|If today was your last day (standard:adventure, 995 words)|
|Author: Rich Eubanks||Added: Mar 26 2009||Views/Reads: 2220/1082||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is a story written for a contest. The contest was to write, less than 1000 words, a story relating to the song by Nickleback.|
John heard the faint sound that he'd heard only a few moments before and knew that someone else was now opening that same door he'd opened. It wasn't a creaking, or a squeaking that doors might normally make. It was a soft sound, almost a whisper, as the little brush, attached to the bottom to help insulate, rubbed on the floor as the door swung slowly into the room. The Iranian soldiers weren't likely to hear it. Unlike, John, they weren't trained to hear it. But, John did hear it and knew he was certain to be found in the immediate future. It wasn't something you were necessarily trained to do. It wasn't something you ever thought about actually doing. It was simply something you had to do. It was your responsibility just as much as keeping a secret about the information you were collecting. John felt for that small knot under the skin of his left forearm. In that brief moment that seemed an eternity, John remembered feeling it constantly the first month or so it was there. He remembered how careful he'd been about it, and how he'd worried every time that part of his body had been hit, squeezed, or even bumped. But now, he worried about how hard it might be to actually squeeze the tiny insert enough to break it open so the contents could do their duty. John heard the footsteps nearing the small closet he'd taken sanctuary in. He pinched the skin on both sides of the small knot on his arm and squeezed as hard as he could, instantly feeling the knot crush under his power. It was over. He only had about a day, one more sunrise and one more sunset, to endure whatever the Iranian authorities might inflict on him. He could handle that. The steps were getting fainter now, not closer. That sound again, that swishing, that only he had heard. They were gone. ‘My arm,' John felt for the knot that was no longer there, ‘no going back now', John thought and without regret, knowing he'd only done what he had to do in the situation he finished his thought, ‘what do I want to do today?” But John knew already. He'd never really thought this moment would come, but like he had immediate action plans for most things, he had made one for this scenario as well. As John hurried out of the dirty building and into the dark streets of Masshad he knew his final destiny. He'd planned this out in detail years ago when his friend from high school and college had died so young from AIDs. His friend who'd helped him with his studies so many times. His friend who'd been made fun of relentlessly, yet never hated his adversaries and always seemed to understand and forgive them. John remembered their last conversation that day at the hospital. John remembered them joking about their plan of injecting congress with the virus in order to get the research money. And, John thought about how he'd modified that plan to a more realistic version that just might work. It was easier negotiating an unfriendly environment when you had nothing to lose and John made good time getting back to his room. It was really a quite simple plan. He took the time to have a last shower, shave, and even apply some cologne that he carried, but seldom was able to wear. It was a special day, after all, not unlike a special date with a special friend. John looked at himself in the cracked mirror over the dirty dresser and adjusted his tie just right. He opened his sport coat just enough to see the specially crafted tranquilizer rifle, then let it fall back together to see that there were no signs that rifle was there. Click here to read the rest of this story (44 more lines)
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Rich Eubanks has 9 active stories on this site.
Profile for Rich Eubanks, incl. all stories
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.