Tick (Short Story)

 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

A twitch.

A shift.

A nervous swallow, a dart of a pair of pale blue eyes.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

A flicker.

Tick.

Someone’s long fingers tap an uneasy rhythm on a tense knee.

Tick.

There are armed guards at the door.

Tick.

“Enough.” A sharp voice cuts through the air like a knife – a knife that is razor sharp and awash with authority. It belongs to a tall man, a big man, a tough man. His name is General Adam Crick. His dark eyes, set like deep pools in his lined face, sweep the room; he scrutinises every face sitting around the oak table. His eyes linger on you.

You swallow.

Tick.

You drop your eyes and –

“Any regrets, sir?” The words fall upon your ears like stinging nettles.

You have no choice: you stand up, your chair scraping the floor painfully loudly as you do so – behind you, a young woman closes her eyes for patience.

“No,” you mumble. Your voice is a hoarse scratch. “Ahem.” You clear your throat and try again. “No. Disarming nuclear weapons would bring panic and dispel any sense of safety to the world.”

Silence.

When you gather the courage to glance up from your feet, General Crick is smiling a dangerous smile, one that whispers across his face and sends shivers dancing down your spine.

“Quite right sir,” he says. “That idea is precisely why you have all been called here today.” His eyes find the young woman still standing behind you. “Felicity, would you kindly switch on the projector?”

Felicity promptly flicks a switch.

Tick.

“Thank you.”

A faded screen illuminates the wall behind General Crick, growing clearer by the second and he steps smartly aside. Glowing a foreboding bright scarlet on the wall is a colossal digital clock.

Tick.

“I have been warned gentlemen, that there has been a… problem with our fellow countries who also have obtained nuclear weaponry. We have ten minutes to disarm our weapons before a nuclear attack destroys everyone in the country.”

There is uproar; you stand stock-still in disbelief as the men and women around you spring from their chairs, knocking lukewarm glasses of water to the floor, their contents splattering the polished wood. People are screaming, shouting, bellowing in pure fear and horror at the clock shining on wall, now showing nine minutes and twenty-one seconds.

“That will do,” the General thunders. Within a few moments, there is calm. Although, perhaps calm is the wrong word; you can feel the panic seeping into you from every person within the room. This was your idea, the General’s eyes are saying. You campaigned against nuclear disarmament. How can we be sure of our safety lest a nuclear war begins? How will we feel safe? How will we protect our country?

“What do we do?” cries out a hysterical woman (you think her name is Amelia). “What, for goodness sake, can we do?”

“We must destroy every nuclear weapon in the country,” answers General Crick. “Do you understand?”

There is silence. Destroy the weapons? All of them?

“B-but… but…” stammers a grey-suited man (you can’t recall his name). “Destroy them all? W-we… we can’t! Our country will be in great danger!”

Better a country in peril than no country at all.

Tick.

Seven minutes, thirty-nine seconds.

This was your fault. You tilt your head back for a gasp of air and every head turns towards you.

“Mr Cameron?”

You swallow. You breathe. You make a decision. You begin to speak.

“Abandoning Trident now would be a disaster, General. An utter disaster. Every country will turn against us in our weakest hour. We must therefore defend ourselves against any attack.” Your words sound hollow, empty, a desperate plea for help.

The General bristles. “Prime minister, with all due respect, nothing can be done. We have five minutes before Britain is to be destroyed, massacring millions of school children, mothers, fathers, citizens, babies-”

One of the armed guards twitches ever so slightly. Your eyes flick towards him.

“Alright,” you snap. You hold up your hand, regaining your authority in the room. “Then we must evacuate the country.”

Tick.

Tick.

“For God’s sake, sir,” says the General, stunned. “Disarm the weapons.”

“No.”

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“We cannot evacuate a country in five minutes!” declares General Crick furiously. He consults the glowing clock behind him.

“We cannot disarm our main protection!” you scream back. “And we will not, do you understand me, General?”

There is silence.

Four minutes, fifteen seconds.

General Crick regards you contemptuously. When he speaks, his voice is pure venom.

“Is it worth keeping nuclear weapons just to poison the planet we will no longer be living on?” he says icily.

Tick.

You stand up, trembling slightly.

Tick.

“It is worth keeping nuclear weapons to protect our nation,” you reply, just as coldly.

Three minutes, forty seconds.

A young man’s eyes are glued to the clock on the wall.

You sit down.

Tick.

General Crick sits down.

Tick.

Slowly, one by cautious one, everybody in the room sits down.

Tick.

Every person’s eyes are fixed on the clock.

Two minutes, thirty-three seconds.

Tick.

You are beginning to sweat.

General Crick’s eyes are resolute. Slowly, slowly, he stands up.

You know perfectly well what he is doing.

Two minutes, two seconds.

In two long strides, he reaches the tall, dusty bookcase at the left side of the room.

He carefully reaches behind it and appears to depress something.

With a colossal rumbling noise, like a lion clearing his throat, the bookcase splits in two, revealing a silver television screen and an ominous red button.

Tick.

One minute, twelve seconds.

The General returns to his seat, his dark eyes boring into yours. He waves an airy hand towards the button; a casual gesture reserved for the biggest decision you have ever been forced to make.

Tick.

A country with no nuclear weapons is a country in a state of terrible danger, you think hysterically.

Tick.

Better a country in danger than no country at all.

Thirty seconds.

Tick.

Twenty seconds.

A woman, around sixty years old, begins to cry, her tears wracking her entire body in her absolute fear. Her tears shudder the whole room.

A young man begins to pray.

Someone is talking to themselves.

Someone is on their phone.

Ten seconds.

Nine seconds.

Eight seconds.

General Crick’s eyes are begging you to crack – he knows that if he gets up and presses the button, the guards will shoot him down before he could get two paces.

Six seconds.

Five seconds.

Four seconds.

Three seconds.

Two seconds.

One seco- “Alright!” you cry, and you leap towards the button in a desperate effort to reach it in time, five metres across the other side of the room…

 

 

 

 

Tick.