Young Writers Society

A question: do you think it has a chance? At being published, I mean. (Answer truthfully, please)

Clevenger grunted, clutched his chest and fell forward, knocking the tequila bottle onto the ground. It shattered instantly, mixing the alcohol with the director's blood. Face plastered to the table, Clevenger groaned, eyes tight. Ali watched with veiled interest. The man groped at his life a moment longer and then laid still.

Calmly, Ali stood up. He inclined his head slightly toward Clevenger's corpse, transferred the gun to his gloved hand and proceeded to wipe his finger prints from the stock. As he walked towards the door, Kemal slipped the gun into Mark's limp hand. Another tragic suicide. A desperate solution for a desperate man. Ali Kemal felt pleased. Empowered. Ten feet tall. It was exquisite: the way the director's spine had arched in pain. The pain his good friend had felt before dying was like a high to him. Nature's cocaine.

Beautiful. Always beautiful.

But something clattered to the ground behind him, shattering the oppressive quiet. Ali stopped at the door.

Frowning, he turned around slowly and caught sight of a remote control that had dropped from Clevenger's hand onto the shag carpet flooring. The dead man's hand swung eerily above it, animated suddenly. Alive. His frown deepened.

The ceiling began to hiss.

The plasma screen TV flickered on, painting the dim room blue.

Ali stopped in mid-step, his heart beating his rib cage savagely. An alien feeling rippled down his spine and dropped into his stomach. Something wasn't right. Ali forced himself to remain calm, eying the television and the ceiling carefully. You are in control of your environment. Analyze the situation. Be ready, Ali. Clear your mind.

Four clouds of whitish gas started trickling from out of the A/C vents and Mark Clevenger's face appeared on the plasma screen. He was smiling. And alive. Two very undesirable traits, Ali thought.

“Salaam, my friend.”

The assassin was rooted where he stood. The clouds billowed out into the room clinging to the walls and ground like a misty fog. Nerve gas, Ali thought. The bastard left me a present. Ali shook his head. He had been stupid. Overly confident. His gaze shifted from the gas to the screen. Clevenger was still smiling.

“The tables have turned, haven't they? If you're seeing this Kemal, I'm dead. I die, you die. I'm not the type who forgives and forgets. They can't make a Christian out of me. Have you noticed the gas? Potent stuff, Somain. One of the most deadly nerve gases known to mankind. I'm sure that you're very familiar with this particular weapon, my friend. Your line of work requires it.”

Ali knew about it. In fact, he had used Somain himself on several projects. The gas caused vomiting, paralysis, and then death. Not a pleasant way to go. His victims had screamed, they had begged for death.

Frantically, Ali turned and ran for the door. It was locked. He tugged at the handle, neck straining, eyes bulging.

“Yes, in case you're wondering, the door is locked,” came Clevenger's voice, teasing him. “You will die here, Ali. You can't screw with me. A deal is a deal. I don't know why you did it, but you'll pay.”

The gas was filling up the room. Ali coughed several times as he tore a strip from his jacket and pressed it to his mouth and nose. Homemade gas masks. Dizzy, he snatched a hand-carved chair and flung it one-handed at the windowed wall. He had to get out. He had to escape. Ali Kemal was always on the other end of a killing. This was just wrong. No one could stop him. He was invincible.

The chair shattered against the window, appendages rebounding against the unbroken glass.

“Oh,” said Clevenger as if on cue, as if he was watching, “You might wanna know. The windows are plexiglass. Good luck breaking them. You'd have more luck battering down the door. Which is reinforced steel, by the way.”

“Shut up,” Ali roared, flinging a chair leg at the television. The screen exploded in a shower of glimmering shards.

Retching violently, reeling, Ali glanced around the room for another exit, eyes wild. The air was opaque with the Somain. He could barely see. His eyes burned. He had been tricked. Ali swore, tearing away his “gas mask” and vomited onto the ground. First symptom.

Through the dusky mist, Ali spotted the conference table and above it, a large maintenance vent. An exit. It had to be. He lurched forward and crawled onto the table. He vomited again, staining the mahogany, swearing through the stomach acids.

Clevenger's words echoed in his half delirious mind, You will die here, Ali. You will die, you will die, you will die.

Swallowing another retch, Ali scrambled to his feet and shoved his fingers into the vent grate. He wrenched at it with all his might, ignoring the sharp metal as it dug into his skin, drawing blood.

It held, stubborn.

He pulled again. And again. And again, sobbing in delirium. His gas mask had long since been forgotten.

Finally, the screw thread stripped and the vent clattered to the table. Ali coughed, feeling weak, his arms and legs like lead and flung his bleeding hands into the vent, gripping the edge. His eyes were getting heavy. So tired, so tired. Just make it stop.

Ali tried to heave himself up the vent, but he couldn't. He tried again, drawing himself halfway through the opening before falling heavily onto the table. His legs had frozen. It was as if someone had taken a pair of wire clippers and snipped the nerve that connected his hip to his brain. Writhing on the table, in his own vomit, Ali realized he was being paralyzed. Second symptom.

The wire clippers traveled up his body, snipping connections, robbing the brain of it's limbs. Ali couldn't think straight anymore. He felt his consciousness loosening it's grip on the world. You will die here, Ali, Clevenger whispered to him in the darkness. His eyelids closed slowly.

His body was still.

In the far distance, over the hissing, over Clevenger's voice, just before he lost consciousness, Ali heard the frantic squealing of a vole caught in a hawk's talons. It's spine was arched. It's blood was pooling. It writhed and struggled.

Save me, it screamed.

To this the hawk replied, No hope. No hope.

And emotionless, the hawk shrieked and took flight.