woman with long lanky legs, and a firm chest. She smiled widely at him. Jones smiled back inexpertly and handed her his access card, where she took it off the glass screen counter and walked over briskly onto a platform. She then took the dazed green card and swiped it along a deep slit in a gray metal box, where the card and the box hummed and shimmered. A keypad popped out from under the box and an immeasurable row of numbers and letters flashed across the keyboard screen. There were no buttons to a sense, but a touch pad where everything was pressed using electrical conductivity. Jones swayed his head over, waiting for the woman to finalize his access, and give him his card back so he can enter the inner sanctums of the institute.
Two minutes passed, and finally the woman came back and shook her head sadly. “Your card is expired sir.” She answered longingly. “I’ve tried and tried, and I couldn’t get it to work.”
“Well, then is there any other way to get access granted?” Jones queried.
“Do you have another card? A driver’s license? A passport?” She asked furtively, her eyes dashing towards his wallet on the counter.
“Uh.” He hesitated. “No.” Jones finally answered. “But can you renew my card?”
The lady looked up and she seemed like she was searching for the answer in the shallow pits of her brain. “I think there is a way.” She said. “Hold on.” The woman moved from the counter onto the platform on the far left again, and she typed in a string of numbers into the keypad, which was linked to the gray metal box. The machine beeped rapidly, and the lady nodded.
“There is a way sir.” She replied loudly. The lady took out a pair of scissors and snipped the Jones’ old access in half and threw the remains in a nearby garbage can. She walked over with a blue transparent laptop, and she opened it up. Flickering letters danced across the screen, and the lady finally sighed.
“I will ask you questions sir, and if you answer them right, you will receive your new license.” The lady stated firmly.
Jones, with no choice, had to answer the questions or he will be fired for ‘inappropriate attendance’. He didn’t want to get fired again, especially from a job like this. The red furnishings became less impressive, and Jones girded up his personal knowledge and said, “All right.”
“Good.” The lady answered, without a smile. She glanced down at the keypad on the laptop and then at the flickering screen. “First, what is your name?”
“Timothy Jones Will.” Jones answered.
“All right.” The lady typed in. “Where were you born?”
“Scotland.” Jones answered.
“Okay.” The lady typed in ever more.
“Finally, what was your opinion on nuclear weapons?” She asked intently, her eyes piercing his, as if she thought he would get it wrong.
“I think they’re too powerful.” Jones answered confidently.
The lady typed in the last response, and a rapid beeping was heard on the crystal blue flickering screen. The lady pressed the enter button, and then she rapidly typed in a series of numbers. Jones tried to look over the counter onto the computer to see the results, but he was pushed away. Jones was utterly tired at this charade, and he looked around and saw nobody else here.
Finally, the woman clicked a button on the laptop, and in an instant, came a blue watery card, with Jones’ name in a sky blue tint. The card shimmered and shined in the lamplight, and the back was full of advertisements. They flashed around everywhere. This made Jones smile widely because he was amused.
“Have a good night sir.” The woman said happily, in an innocent tone.
“Good night to you too.” Jones replied, as he walked over to an elevator. He dropped his watch on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up. Just then, a stringy red hand, with freckle-like dots on the inside and a red palm picked it up, and gave it to Jones softly. Jones looked up from the hands to the medal-encrusted suit and from that to an old familiar face.
“Beck! How good to see you!” Jones replied happily. He threw his withered old arms around the old man’s back, and squeezed it with all his might. Then, after hugging him, Jones let loose and shook his hand firmly. The man responded by shaking Jones’ one hand with both his hands.
“Timothy! My old friend! What brings you here?” The old man with the medals exclaimed. He was obviously surprised, from his fabled expression.
“I work here.” Jones replied happily. He let go of his handshake.
“Wow! We both work here then! I’m very much excited.” The man wheezed.
“Well, you know Beck, we’ve succeeded and messed up together.” Jones said with a slight chuckle.
