London When it Rains by C. Sean McGee

Author:C. Sean McGee [McGee, C. Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CSM Publishing
Published: 2016-10-10T03:00:00+00:00

XXIII

The Old Man awoke in a confused and rattled state. The world was beige, and it was hot and smothering, and it smelt like a mix of burning plastic and mothballs. When he inhaled, the world wrapped tighter against his head and forced itself further down his throat. And when he exhaled, it was a gagging reflex. He spat out the world, but only as far it would go, and then he sucked it back in again.

The second he awoke, he had no idea of even who he was. There was an instant, which felt somewhat profound, where his mind was completely blank. He had no memory whatsoever. He did not know his name. He had no idea where he was. He had no idea of the world or bearings of his place in it. He felt, in that instance, without any prejudice or any expectation at all. He felt light as if his consciousness were not weighed down with the heavy sediment of his past. He felt as if he had suffered a great blow to his temple; one that had rattled his every sense. In that instance, when he awoke from unconsciousness, he felt entirely new.

But an instance is brief, and barely a second later, he realised quite quickly that he was choking of a torn bedsheet which was tied around his head. His first instinct was to panic, but this only made things worse. His second instinct was to panic even more.

“Sir.”

The Leader turned, holding the controls for the unconsciousness machine in his hands.

“There is no sign of the Imam in question.”

The Leader didn’t respond. He went back to examining the parts in his hands. He flicked the switch and watched the lights glimmer on the headpiece that comfortably sat, like a bloodied crown, on the head of one his gunmen. With each turn of the switch, he watched how the gunman’s eyes went from piercing and ready, to cold and vacant in a mere second. They were the same eyes but at the turn of the switch, they were void of any occupants. There were no lights and no signs of life whatsoever, yet his breath and his pulse were proof enough that the gunman was not dead. On the eleventh test, when the gunman’s eyes glazed over, The Leader put two bullets in the gunman’s left leg.

He waited and he watched, but outside of the initial blunt force, there was no reaction at all. The gunman didn’t wake from their stupor. They didn’t clutch at their bleeding wound, and they didn’t scream bloody murder. There was nothing, just a trickle of blood that ran down the gunman’s shin. And then he let go of the button.

There was an instance – there’s always an instance – where the gunman felt nothing. They – like The Old Man – were merely a clean canvas with no past and no future, just this, a present state. They felt no fear, and no pain or anxiety. They felt no desire, no guilt, and no remorse.

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