Triple Whammy
By Hugh Fritz
By Hugh Fritz
No, that one.” Marcus shook his finger at the featherless, headless bird that hung from its feet. “To the right. More. Yes, that one.” The vendor hoisted it down and prodded it. Otso’s resources were in short supply which made it difficult to cook meat thoroughly. The vendor apparently decided the quality of the bird was low and threw it hard into a bucket filled with light blue powder. He flipped it over so all sides were covered and tossed some into the hole where the animal’s neck used to be. As he kneaded it he said something in his native language that Marcus only grasped pieces of; possibly a word of thanks to the United States for shipping mass quantities of the antibacterial powder after the Campylobacter outbreak. If Marcus were more fluent he’d tell the vendor to be hesitant with his praises. The powder was only a quick fix, a way to make it look like something was being done and suppress public outcry. There hadn’t been any studies to track where the epidemic had originated, there was no guarantee more crates of the powder would be sent once the original ran out, and there was no back-up plan if a strain of bacteria became resistant to it.
Then again, as a journalist, he was paid to maintain a questioning attitude. The vendor’s customers weren’t getting sick, and that was probably enough to keep him happy.
The vendor tied a length of twine around the dead animal and Marcus let it swing near his thigh as he strode through the market. The potency of the powder was short lived due to the molecules breaking down in the light. Thirty minutes of direct sun exposure rendered it harmless to humans. It was supposed to be tasteless, but Marcus felt everything treated with it had an aftertaste that reminded him of swimming pool water. Whether the taste was real or just in his head, he had half an hour before his lunch could be considered safe to eat. He unlocked his phone and opened a camera app with stereoscopic capabilities. There was no rule that said all news needed to be depressing, so he focused on a group of children kicking a ball while their parents shopped. In America he imagined he’d be confronted for filming someone’s children playing, but in Otso people seemed to be accustomed to being filmed, whether it was done with a professional camera or a cell phone. Granted, the cameras usually showed up during protests, but his subscribers deserved to see how civilians passed the time when they weren’t rioting and running from tear gas.
His video was interrupted by a distant blast. Marcus dropped his lunch, placed his other hand on his phone, and turned in the direction it had come from. The panic seemed far away at first but came toward him like a wave. A collective scream grew louder and more people were running with each passing second. There was a pillar of smoke and debris flying over the crowd. He smelled something burning and was pelted by dust, as well as some wet flakes. He held onto his phone like his life depended on it, trying to keep it steady as possible while being shoved by frantic and terrified shoppers.
Most were trying to run away from the explosion, but Marcus spotted one who was attempting to approach it. An elderly man was grasping a child by the shoulder. As Marcus fought to get closer he heard the young boy repeatedly shout a single word. Marcus had enough of a grasp on the language to know the boy was saying “mother.” The chaos was so bad it was becoming difficult to stay on his feet, but he struggled to keep his lens focused on the man and child, capturing their distress as best he could.
His mission to get the perfect shot was thwarted by a second explosion, this one so close he saw it happen. Instead of hysterical people the screen was overcome with a flash of light. His heart’s desire was to hold his position and capture the event in its entirety, but a heavy weight knocked him over. It took a moment to realize a person was lying on him, and made no attempt to get off despite Marcus’ pleas. He tried to position his phone to continue capturing the event, but feet were stomping and people were falling all around as well as on top of him. Breathing became difficult and he felt his face flush. He pulled his phone close to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, shielding it as best he could before he lost consciousness.
When he woke his breathing came easily. He groaned and rubbed his face before opening his eyes and finding he was in a hospital. The sounds of screaming were gone, but there was no sense of serenity. Squeaking wheels, high-pitched beeping, and chatter produced a splitting pain in his head.
As he sat up he felt like he was ambushed all over again. This time, instead of a throng it was just one person, but the arms squeezed like a vice. Marcus didn’t see the other person’s face, but he didn’t need to. The three slaps to his left shoulder followed by one on his right said it all.
“I’m still sore, Simon,” Marcus said through gritted teeth.
The pressure eased and Simon held him at arm’s length, a hand on each of Marcus’ shoulders. His camouflaged uniform stood out against the white walls. “We found you under four people. One was dead. You’ve been out three hours.”
Marcus rotated his shoulders and leaned from side to side. “Feels like a hundred bees stung me all over.”
Simon eased onto a creaky chair next to the bed. “It was a suicide bombing. Looks like the worst of the blast missed you, thank God.”
Marcus patted his pockets. “Where’s my phone?”
“You were cradling it like a baby when we found you. Sometimes I think you care about that machine more than you cared about our dog.”
“Don’t bring Charlie into this!”
