The best part of being killed by a nuclear bomb at close range is that it is quick. And I mean, like, Band-Aid-pull-before-the-pain-kicks-in quick.
You know how everyone says that it’s best to pull off a Band-Aid fast, but when you try it hurts like hell? Next time you get a chance, try focusing on the process. When you first pull it off, if you are fast enough, it’s just a sense of pressure for a millisecond before the pain kicks in. Almost enough for your brain to be fooled into thinking everything is fine before ZAP oh-my-god-I-pulled-out-all-the-hair-damn-that-hurts!
So that is kind of what it felt like when the bomb went off, except I guess I was vaporized before the pain could really kick in. A sense of pressure all over my body, maybe a mild pinch at most, and then blank white nothingness. Why white instead of black? Well… let’s get to that in a minute.
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Several weeks ago I bought tickets for a trip with a friend of mine, Mark. Oh right, that reminds me, my name is Alex, nice to meet you.
Anyway, Mark is one of my oldest friends, and also probably the person I get along with best in the world. Epic tales of brotherly platonic love (such as being wingmen for each other at any bar we go to) fill our past, but... let's be honest, none of that is really worth mentioning in detail.
Life had settled down slightly since our late teens and early twenties... which was probably why a trip to Ibiza, Spain, sounded like such an amazing idea. Get into trouble like when we were eighteen again, things like that. I won’t go into great detail, but we both ended up having the time of our lives. What happens in Ibiza, stays in Ibiza.
Now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression – we were far from cool. In fact, we both loved Anime, Roleplaying Games, Manga, you name it. I even had a hard time with women until later on in life – High School virgin, that’s me! Things didn’t start turning around until I started university, but that’s a different story altogether.
Ok, back to the interesting parts. The trip to Ibiza went great, but we never made it home because it turns out that terrorists of some type had decided to make a big statement using the plane we were on. I never found out what they wanted, and I won’t get into what race they were, but boy did they have a big hate on for America. I won’t go into too much detail, because this story isn’t supposed to be about my death – it’s about what came after.
So, here goes the death scene…
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The airplane wasn’t one of the newest models, probably just a 747 or something, but the upholstery was nice and the stewardesses were hot. I was tired as heck and definitely hungover. Mark was, if anything, in worse shape than me. We had just gotten off our connecting flight from Ibiza to Madrid, and we were now on the second of three airplanes on our trip. This one was from Madrid to New York, and from there another flight home.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Oh man, I feel like crap,” Mark said to me with a tired smirk.
I huffed my agreement. “So how long is this flight again?” I asked him.
“Uhhh. Eight hours or something to New York, then another eight back home. I’m just gonna sleep, that cool?” He said, eyeing one of the stewardesses as she ushered us off the ramp and onto the airplane.
“Yeah, same.”
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Several hours later I was woken up by a loud noise, even though I had my earbuds in and the music up super loud. Shortly afterward I heard screaming or something, drowning out my music as I quickly tore off my headphones, looking around with my heart beating wildly. I saw three people with what looked like some kind of assault rifle, two women and a man, yelling at the crowd in what I thought was Spanish.
I froze. My blood went cold and I could hardly breathe, let alone move. Suddenly I saw a man jump out of his seat and rush towards one of the women, only to be shot down by one of the people with guns. Terrorists? For some reason, none of the bullets punctured a hole in the aircraft, but I wasn’t even thinking about that then. Later on, Mark told me they were probably ceramic frangible rounds that break up, but I don’t know anything about stuff like that. Mark was always the gun nut in our duo.
No way was I going to do something like that. Hell, I was proud as heck that I hadn’t already wet my pants! I looked over at Mark, who was still asleep with his damn 500$ sound-canceling headphones wrapped around his head. Another few minutes went by, black spots floating in front of my vision as my blood pressure dropped (it’s a condition I have when stressed). The screaming had stopped as the terrorists continued yelling, having executed another two passengers who wouldn’t shut up.
I reached over and poked Mark with a trembling hand, and he groggily looked at me, reaching up to take off his headphones. “What’s up?” He asked as I shook my head at him, wishing him to keep quiet. Suddenly one of the female terrorists switched to accented English.
“Anybody who knows Electrics, Engineer, or Electrician!” she shouted out in broken English.
I was stunned, but before I could do anything Mark suddenly raised his hand before looking over, “Yeah, Alex is an….. ahhhhhh, wait, what's happening?”
I suppose this is a good time to mention my job. Yep, you guessed it: Engineer. Well, crap in a hat…
At this point, I could hardly breathe, let alone speak, as a stunned Mark tried to wrap his head around the situation, his (forgotten) hand still raised above his head.
Moments later, the male terrorist walked up to us, saying something we didn’t understand.
“Go with him!” yelled the woman, scanning the crowd for more trouble. These people were pros, not that I noticed at the time.