“It’s good to have you here Timothy. Where did you work after the Malaysian Incident?” Beck asked, as they got into the oak-rimmed elevator with a grass green floor. Jones smiled widely once again.
Sixty years ago, a Malaysian terrorist posed one of the biggest threats ever outside the Nest of Terrorism. Beck and Jones were both partners to aid in the cause of spewing forth recruits to stem the flow of attacks, but both were seriously injured in a raid. The terrorist supposedly imposed a nuclear attack on Singapore, until it was actually a fraud visual trick.
Beck and Jones then had a crucial assignment together, but halfway through they went different ways. The objective was to simply place charges on the terrorist’s tanks, so when he went in the terrorist would simply blow up. Beck however, simply killed the terrorist with a gun, and although they both got in trouble, Jones quit nearly immediately after what happened.
Beck then after quit for stating it was ‘boring’, and he found work at the department against mobile terrorist forces. Jones, however, had a string of odd jobs before he clawed his way into this one. Jones ‘accidentally’ inserted an automatically computerized shotgun in the hood of a Jaguar, and his bossed fired him, afraid of government investigation. Then, afterwards, Jones found a job here ironically, with Beck.
The two old withered men walked forth into an oak encrusted elevator, and they chatted infrequently about their past experiences in their lives. The lights hummed vibrantly and the chain at the top of the elevator swung violently back and forth, with no sign of stopping. The elevator rumbled, and the glass at the top precipice of the structure felt as if it would collapse. They braced themselves by gripping the brass handlebars on the side, and they leaned against it, furiously.
“Well, this is new.” Jones said infrequently. His hand’s grip tightened on the bar.
“This is not new.” Beck said.
“Why?” Jones queried. He was intriguingly curious, and he pierced his gaze.
“We’re entering the lower chasms of the Institute. I’ve worked here for a while. Everything works like this. God damn system is worth a damn penny.”
Jones merely smiled at his old time friend, and he turned his head, then raising it up to the lights that sparkled on the ceiling of the elevator. The lights faded softly, and then it became a toned purplish tint, and the chain slowed to a heavy stop.
The elevator stopped completely, and a siphoning sound was heard in the faint distance. Chatter stabbed the walls of the wooden elevator, and the sound of heavy footsteps rattled around them.
“Well.” Beck began. “We’re here.”
“What is ‘here’?” Jones asked. He pressed the open button rapidly on the silver panel. The button flashed happily, and the elevator’s sounds from outside silenced.
“It’s the underground of the Institute. You’re new here, huh?” Beck queried tentatively.
“I’m not necessarily new here, but I’ve never been to this certain degree of extremity before.” Jones answered.
“Extremity?” Beck asked.
“Yes, where I felt this important and I feel like I’m actually doing something important in this fabled old life of mine.”
“Well, feel what you want, but I don’t give a damn about what happens to this place.”
“You don’t?”
“No. If terrorists bombed this place into oblivion, then so be it. At least they have some kind of progress.”
Jones merely at the statement, as Beck did not change at all over sixty whole and hearty years.
“God damn terrorists. They’re gonna get out of control. That’s why you’re here.”
“I’m supposed to fight terrorists?”
“No. You are going to be the main architect of the thing that will stop terrorists dead in their tracks. Those creepy sons of bitches running around with rocket launchers can just get the hell out of what they call the ‘Nest’. I’ve had just about enough of their kind.”
“Watch your language.”
“I’m not a kid, and I never wish I was. I got picked on and you know that. Then Marcer got what he deserved.”
“You mean the knife?”
“Yes, Timothy. The knife.” Beck answered without a tone of sarcasm.
“Alright. This conversation’s getting kind of boring. Let’s just get to work.” Jones exclaimed.
“I agree.” Beck answered.
The two men walked from their elegant elevator to a large door in the main hallway. Or at least what they thought was the main hallway. The hall draped with robes of former killers and their skins, and the walls had pictures of people they did not know about.