Simon chuckled and made a half-hearted apology.
“I need it back,” Marcus pleaded. “I need to record the aftermath of the bombing.”
“You got some of that. It was still filming when we got you on the gurney.” Simon looked at the ground. “When I saw it from the beginning I gave it to my commanding officer. Sorry, but I had to. The footage might have valuable information. But also,” he paused and took a breath, “well, a lot of people here know about you. We don’t want this getting to the media too quickly. I asked for the footage not to be deleted but, you know, accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it’s too late for that,” Marcus said with a laugh. “Everything I film is automatically uploaded to an online collaboration account. ‘The media’ pretty much saw it as it was happening.”
Simon’s head snapped back up.
“So,” Marcus continued, “it’s important for me to get it back. My boss has the footage but I can talk to him about how to go about reporting it. We can focus on the aftermath, but only if I get shots of people recovering from the damage. Can you get it to me by the end of the day?”
“I’ll talk to some people,” Simon sighed. He started to leave but turned back. “One condition. The second it’s in your hands you call mom and tell her you’re alright.”
Marcus lay back down on the bed. “Fine.”
“I’m going to watch you do it.”
“Fine!”
********
“This is great, Mark.” Even thousands of miles away Mr. Gordon was clearly giddy from the footage of the market bombing; his face occupied most of the laptop screen while the video played in the upper right corner.
Marcus toyed with the contrast and brightness to make his boss’ face more difficult to see as the video reversed to show the crying child again. “Would you mind taking it to the second explosion?”
“Word of advice, Mark, keep those parts simple. Shock and awe hook people but it’s emotional scenes that hold interest.”
He didn’t become a journalist to make strangers cry. “Just look at it. There was an explosion, but no bomber. It’s almost like something was planted there in advance. Terrorists are getting smarter. If you want emotion, that’s sure to cause fear.”
He folded his laptop down halfway and counted to ten. Reporting was a balancing act, and finding the center was more important now than ever before. News used to be delivered by papers, then radio, and then television. Now reporters didn’t need to be skilled writers or speakers; they just needed to know how to make their own website.
“Mark? You there?”
He positioned himself in front of the webcam. “Yeah, boss. Sorry, forget I said anything.”
Mr. Gordon clucked his tongue. “Don’t be sorry. You’re right. Fear’s good and this is scary. Although it’d be scarier if it was unexpected. Everybody knew the Atropian group would become stronger once American forces backed out.”
A chill shot through Marcus’ spine. “Have the Atropians claimed responsibility?”
“Well, not yet.” Mr. Gordon bit his lip. “But Amanda’s at the Capitol. She’s due for an update in a few hours.”
“Mr. Gordon, please don’t push for troops to go back to Atropia until confirming this was them.”
“Relax, Mark. We’re not going to solicit fear and anger just to initiate a public response to this tragedy.”
Marcus could have laughed. They both knew of people working at their website who’d done exactly that and Marcus wanted to believe it wouldn’t happen again. Nobody’s words were just words anymore. A status update could start a protest; an article could start a revolt. There’d been debates over how much social media swayed political decisions. Personally, Marcus felt it was more than he’d like to admit. If Life During Wartime blamed this on the Atropians gaining strength, there would be a push to re-establish a presence there. Could it be enough to reverse a treaty? The fact that he was considering it meant he couldn’t leave it up to chance.
“Mr. Gordon, if you…” he trailed off. His insight had always been welcome, but he’d never stood up to his boss before. He needed to tread lightly. He knew how lucky he was to have this job. He’d heard in the days of newspapers the writers were barely paid enough to scrape by. Here he was living comfortably just taking twenty minutes of videos on his phone every day.
“Boss, I don’t want to sound disrespectful.” Right, because that was always a good way to start a sentence.
A knock at the door interrupted him. “Sorry, Mr. Gordon, I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Take care of yourself, Mark, but keep stuff like this coming. These forty-five seconds are going to give us the biggest week we’ve had in a long time.”
He figured it would be Simon but checked the peephole just to be safe. “How much of that did you hear,” he asked before opening the door.
“Enough to know you were talking to your boss.”
The hotel didn’t have miniature refrigerators so Marcus had brought his own cooler stocked with endothermic packs. He felt the one inside as he retrieved two juice bottles. It was beginning to warm up. “Mr. Gordon liked the video of the suicide bombing,” he said as he handed Simon a bottle and grabbed a fresh pack from his suitcase. “Sorry, that sounded wrong.”
“I get it. Death is click bait.”
“It’s not…” Marcus paused. He slapped the pack and shook it to initiate the reaction.
