Part 9 (1/2)

I knew how I was going to die, right? So what did I also know?

How I was not going to die.

I slept like a baby.

I woke up a brand new man. Everything around me was colored different. Cereal smelled sweeter, the wind felt crisper, and traffic sounded like chirping birds. Everything changes when you start to live without fear. I left high school in the dust. I called up friends I had neglected for too long. And I made a decision about the rest of my life.

See, it was all the looking up. My head had literally been in the clouds for three years. And in the sky, I found the love of my life.

I wanted to fly.

Everything fit. I could never be scared of flying at twelve thousand feet, because I knew perfectly well that no plane under my command would ever crash. I'd find my niche among the aircraft's b.u.t.tons, levers, and instruments. As long as none of them were musical instruments, I would be fine.

So I went to flight school. None of my instructors had ever seen such a confident student. They were used to seeing regular people shaken or even a little daunted by the complexity of a flying machine. Not me: I grabbed the controls and took her up like I was riding a bike. Not a moment of hesitation. If only they knew I had the certainty that nothing would ever go wrong with me at the stick.

The skies became as familiar to me as home. And I was good! It was amazing: knowing I couldn't crash realized and solidified the fact that I would never crash.

Pa.s.sed every test with flying colors, so to speak. Finally made my mother proud. And how could I fail? I was unafraid. That little card, the one I carried in my pocket everywhere I went, had told me the only thing that could ever kill me. PIANO. Ha! I laughed at the word now. It was just a harmless little word. All I'd had to do was wrap myself in a piano-less world. And planes and pianos do not mix.

I wish I'd known earlier how knowing the exact way I'd die would grant me such happiness and self-confidence. I wanted to kick life in the s.h.i.+n. I became such a daredevil that I joined the military. Yeah, why not? I would go to war. That white card was my carte blanche. It didn't say BULLET, did it? It didn't say BOMB or MISSILE, either. I was unstoppable.

I climbed the ranks like crazy; I made captain like you'd make a hardboiled egg. No one was able to match my piloting skills and daring stunts in the air. I was the envy of the entire service. They trained me to fly helicopters, and I aced that as well. I couldn't wait to get into combat! That's how psyched I was. I even heard they thought I had a deathwish. But death was the least of my concerns. If it wasn't playing the Cheers Cheers theme song, I said bring it on. theme song, I said bring it on.

I was the first in line to tour the Middle East. There's always something over here that needs bombing, and I was counting on being the first one off the ground. They even put me in charge of a Black Hawk. A Black Hawk, man! The predator of the sky.

I don't remember the details of this particular mission; I know it went something like this: the Humvees and the .50-cals were supposed to roll into some town somewhere, neutralize the insurgency, and go home. Our four birds were the air support, and I said no worries, dudes. There'll be no Black Hawk Down with me on board, baby. Right?

Wrong.

OK. I hope all this is readable, by the way. I'm writing in the dark on some sc.r.a.p of cloth I found lying around on the floor of the cell, and you do not want to find out what I'm writing with.

At this point, if anyone ever does read this, you must have figured out there's no happy ending for this one. Obviously I've been taken captive-a hostage to barter with, or perhaps payback for all the Gitmo/Abu Ghraib c.r.a.p they must have seen on Al Jazeera. That would explain all the cruel-and-unusual we've been subject to for the past...week? Month? I don't even wanna know anymore. This is as far as I want to remember. I'd like to get to the point of all this before I lose the rest of my mind.

I have to think hard about what the point of all this was...I've been having problems gathering my thoughts, lately. It's been h.e.l.l with the lightbulb, and the mask, and the hi-fi sound system constantly blaring in the background...actually, the foreground when you think of it, since there's nothing over or under it, aft or fore...it smears my days and it haunts my dreams and I know, I know now what it's all come to-I know that music, I know precisely what musical instrument is playing that music, and I have time to think about it too, as I weave and heave and lie here in the darkness, silently contemplating my death...

It's a symphony, it's a concerto, it's ”Great b.a.l.l.s of Fire,” and yes...whatever it is...it's a solo solo.