The floor had a peachy yellow carpet and a smooth hardwood underside. The door at the end of the eighty foot hallway was massive, and metal as well. The small minuscule slit of light sliding from under the door showed signs of shadows moving about.
Activity rambled on the other side, and the two men walked casually towards the door. When they reached it, a small pad with an odd emerald green gel-like substance pasted on the front emerged from the side of the door. A round ball floating in mid air and it seemed like it was a swinging eyeball, zooming back and forth between Jones and Beck.
The eyeball nodded at Beck, but Jones did not get any response from it. It did not move at all when it placed it’s gaze at him, and Jones felt uneasy.
The floating spherical object finally spoke, in a monotony metallic voice.
“Insert your hands, human.” Jones took his hand and placed it at the ball’s front, but it did not move nor reply. He was curious on what was happening.
“Insert your hand on the green pad, human.” The voice boomed louder, as Jones moved his hands back and then moved it to the pad. The gel lurched forwards and entrenched his hands in it, and Jones felt panicked.
“Do not move and sustain your heartbeat, human.” The robotic voice commanded imperiously. Jones did as he as told, and finally the gel withdrew into its small pit in the pad once again. The ball flashed around, and then it looked at Beck and once again, in its extremely monotone robotic voice, said, “Insert your hand, human.”
Beck did as Jones did, but more professionally. The gel engulfed his withered old hand and it moved around quickly, as if it were trying to digest it. Finally, the gel withdrew itself and the ball flew away into a tiny circle in the metal door that had appeared there. The door opened up, and rumbling was heard. It shook the whole hall and the light sprayed in every direction into the hallway as the two stood there.
“You may enter, humans.” Another voice stated in the air. The two walked back onto the carpet and strolled into the massive underground casually, though Jones was slightly taken aback. He gazed around at the higher proportions of the gigantic interior that lay before his eyes. An elaborate catwalk system at the back snaked its way up to the top of the underground, with glass floors and scientists in long lab coats and thick goggles trolled around, checking every experiment, every flaw, every solution to every problem. Jones could see a long line at the top that was, in reality, the lights that lit the entire community together. The windows at the far back and top were tinted a shady gray, and Jones could only faintly make out shadows of men walking about in that room at the top.
Jones smiled at the weapons in the storage covers, the strange ammunition tests and the scary assortment of available weapons in the wide-open armory. He felt right at home, as he was only capable of designing weapons, although he was a kind man by heart.
“Well, good luck.” Beck wished him precariously, right before he left Jones alone and waddled over to a long lab coat closet and strapped on a pair of large thick goggles and yellow rubber gloves, with a hair net strapped onto the back of his short bushy head.
“Thanks.” Jones said to himself. He tried to reach the top of the catwalk, and he strolled forwards. Jones tried to get across a series of excited scientists who were speaking heavy Japanese, and then a local laboratory manager faced him with questioning for improper experimentation clothes.
“Hey, you’ve got to wear the proper things or you’re fired.” He grouched.
“I’m sorry. This is my first day.” Jones said, as the man looked at him through heavy goggles and a green lab coat.
“Alright.” He finally collapsed, “you can go. But don’t let me catch you here.”
“Alright.” Jones exclaimed, smiling. The man walked away, and Jones looked back at him. The man was already shouting at another person, someone who evidently took off their lab coat because it was much too hot for them. Jones rounded the corner of the pillar and he walked over to the catwalk without any problems at all. Jones rounded that one as well and he stepped upon the metal stairs, and they flashed illusory colors and he shook his head defiantly in the stead of the colors that flashed before his feet.
Jones walked up the metal stairs and he saw the entire underground from his height. The people looked like white little pinpricks, zooming around a glass floor, with the lights on the ceiling above him dangling without care.
Jones saw the managers of the laboratories, the green dots strewn across the glass surface. Jones placed his hand on his cheek, and he took it off. Then, once again, resuming his short-lived journey, Jones jumped from stair to stair, until he reached the top of the catwalk’s stairs, and the creaking noise deafened around him. His head was level with the chains that hung onto the lights, and the lights that hung in mid-air, supported by twenty feet of steel.