“I stream LDW whenever I can. It’s all about death counts and how much money we’re sucking up.”
“That’s not fair. Not everyone at the website is out to generate rage comments.”
Simon jabbed a finger hard in Marcus’ chest. “I know you’re not. But you’re not there. You’re here. That site isn’t the same without you and you know it.”
Marcus sighed. He had a feeling the conversation would head this direction. “I’m not going back.”
“Tell me what Gordon said specifically. Is he doing the story the way you want? Are you going to be happy with it?”
Hearing Simon talk about him like he was an intern looking for any opportunity to get his name online made him feel agitated. “I spoke with Mr. Gordon. I gave him my thoughts. He gave me his notes. We’ll come to a consensus.”
“But it’s going to be mostly click bait. You know it will be unless you get back there and make the story your own.”
“As long as you’re stationed here, I’m staying.”
“Fine, I’ll put a bullet in my leg.”
“No you won’t.”
Simon thought about it as he took a drink. “You’re right, I won’t.”
Marcus went to his laptop and scrolled through his bookmarked websites, most of them news vlogs. “Look, there’s a lot of competition right now. You can’t blame Mr. Gordon for wanting to keep the views counter high and the subscribers interested. As long as I keep getting videos of the real struggles people are going through, there’ll be some truth to everything our team does, even when we get too commercial. That’s why I’m doing this. I still want to be part of something bigger than myself and make a difference, even if I was never strong enough to really serve like you.”
“What’re you talking about? You never signed up; that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough.” Simon pointed to the phone. “You held that camera still during a bombing. Not many people in my unit have the guts to do that. You’ve always had the courage and willpower to be in my shoes, to put your life on the line for the things you care about. That’s why I want you to go home. If you stay you’ll get your head blown off.”
Marcus could have cried at his brother’s compliment and drank some juice to stop the lump forming in his throat. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think about it. Just get out of here. Please.” Simon hugged him, slapping him three times on his left shoulder and once on his right. “You’re a bigger part of this than you think, Marcus. You’re not a soldier, but you’re everything I’m fighting for.”
They broke apart and Simon left. When the door closed Marcus did start to cry. Simon was the first in the family to join the armed forces, and Marcus had envied his bravery for a long time. Hearing that he played such an important role in Simon’s continued service lifted a burden. He no longer felt the need to be like Simon and travel to war-torn lands. In a way, being on Simon’s mind meant he was already there.
He decided to take his brother’s advice. He made plans to leave Otso, go home, and report what he saw the way he wanted.
****
Marcus checked his watch before ordering another drink. Otso was miles behind him and the tour bus had stopped for the night in a city no less crowded but at least the hotel served alcohol. As the bartender prepared his whiskey sour he turned in his stool. Even though the attack at the market happened weeks ago he couldn’t help wondering about strength of security everywhere he went. Anyone in the lobby could be concealing a gun or a bomb. Any of the tourists, including him, was a potential victim. He tried to eavesdrop as his seat rotated. Many people in the room were not speaking English, which made him particularly anxious.
He visualized his nervousness as a ball of mud and as he took a deep breath he imagined it being expelled from his chest. He refused to let the experience make him paranoid or prejudiced. Simon had experienced much worse, and was still the same man he was when he left home.
The sound of glass striking wood alerted him that his drink was ready. The whiskey calmed him for a moment but a fresh jolt of panic gripped him when he heard someone nearby mention his name.
“Marcus Kelim. He’s a reporter. Are you sure you didn’t meet him?”
Marcus recognized the man being questioned. He was on the tour bus, sitting a few rows in front of him. They hadn’t spoken during the trip. In fact, the ride had been quiet. The person asking the question was unrecognizable, but loud and rugged. Marcus hopped off the stool. He took a few steps from the bar without bothering to finish his drink or leave a tip.
“It’s important I find him,” said the surly man. “I know his brother. He wanted me to deliver a message.”
Marcus turned to the stranger. He approached cautiously and stopped a few paces away. “Excuse me, did you say you know my brother?”
“You’re Marcus?” He moved in to shake hands.
Marcus retreated and kept his hands down. “I saw him recently. He was doing fine.”
“He still is. Relax, I’m not here to tell you something bad happened to him.” He extended his arm. “My name’s Wally.”
Marcus was still hesitant to trust him. “How do you know my brother?”
“How do you think? We work together.”
“You’re in the air force?”
Wally’s brow furrowed. “No, I’m in the army, just like Simon.”
Marcus relaxed a little and shook his hand. “I just wanted to hear you say his name. Sorry, I’ve been a little on edge lately.”
“No worries, I get it. You got time to sit down?”