Story by Rafa Franco Ill.u.s.tration by Kean Soo

HIV INFECTION FROM MACHINE OF DEATH NEEDLE.

”WELL,” I thought, ”that sucks.”

Story by Brian Quinlan Ill.u.s.tration by KC Green

EXPLODED.

”f.u.c.k!”

It came from the den. Later I'd learn that it had followed a much quieter, ”Oh f.u.c.k. Oh-”

My first thought was that it had broken. I was going to spend a lot of time over the next five years wis.h.i.+ng that I'd been right about that.

He burst into the room, crunching the door hinges and smacking the handle deep into the plaster. He nearly fell over trying to stop. I didn't say anything, just stared.

”391! He was on the train this morning! He was one of the victims!” He stared too. We just stared. He was on the train this morning! He was one of the victims!” He stared too. We just stared. ”Look it up!” ”Look it up!”

I didn't have to. An electric buzz, as much like actual pain as excitement, jumped from my stomach to my head. I didn't have all our test cases memorised yet, but Mr. 391 I did know: EXPLODED. He was one of the reasons I was sure it wasn't working- his prediction was a joke. He saw I wasn't looking it up, saw me looking at him, and knew I knew, but said it all the same: ”It f.u.c.king works.”

We were eating.

”Okay, well, it's on on now.” I munched a chip. now.” I munched a chip.

”Yeah.”

”I mean, it's on.” on.” I pointed a chip at him for emphasis. I pointed a chip at him for emphasis.

”Yeah.”

”I'm just-”

”I get that it is on.”

”Okay.” I put my chips down.

I fixed myself a drink.

He came into my office again, calmly this time, through the broken door. My office, his house. We left all the doors open that afternoon, and just walked around doing small, unimportant things, occasionally meeting in the corridors of his big, dusty old house and swapping new thoughts.

”What's the latest count? How many others died?”

”Wikipedia has a hundred now.” I told him, underplaying it a little. ”Some places have two.” They all had two.

”Christ. From one bomb?”

”They think it was a few, and it was on the subway, so...”

”Yeah. Christ.” He slouched against the wall and looked up at the cracked ceiling. ”This isn't quite how I imagined it working.”

”You know we still have to publish our results, right? I mean, that was the point of no return, right there.”

”Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just-” He looked at me. ”It's going to look like we're profiting off this.”

I laughed, then met his eyes. ”It's going to look like we're profiting profiting from it? Pete, it's going to look like we from it? Pete, it's going to look like we did did it. You don't seem to realise how sceptical people are going to be about something like this. You're the only person in the world who has any idea how this box works, and to the rest of us it looks a h.e.l.l of a lot like a hoax. And when some small-minded p.r.i.c.k with a bag of pipe bombs decided commuters were responsible for all the world's problems this morning, it became the most vicious hoax in history. We're going to have protesters on your lawn around the clock, we're going to get ripped to shreds in the press, we're going to be hounded by cameras. We're going to get it. You don't seem to realise how sceptical people are going to be about something like this. You're the only person in the world who has any idea how this box works, and to the rest of us it looks a h.e.l.l of a lot like a hoax. And when some small-minded p.r.i.c.k with a bag of pipe bombs decided commuters were responsible for all the world's problems this morning, it became the most vicious hoax in history. We're going to have protesters on your lawn around the clock, we're going to get ripped to shreds in the press, we're going to be hounded by cameras. We're going to get mail bombs, mail bombs, Pete.” I sat down, and lowered my voice. ”They're gonna try and kill us. n.o.body knows yet, but I promise you that at some point in the next eighteen hours, someone Googling the victim names is going to find our prediction list and our lives as they stand will be over.” I was realising most of this as I said it. I felt sick. We were f.u.c.ked. Pete.” I sat down, and lowered my voice. ”They're gonna try and kill us. n.o.body knows yet, but I promise you that at some point in the next eighteen hours, someone Googling the victim names is going to find our prediction list and our lives as they stand will be over.” I was realising most of this as I said it. I felt sick. We were f.u.c.ked.

”We're f.u.c.ked, aren't we?”