Jones knocked on the plastic door that was placed in the center of the tinted windowed hut-like observation room, and then he heard scuttling on the other side. The light shifted around at the bottom of the door, as activity picked up. The door opened, and a short, stocky man opened the door, and he stared blankly into Jones’ withered old face. Jones smiled back, and his hands were crossed behind his back.
They stood there for a minute, until the short man talked. However, he did not speak English, but a rather different language.
“Mee Maak tow you baat due.
High mun cow maa baw?”
The man shifted his eyes to Jones’ arms, and he was dressed in a blue lab coat, with a ripped pair of sneakers and cracked goggles. The man wore no headwear, and he was bald. The short man waited for a response, and then a creaky voice from inside the door said, “Yes.” The voice had a gesturing voice.
Jones entered into the room, and the man inside the room that talked was a tall man, in a crisp suit, with multiple medals strapped onto his chest. He did not seem to be wearing a lab coat like the short man, nor any safety equipment, so Jones assumed he did not work here. The man said, in a softer voice than when Jones first heard it, “Hello.” He continued his gaze upon the platform.
“Hello.” Jones answered back.
“Who, are you?” The man asked him. Jones did not reply immediately, but then the man contracted his eyes, and in a glaring stare, he asked more clearly. “Who are you?”
“Timothy Jones Will.” Jones answered. He was sweating heavily.
“Hello Timothy.” The man said.
“Hello.” Jones answered back. The man stared at him emotionlessly. The man was far older than he was, and his face was gaunt and shadowy. His wrinkles shifted precariously in the dangling lamplight outside of the small white office, and he was tall and extremely.
The man was unusually skinny, and his visage seemed to be grinding his skin towards a thin layer of smooth white. The man did not move, but after an uneasy pause he shifted slightly forwards and gazed at him.
“I prefer to be called Jones, if you must.” Jones snapped at him immediately. The man did not move.
“Alright,” the gaunt man paused, “Jones.” He shifted around and walked over to a glass table on the side of the minuscule office, and above it laid a bevy of photographs and drawings, most of them quite crude. The tall, gaunt man walked over to a woman, a short and plump lady with periwinkle eyes.
“Cherri, look after our recruit. Give him a tour.” The man commanded, in an almost expressionless tone.
“Alright.” The woman smiled and answered cheerfully. She clapped her fat hands and her face was in a wide grin, which nearly stretched across the lower half of her face. Her curly hair bounced as she approached Jones, and the woman looked up at him. She was shorter close up than far away, and Jones’, who was reasonably tall himself, felt an indifference towards her.
“Well, how do you do?” She asked happily. She laughed as he took her hand and firmly shook it.
“I’m fine.” Jones answered humbly.
“I’m Cherri, and you are?” She trailed.
“I’m Timothy Jones Will.” Jones answered imperiously, his eyes widening at the benevolence of another smile.
“Well, would you like me to call Timothy? Or something?” she asked.
Jones shook his weary old head, and stated, “call me Jones.”
She smiled widely. “Well Jones, welcome to the team.” She clapped her massive hands again, and she smiled even more this time. It seemed quite unnatural for a grin to be this wide. Cherri walked over to a pine dresser and carefully pulled apart its rusty metal door. The doors creaked slowly and quietly, while the tall gaunt man watched her take out a long white lab coat with green striped sleeves.
Cherri walked over to Jones and wrapped it around him skillfully, and he straightened out the coat.
“Fits like a glove.” Cherri smiled benignly, clapping her hands once again.
“Let’s get onto the tour, shall we?” Jones asked, clearly annoyed and now impatient. He checked his watched, and its many hands pranced across the screen. It was extremely dark, and he was truly irritated. Cherri smiled again.
“Alright, let’s go!” She hummed in a tiny voice, clapping her hands. She walked out of the office past the small inaudible man and tapped Jones’ shoulder. Jones turned around, and Cherri waited on the creaky metal catwalk. He followed her, and she walked down the stairs to begin the tour. Jones followed.