“Yeah. My plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow.” Marcus led him to the bar.
“Simon’s really happy you’re getting out of here,” said Wally as he waved to get the bartender’s attention. “This place isn’t for everybody.”
“This place isn’t the problem. Have you been streaming LDW lately?”
“Hold that thought.” Wally made small talk in the bartender’s native tongue. They both smiled and pointed to bottles of high-end liquor lining the back wall. Soon he was holding a glass with large ice cubes and an amber colored liquid Marcus didn’t recognize or know how to pronounce.
Wally rotated the glass, letting the ice clink against the sides. “I don’t have a lot of time for streaming news vlogs.” He said before he took a long sip. “But I’ll always make time for this.”
Marcus nursed his drink and tried to make it look like it was just as savory as whatever Wally ordered. “My boss is doing exactly what I asked him not to do. The vlog’s been pushing for American troops to get back in Atropia. Nobody’s come out and blamed the market bombing in Otso on them yet, but they’ve hinted at it. I need to get back.”
“Did you say they’re pinning the bombing on Atropia? That explains why Simon wanted me to find you.” He sighed and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Have you ever done a report on a man everyone calls The Magnet?”
“No, but I know about him.” Everybody who worked at or watched news vlogs in the past three years knew The Magnet. He was a weapons dealer who was believed to have supplied terrorists with plasma rifles and even rocket launchers capable of firing mini-warhead missiles.
“He’s been tracked down and compromised. Permanently. It happened in Otso, not too far from the market bombing.”
“That’s amazing, cheers!” They touched glasses.
“Don’t you want to know what he was smuggling?” Wally asked after they both took a drink.
“Fissile materials?”
Wally shook his head. “3-D printers.”
Marcus’ mouth hung open. As the words sunk in he almost laughed.
“Seriously,” said Wally. “They were programmed to print hollowed-out prosthetic hands.”
“Sorry,” Marcus said as he straightened his face. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I owe Simon. The printer used a combination of iron and titanium, and the hands were intended to be filled with explosives. They could withstand a minor blast from the outside, but would fracture if one from the inside followed shortly after.”
“That’s interesting,” said Marcus. “Thanks for the info. I’ll be sure to do a story on it someday.”
“Simon wants you to report it now. There were three explosions at the market, but only one bomber.”
Marcus suddenly realized what Wally was implying. He pictured the bomber’s vest sending his hands flying in different directions and each one exploding moments later. “That’s … disgusting.”
“It gets worse. Think about it, what would you need if you wanted to pull something like that off?”
“More than a printer,” Marcus mulled. “You’d probably need a special transmitter to make them explode.”
“True. A drone did a fly-over and located a warehouse not far from where the Magnet was stopped. It was stocked with explosives and equipment for making remote detonators. But more importantly, you’d need someone like Adrian Faar.”
Marcus rolled the name around in his head. “Never heard of him.”
“He was travelling with the Magnet. He was taken alive.”
“Is he another weapons smuggler?”
“He’s a surgeon. Guess where he received his training.”
It felt like Wally was stalling which made Marcus frustrated. “In don’t know, Harvard? Maybe the whiskey’s hitting me hard but I’m not getting where you’re going with this.”
“Adrian. Faar.” Wally stressed each word.
It took a moment for Marcus to understand what Wally was saying. When he did his frustration was replaced with intrigue. “That’s not an Atropian name.”
“No, it isn’t. That’s what Simon wanted you to know. Adrian Faar isn’t Atropian. He was born and raised in Donovia.”
****
The makeup artist hadn’t said anything or looked him in the eye for ten minutes, despite their faces being inches apart. Marcus tried to remain still, but keeping his head positioned properly meant looking at his interviewer who was beaming as he received the same treatment. It would have been preferable to speak with someone who shared his experience, or at least someone who respected the gravity of the situation. In school he’d learned about reporters who’d bring recording devices to conferences or even question political figures one-on-one. But those days were gone and this was the press now.
Carlos-Coolzeez, head personality of the most popular vlog in America, reviewed the makeup artist’s work with a hand-held mirror. There was one underneath Marcus’ chair as well but he didn’t care enough to use it. When Carlos was satisfied he performed vocal exercises and placed a phone on the arm rest so he could read comments that came in during the show. Finally, the camera turned on.
“It’s the coolest show around and I’m Carlos-Coolzeez!” He sang the words more than spoke them. “Today I’m talking to an awesome dude who’s been to Otso and back.”
A number of infuriated responses at being referred to as an awesome dude went through Marcus’ mind, but he maintained his composure and said “it’s great to be here.” He needed to limit distractions and get to his story as quickly and carefully as possible. While he didn’t appreciate his interviewer’s demeanor, he respected his power. If Carlos made a case for shoes to be made out of cardboard a petition would circulate the internet to make it a reality.
