Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Turning and leaning against the bridge, he allows the sun to warm his face. A moment later, he opens his eyes and notices a trail of smoke streaking across the sky. It’s moving too fast to be an airplane and he wonders what it is. With no obvious answers, he shrugs and turns for home.

As he’s turning into his neighborhood something explodes and the blast wave nearly knocks him off his feet. Raahim, stunned, watches as smoke rises from somewhere in the neighborhood and balloons across the sky. His heart now hammering, he begins to run.

Turning down the street he lives on, Raahim slows then stops when he discovers his home is no longer there. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he sinks to his knees and buries his face in his hands.

Two weeks later, after burying his parents and two brothers, Raahim shuffles through the Kabul airport in a daze, waiting for his flight to be called.

Present day, somewhere near Boston

Raahim closes out the web browser he had been looking at and sits back in his chair. Every few months he’ll scan the Web to see if anyone has taken responsibility for killing his family and the results are no different today, eight years later. Raahim rubs his eyes. He’s been going for twenty-four hours straight and is in desperate need of sleep. Pushing back his chair, he stands and walks into the break room and grabs an energy drink from the fridge. Already jittery, he knows the caffeine jolt is only going to make it worse. He puts the unopened drink back in the fridge and leans against the counter.

He made it through the plane crashes just fine, but as the day wears on Raahim is losing his taste for killing. He turns and searches the upper cabinets for some antacids. He finds a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with a couple of swallows left in it and unscrews the cap and drains it. Looking at the empty bottle he wonders if some of the others are having similar thoughts.

Tossing the empty bottle in the trash, Raahim exits the break room and heads for the room where they’ve been bunking the last couple of nights.

“Where are you going, Raahim?” Nazeri asks.

“I’m going to lie down,” Raahim says.

“No, you are not. We have business to attend to,” Nazeri says.

“It can wait,” Raahim says as he walks past where Nazeri is sitting. Then he stops, turns, and glares at Nazeri. “Do you have a quota for the number of dead per day? If so, feel free to use my computer.”

Chicago

Peyton kneels next to Eric, who’s lying on his right side. Unsure if she should move him, she leans down and puts her ear on his chest, listening to see if her husband is still breathing.

He is.

“Eric, can you hear me?” When she gets no response she reaches out and shakes him.

This time there’s movement as Eric turns his head and groans.

She crawls toward his head and leans down next to him, their noses nearly touching. “Where are you hit?”

“Don’t know… for sure… upper… upper…” His words trail off as he grimaces with pain.

Peyton straightens and scans the part of his back she can see, looking for bloodstains or wounds. There’s nothing readily apparent, so she looks over his legs and finds no blood there, either. She leans back down, next to Eric’s face. “I don’t see anything here, babe. Were you shot on your right side?”

“I don’t—fuck, it burns like… someone… is… stabbing me… with a… hot… hot… poker.”

Peyton reaches a hand out and wipes the dirt from his lips. “Do you think it’s safe for me to roll you over?”

“I think… so.”

“Can you move your hands and feet?”

Eric spends a moment trying out his right hand, then his left, before giving his feet a go. Everything appears to be functioning normally, yet Peyton is hesitant to move him. What happens if there’s a bullet lodged in his spine? Peyton doesn’t know what to do. What if he’s bleeding out while I’m sitting here thinking about it ? Peyton takes a deep, calming breath, trying to slow her rapidly pulsing heart . “Eric, I’m going to roll you over.”

“O… kay.”

She places a hand on his shoulder and gently rolls him onto his back. Eric shouts with pain and Peyton gasps. The entire right side of his white shirt is caked with blood and dirt.

“How… bad?” he asks before clenching his teeth and groaning.

“I don’t… know. I need… I need to peel your shirt back.” Peyton leans over and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands are trembling, making the simple task that much more difficult. “I don’t really know what I’m doing, Eric.”

“Need to… clean… the wound.”

“With what?” Peyton asks, finally finishing with the last button.

“Need… water.”

A flash of anger flares in Peyton’s gut for the woman who stole her case of water. But it fades almost as quickly as concern over Eric’s health returns to the forefront of her mind. “We don’t have any water, honey.”

“You need—fuck, it hurts so bad, Peyton. Maybe…” Eric takes a deep breath and winces with the pain. “Find one of… the cops.”

Peyton glances across the street. It looks as if the fighting is over for now, as several police officers file into the store. “I don’t want to leave you, Eric.”

“No… choice. Only… option… we… have.”

“Let me peel back your shirt to see how bad the wound is.”

“Leave… it. Get… cops.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” She leans over, gives Eric a quick kiss on his lips, and lurches to her feet. She takes a step and mutters a few curse words, having forgotten she’s missing a shoe. The grit and gravel bite at the soles of her lacerated foot as she hobbles across the vacant lot. When her damaged foot hits the hot asphalt, Peyton yelps with pain, but she continues on. As she nears the store, some little niggle in her brain tells her she probably should put her hands up. She reaches for the sky and limps closer. As she nears the store, she spots a police officer standing near the entrance, his backed turned to her. “Sir,” Peyton says.

The police officer whirls around, the barrel of his rifle rising as he turns.

“Don’t shoot!” Peyton shouts, startling the other officers, who immediately spring into action and, within seconds, Peyton has a dozen rifle barrels pointed directly at her. “Please, please don’t shoot,” Peyton begs, her entire body now quivering with fear.

The closest officer, the one Peyton initially addressed, lowers his weapon. “Jesus Christ, lady. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He’s a fairly young guy, probably late twenties, Peyton thinks, and he has a wild look in his eyes, no doubt hopped up from the recent gun battle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The other officers lower their weapons, several shaking their heads.

“I need… I need your help…” She squints, trying to read the name tape stuck over his right breast. “Officer Campbell.”

Campbell waves to the burned-out store. “If you haven’t noticed we’re a little busy at the moment.”

“Officer Campbell, my husband is injured. He was struck by a bullet during your… your shoot-out.”

Campbell slings his rifle over his shoulder. “Okay. Where is he?”

Peyton turns and points to the vacant lot. “Over there by that tree. Please hurry.”

Campbell turns and shouts, “Evans, you’re with me.”

Another police officer hurries out of the store and Peyton, now limping badly, leads them across the street.

“What’s wrong with you?” Campbell asks.

“Feet are in pretty bad shape,” Peyton answers.