The pair of them crossed down the catwalk, and back onto the firm, flat ground. The pair of them moved further down and they reached the bottom.
Cherri, although sometimes queer and annoyingly happy, seemed to know much about the layout of the structure. She pointed out to everything and fully explained what the function of every single piece of work was.
Jones looked around, and he tapped her on the shoulder. He pointed to a large brick wall, with wires coming out of its center. He wondered what it was aloud.
“I…” Cherri paused briefly, scanning her memory, “don’t know.”
“Alright.” Jones answered. He walked over to another contraption. He looked at it carefully and placed it on the ground. Then, in a reckless courage, he stamped on it.
“What are you doing?” Cherri asked quickly. She tiptoed carefully and gazed carefully over his shoulder, but she proved incapable of the ladder. Cherri then walked around him and looked at the smoldering ruin on the ground, with giant footmarks in the running motor that was the heart of the machine. “Don’t touch!” She shrieked at him.
“I’m not a kid. By the way,” he jabbed at the broken object, “that motor is already put together wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Cherri shrieked again. She pointed roughly at the smoke that was rising quickly from the object.
“It’s not connected at the top, and the wires are in a different relay pattern.” Jones answered. “If it was broken, breaking would have proved no loss. I didn’t want it to waste a good piece of table space, so I stamped it.” Jones answered.
Cherri’s face turned a deep red, and her cheeks were highly noticeable, even from such a distance. She was bottling her anger with utmost difficulty, and she tried to not explode on a green employee who had up-showed her. Jones kept a straight face, and tried not to laugh. He merely bent down and picked the broken shards, and placed them on the table.
Cherri’s anger did not quell, and she also did not lighten her voice or clap any more during the remaining half-hour of the ground floor tour. Jones was glad, and he no longer was annoyed. After the tour, Cherri went home, mumbling under her breath heavily and Jones returned to the office where the tall gaunt man stood.
“How was the tour?” He asked carefully. He sloshed around some water that was in a cup, and bits of steam rose from the cup with no sign of stop. Dipping his thin pale lips into the white cup, she drank it quickly. He shook his head around violently, and when he asked Jones, he did not look at him.
“It was terrible.” Jones answered honestly. He placed the lab coat back on a hook in the pine dresser in the corner.
“I heard you made Cherri blow up.” The man answered.
“Yes, I did.” Jones answered.
The gaunt man smiled, and then he said, “Don’t tell her, but I find her annoying too. That’s why when new people come it’s always a good way to get rid of her.” He turned to Jones. “My name’s Gary. I won’t bother telling you my last name, since you won’t need it.”
“Hello, Gary.” Jones answered.
“Hello again, Jones.” Gary answered back. He smiled, at shook Jones’ hand much more friendly this time. Jones vigorously took his hand into his own, and shook it firmly. Jones teeth shined brightly, as the tall gaunt man, Gary, leaned towards him, and in a cautious manner, whispered in his withered old ear. Jones began to back up his ear, as the spit from the man began to spray into his ears.
Just then, Gary walked over to the door, and began to thrust it wide open, with the light pouring in from multiple directions. Gary pointed his skeleton like finger towards Jones’ old withered chest, and flicked it up. Jones walked over to the doorway, and Gary beckoned him down the catwalk along with him. They walked for what seemed like forever, without so much of whisper or a sound.
Then, when the long catwalk journey ended, Gary revealed, quite openly, the situation.
“You’ve heard the situation in Cairo, haven’t you?” Gary asked intently.
Jones answered back, “Parts of it. Refresh my memory.”
“Well,” Gary began, “we tried to make Africa hospitable, after we found a large sect of diamonds down in the eastern Zaire. We’re trying to get a hold of it, but there are too many terrorist actions around that area. Hopefully they don’t know about the diamonds.”
“What does this have to do about the Cairo incident?” Jones asked.