“You posted an article on LDW about actually experiencing a bombing set up by a radical Atropian group.” Carlos turned to the camera. “We’ll put a link in the description. Seriously, everybody, check it out.” He looked back at Marcus. “What was it like being in the middle of the action?”
Marcus folded his hands in his lap. “Terrifying. Not the explosions, those were over in a second. Memories of the chaos that followed, and what I learned later, are what keep me up at night.”
“You know, there’s people saying crazy things about the video that went up with your article.” He turned to the camera. “Again, link. Description. Check it.”
“I’ve heard what people are saying, and they’re right. If you pause my video you can see a glint of light before the second explosion. That’s the sun reflecting off the bomb. The attacker had metal prosthetic hands stuffed with explosives. Each was as powerful as a PETN grenade.”
“Talk about getting the most bang for your buck.”
“This isn’t a joking matter,” said Marcus, although he supposed wittiness like that was what turned someone into the most influential personality on the internet.
Carlos looked at his cell phone. If people were tuning out due to Marcus being too serious, the interview might end early. There were likely plenty of Fail Compilation videos to fill in the time.
“Sorry, you’re right,” said Carlos. “Instead of making weapons better at killing, people have modified their bodies to make themselves more efficient at dying. That’s some messed up stuff right there, man.”
“I agree,” said Marcus, glad that the show was still interesting enough to continue, “but I need to point out an error you made earlier.”
“Oh, don’t be that guy who calls out Carlos-Coolzeez.”
“I’m not calling you out. It’s more like… fact checking. I never said the attacker was Atropian.”
Carlos laughed. “You’re not the only dude who caught the bombing. There’re other videos where you can hear the guy shouting before blowing himself up. He spoke Atropian.”
“The bomber’s face was covered. There’s no way to verify his ethnicity.”
“Sure there is. The bombing fits the Atropian’s M.O. Who else would attack Otso like that?”
“A group who’s had strained relations with Otso and would benefit if American support was occupied elsewhere. A source told me the identity of the surgeon who implanted the explosive hands. He was Donovian.”
As the interview continued Carlos became less relaxed and stopped trying to make light of the situation. They talked about Donovia’s current state of power, and what it would mean if they were behind the bombing. There was a major push for American troops to occupy Atropia when the attack was believed to be their doing, but Donovia was a different matter.
As Marcus expected, there was even more talk after the interview. There were marches where people waved signs demanding Donovia answer the accusations, and #donoviansurgeon dominated multiple platforms.
There were actions from higher up as well. The president met with leaders of Donovia, Atropia, and Otso. Soon it was verified that the allegedly Atropian bomber was acting in Donovia’s interests. The ruse ended and a full invasion of Otso ensued. The president later announced that America would go to Otso’s aid.
Marcus soon discovered that Simon was among those aiding Otso. He prayed nightly for his brother’s safety, and that he wouldn’t be targeted by some sort of Donovian assassin for setting this whole ordeal in motion. He’d only been doing his job, but the internet had grown to the point where even a forty-five second video could have consequences that at times amazed even him.
Then again, as a journalist, he was paid to maintain a questioning attitude. The vendor’s customers weren’t getting sick, and that was probably enough to keep him happy.
The vendor tied a length of twine around the dead animal and Marcus let it swing near his thigh as he strode through the market. The potency of the powder was short lived due to the molecules breaking down in the light. Thirty minutes of direct sun exposure rendered it harmless to humans. It was supposed to be tasteless, but Marcus felt everything treated with it had an aftertaste that reminded him of swimming pool water. Whether the taste was real or just in his head, he had half an hour before his lunch could be considered safe to eat. He unlocked his phone and opened a camera app with stereoscopic capabilities. There was no rule that said all news needed to be depressing, so he focused on a group of children kicking a ball while their parents shopped. In America he imagined he’d be confronted for filming someone’s children playing, but in Otso people seemed to be accustomed to being filmed, whether it was done with a professional camera or a cell phone. Granted, the cameras usually showed up during protests, but his subscribers deserved to see how civilians passed the time when they weren’t rioting and running from tear gas.
His video was interrupted by a distant blast. Marcus dropped his lunch, placed his other hand on his phone, and turned in the direction it had come from. The panic seemed far away at first but came toward him like a wave. A collective scream grew louder and more people were running with each passing second. There was a pillar of smoke and debris flying over the crowd. He smelled something burning and was pelted by dust, as well as some wet flakes. He held onto his phone like his life depended on it, trying to keep it steady as possible while being shoved by frantic and terrified shoppers.
Most were trying to run away from the explosion, but Marcus spotted one who was attempting to approach it. An elderly man was grasping a child by the shoulder. As Marcus fought to get closer he heard the young boy repeatedly shout a single word. Marcus had enough of a grasp on the language to know the boy was saying “mother.” The chaos was so bad it was becoming difficult to stay on his feet, but he struggled to keep his lens focused on the man and child, capturing their distress as best he could.
His mission to get the perfect shot was thwarted by a second explosion, this one so close he saw it happen. Instead of hysterical people the screen was overcome with a flash of light. His heart’s desire was to hold his position and capture the event in its entirety, but a heavy weight knocked him over. It took a moment to realize a person was lying on him, and made no attempt to get off despite Marcus’ pleas. He tried to position his phone to continue capturing the event, but feet were stomping and people were falling all around as well as on top of him. Breathing became difficult and he felt his face flush. He pulled his phone close to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, shielding it as best he could before he lost consciousness.
When he woke his breathing came easily. He groaned and rubbed his face before opening his eyes and finding he was in a hospital. The sounds of screaming were gone, but there was no sense of serenity. Squeaking wheels, high-pitched beeping, and chatter produced a splitting pain in his head.
As he sat up he felt like he was ambushed all over again. This time, instead of a throng it was just one person, but the arms squeezed like a vice. Marcus didn’t see the other person’s face, but he didn’t need to. The three slaps to his left shoulder followed by one on his right said it all.
“I’m still sore, Simon,” Marcus said through gritted teeth.
The pressure eased and Simon held him at arm’s length, a hand on each of Marcus’ shoulders. His camouflaged uniform stood out against the white walls. “We found you under four people. One was dead. You’ve been out three hours.”
Marcus rotated his shoulders and leaned from side to side. “Feels like a hundred bees stung me all over.”
Simon eased onto a creaky chair next to the bed. “It was a suicide bombing. Looks like the worst of the blast missed you, thank God.”
Marcus patted his pockets. “Where’s my phone?”
“You were cradling it like a baby when we found you. Sometimes I think you care about that machine more than you cared about our dog.”
“Don’t bring Charlie into this!”
Simon chuckled and made a half-hearted apology.
“I need it back,” Marcus pleaded. “I need to record the aftermath of the bombing.”
“You got some of that. It was still filming when we got you on the gurney.” Simon looked at the ground. “When I saw it from the beginning I gave it to my commanding officer. Sorry, but I had to. The footage might have valuable information. But also,” he paused and took a breath, “well, a lot of people here know about you. We don’t want this getting to the media too quickly. I asked for the footage not to be deleted but, you know, accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it’s too late for that,” Marcus said with a laugh. “Everything I film is automatically uploaded to an online collaboration account. ‘The media’ pretty much saw it as it was happening.”
Simon’s head snapped back up.
“So,” Marcus continued, “it’s important for me to get it back. My boss has the footage but I can talk to him about how to go about reporting it. We can focus on the aftermath, but only if I get shots of people recovering from the damage. Can you get it to me by the end of the day?”
“I’ll talk to some people,” Simon sighed. He started to leave but turned back. “One condition. The second it’s in your hands you call mom and tell her you’re alright.”
Marcus lay back down on the bed. “Fine.”
“I’m going to watch you do it.”
“Fine!”
********
“This is great, Mark.” Even thousands of miles away Mr. Gordon was clearly giddy from the footage of the market bombing; his face occupied most of the laptop screen while the video played in the upper right corner.
Marcus toyed with the contrast and brightness to make his boss’ face more difficult to see as the video reversed to show the crying child again. “Would you mind taking it to the second explosion?”
“Word of advice, Mark, keep those parts simple. Shock and awe hook people but it’s emotional scenes that hold interest.”
He didn’t become a journalist to make strangers cry. “Just look at it. There was an explosion, but no bomber. It’s almost like something was planted there in advance. Terrorists are getting smarter. If you want emotion, that’s sure to cause fear.”
He folded his laptop down halfway and counted to ten. Reporting was a balancing act, and finding the center was more important now than ever before. News used to be delivered by papers, then radio, and then television. Now reporters didn’t need to be skilled writers or speakers; they just needed to know how to make their own website.
“Mark? You there?”
He positioned himself in front of the webcam. “Yeah, boss. Sorry, forget I said anything.”
Mr. Gordon clucked his tongue. “Don’t be sorry. You’re right. Fear’s good and this is scary. Although it’d be scarier if it was unexpected. Everybody knew the Atropian group would become stronger once American forces backed out.”