“Cairo was our greatest attempt to hospitalize Africa, one by one by subduing the hostile terrorist forces down there. I don’t know what attracts those terrorists.” Gary slithered on.
“It must be the history.” Jones answered.
“History?” Gary queried.
“Once, the sands of Egypt and most notably, Cairo, was named the Holy Land, by European crusaders. A man born in Mesopotamia, Saladin, subdued the hostile forces of the crusaders from Europe. Eventually peace proved victorious, but the casualties were enormous, and Saladin was unable to keep the deserts of Egypt in check. It started all because of religion.”
“Religion?” Gary laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Jones snapped back.
“Well, we live in the modern age, not the Stone Age. They had bows and arrows and swords, but we have high rockets, laser guided ring bullets and giant cannons of mass destruction. What kind of religion are we supposedly driven on by?” Gary asked.
“A brutal one, by my terms.” Jones replied.
“Well, if they are acting by religion, what makes you think these crazy killers would be organized to have religion, they don’t worship anything but killing!”
“It could the religion that tells them that other clans are affronting their gods.”
“Why would they need a religion?” Gary asked.
“Have you ever heard of the pope?”
Gary stared back at him suspiciously. “Yes. Why?”
“After the Dark Ages, the pope ruled almost as much as the king. And in republic times, even more so.”
“What does this crap have to do with the terrorists?”
“What if, if, each clans made a fake religion centuries ago, to wrest control over the anarchic forces. This could have kept them disciplined, while keeping their morale extremely high.”
“What are you talking about? Why are they still listening to it?”
“Because of human evolution. They have learned to accept it as a way of life. They can no longer deny. You try to turn them over; they kill you. There is no alternative.”
“Why a war? If they are so religious, huh?”
“Because, what if their gods have declared an omen, something that states that all other religions in this place are defiling the site of their own religion?”
Gary’s eyes, contracted, and his smiling face turned to a deep, serious grimly frown with concern etched into his papery, pale face. “Mass Genocide.” He whispered to himself. “Oh my God.” He wrinkled his forehead with his left hand, shook his head vigorously. Then, in a false relief, he turned his head back to Jones.
“The reason we hired is the fact that you are familiar with weapon design, am I correct?” Gary questioned.
“Yes.” Jones answered. His eyes began watering, as smoke waned his way.
“I need you to make anti terrorist weapons. Anything will do. It just has to be efficient with wiping out these terrorists.” Gary pleaded.
“Have you tried nuking them? Blasting them? Sending in spies and making them blow up?” Jones asked, his voice going haywire.
“Yes, yes and yes. We’ve tried everything we can think of.” Gary answered. “The government is willing to pay a generous amount into this. You have knowledge on this. We need you to make a weapon that will turn the tide against terrorists!” Gary pleaded again.
Jones thought for a moment, and finally he found an idea. “I know what to do. What we - ” But then, the working bell rang loudly throughout the large factory, and people bustled out of their jackets and suits, and threw away their glasses into a bin and they lined up unorganized, as a flying ball of metal supervised them all. Gary headed for the top of the office, and he flicked his head at Jones sportingly. Jones responded by winking his right eye heavily, and he soon learned he was extremely sleepy.
Jones walked over to the bustling line, and scrounged his way up to the front, and finally hitched a last effort ride on a crowded elevator up to ground floor. Beck was in the same elevator, however, the two of them did not see each other, as both were surrounded by people much taller than them. The elevator rumbled again, and the light on the rope began lashing around in midair. The rattling continued, and finally, at the end, it halted incredulously. Jones stepped out, and the front room was filled with the sounds of laughter and cheerfulness, as people stepped out of their work clothes.
People murmured and murmured around him, as Jones began to cut his way through the crowd to get outside into the fresh, breezy night air. Jones looked up at the twinkling stars in his long wool jacket as people passed him, on their way to the parking lot. He grimly walked down the stairs, and he waddled down the sidewalk. The old man, withering and tired, decided to take a long refreshing walk home, wondering on the short journey whether his quite fanatical idea will work.