A chill shot through Marcus’ spine. “Have the Atropians claimed responsibility?”
“Well, not yet.” Mr. Gordon bit his lip. “But Amanda’s at the Capitol. She’s due for an update in a few hours.”
“Mr. Gordon, please don’t push for troops to go back to Atropia until confirming this was them.”
“Relax, Mark. We’re not going to solicit fear and anger just to initiate a public response to this tragedy.”
Marcus could have laughed. They both knew of people working at their website who’d done exactly that and Marcus wanted to believe it wouldn’t happen again. Nobody’s words were just words anymore. A status update could start a protest; an article could start a revolt. There’d been debates over how much social media swayed political decisions. Personally, Marcus felt it was more than he’d like to admit. If Life During Wartime blamed this on the Atropians gaining strength, there would be a push to re-establish a presence there. Could it be enough to reverse a treaty? The fact that he was considering it meant he couldn’t leave it up to chance.
“Mr. Gordon, if you…” he trailed off. His insight had always been welcome, but he’d never stood up to his boss before. He needed to tread lightly. He knew how lucky he was to have this job. He’d heard in the days of newspapers the writers were barely paid enough to scrape by. Here he was living comfortably just taking twenty minutes of videos on his phone every day.
“Boss, I don’t want to sound disrespectful.” Right, because that was always a good way to start a sentence.
A knock at the door interrupted him. “Sorry, Mr. Gordon, I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Take care of yourself, Mark, but keep stuff like this coming. These forty-five seconds are going to give us the biggest week we’ve had in a long time.”
He figured it would be Simon but checked the peephole just to be safe. “How much of that did you hear,” he asked before opening the door.
“Enough to know you were talking to your boss.”
The hotel didn’t have miniature refrigerators so Marcus had brought his own cooler stocked with endothermic packs. He felt the one inside as he retrieved two juice bottles. It was beginning to warm up. “Mr. Gordon liked the video of the suicide bombing,” he said as he handed Simon a bottle and grabbed a fresh pack from his suitcase. “Sorry, that sounded wrong.”
“I get it. Death is click bait.”
“It’s not…” Marcus paused. He slapped the pack and shook it to initiate the reaction.
“I stream LDW whenever I can. It’s all about death counts and how much money we’re sucking up.”
“That’s not fair. Not everyone at the website is out to generate rage comments.”
Simon jabbed a finger hard in Marcus’ chest. “I know you’re not. But you’re not there. You’re here. That site isn’t the same without you and you know it.”
Marcus sighed. He had a feeling the conversation would head this direction. “I’m not going back.”
“Tell me what Gordon said specifically. Is he doing the story the way you want? Are you going to be happy with it?”
Hearing Simon talk about him like he was an intern looking for any opportunity to get his name online made him feel agitated. “I spoke with Mr. Gordon. I gave him my thoughts. He gave me his notes. We’ll come to a consensus.”
“But it’s going to be mostly click bait. You know it will be unless you get back there and make the story your own.”
“As long as you’re stationed here, I’m staying.”
“Fine, I’ll put a bullet in my leg.”
“No you won’t.”
Simon thought about it as he took a drink. “You’re right, I won’t.”
Marcus went to his laptop and scrolled through his bookmarked websites, most of them news vlogs. “Look, there’s a lot of competition right now. You can’t blame Mr. Gordon for wanting to keep the views counter high and the subscribers interested. As long as I keep getting videos of the real struggles people are going through, there’ll be some truth to everything our team does, even when we get too commercial. That’s why I’m doing this. I still want to be part of something bigger than myself and make a difference, even if I was never strong enough to really serve like you.”
“What’re you talking about? You never signed up; that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough.” Simon pointed to the phone. “You held that camera still during a bombing. Not many people in my unit have the guts to do that. You’ve always had the courage and willpower to be in my shoes, to put your life on the line for the things you care about. That’s why I want you to go home. If you stay you’ll get your head blown off.”
Marcus could have cried at his brother’s compliment and drank some juice to stop the lump forming in his throat. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think about it. Just get out of here. Please.” Simon hugged him, slapping him three times on his left shoulder and once on his right. “You’re a bigger part of this than you think, Marcus. You’re not a soldier, but you’re everything I’m fighting for.”
They broke apart and Simon left. When the door closed Marcus did start to cry. Simon was the first in the family to join the armed forces, and Marcus had envied his bravery for a long time. Hearing that he played such an important role in Simon’s continued service lifted a burden. He no longer felt the need to be like Simon and travel to war-torn lands. In a way, being on Simon’s mind meant he was already there.
He decided to take his brother’s advice. He made plans to leave Otso, go home, and report what he saw the way he wanted.
****
Marcus checked his watch before ordering another drink. Otso was miles behind him and the tour bus had stopped for the night in a city no less crowded but at least the hotel served alcohol. As the bartender prepared his whiskey sour he turned in his stool. Even though the attack at the market happened weeks ago he couldn’t help wondering about strength of security everywhere he went. Anyone in the lobby could be concealing a gun or a bomb. Any of the tourists, including him, was a potential victim. He tried to eavesdrop as his seat rotated. Many people in the room were not speaking English, which made him particularly anxious.
He visualized his nervousness as a ball of mud and as he took a deep breath he imagined it being expelled from his chest. He refused to let the experience make him paranoid or prejudiced. Simon had experienced much worse, and was still the same man he was when he left home.
The sound of glass striking wood alerted him that his drink was ready. The whiskey calmed him for a moment but a fresh jolt of panic gripped him when he heard someone nearby mention his name.
“Marcus Kelim. He’s a reporter. Are you sure you didn’t meet him?”
Marcus recognized the man being questioned. He was on the tour bus, sitting a few rows in front of him. They hadn’t spoken during the trip. In fact, the ride had been quiet. The person asking the question was unrecognizable, but loud and rugged. Marcus hopped off the stool. He took a few steps from the bar without bothering to finish his drink or leave a tip.
“It’s important I find him,” said the surly man. “I know his brother. He wanted me to deliver a message.”
Marcus turned to the stranger. He approached cautiously and stopped a few paces away. “Excuse me, did you say you know my brother?”
“You’re Marcus?” He moved in to shake hands.
Marcus retreated and kept his hands down. “I saw him recently. He was doing fine.”
“He still is. Relax, I’m not here to tell you something bad happened to him.” He extended his arm. “My name’s Wally.”
Marcus was still hesitant to trust him. “How do you know my brother?”
“How do you think? We work together.”
“You’re in the air force?”
Wally’s brow furrowed. “No, I’m in the army, just like Simon.”
Marcus relaxed a little and shook his hand. “I just wanted to hear you say his name. Sorry, I’ve been a little on edge lately.”
“No worries, I get it. You got time to sit down?”
“Yeah. My plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow.” Marcus led him to the bar.
“Simon’s really happy you’re getting out of here,” said Wally as he waved to get the bartender’s attention. “This place isn’t for everybody.”
“This place isn’t the problem. Have you been streaming LDW lately?”
“Hold that thought.” Wally made small talk in the bartender’s native tongue. They both smiled and pointed to bottles of high-end liquor lining the back wall. Soon he was holding a glass with large ice cubes and an amber colored liquid Marcus didn’t recognize or know how to pronounce.
Wally rotated the glass, letting the ice clink against the sides. “I don’t have a lot of time for streaming news vlogs.” He said before he took a long sip. “But I’ll always make time for this.”
Marcus nursed his drink and tried to make it look like it was just as savory as whatever Wally ordered. “My boss is doing exactly what I asked him not to do. The vlog’s been pushing for American troops to get back in Atropia. Nobody’s come out and blamed the market bombing in Otso on them yet, but they’ve hinted at it. I need to get back.”
“Did you say they’re pinning the bombing on Atropia? That explains why Simon wanted me to find you.” He sighed and drummed his fingers on the counter. “Have you ever done a report on a man everyone calls The Magnet?”
“No, but I know about him.” Everybody who worked at or watched news vlogs in the past three years knew The Magnet. He was a weapons dealer who was believed to have supplied terrorists with plasma rifles and even rocket launchers capable of firing mini-warhead missiles.
“He’s been tracked down and compromised. Permanently. It happened in Otso, not too far from the market bombing.”
“That’s amazing, cheers!” They touched glasses.
“Don’t you want to know what he was smuggling?” Wally asked after they both took a drink.
“Fissile materials?”
Wally shook his head. “3-D printers.”
Marcus’ mouth hung open. As the words sunk in he almost laughed.
“Seriously,” said Wally. “They were programmed to print hollowed-out prosthetic hands.”
“Sorry,” Marcus said as he straightened his face. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I owe Simon. The printer used a combination of iron and titanium, and the hands were intended to be filled with explosives. They could withstand a minor blast from the outside, but would fracture if one from the inside followed shortly after.”
“That’s interesting,” said Marcus. “Thanks for the info. I’ll be sure to do a story on it someday.”
“Simon wants you to report it now. There were three explosions at the market, but only one bomber.”
Marcus suddenly realized what Wally was implying. He pictured the bomber’s vest sending his hands flying in different directions and each one exploding moments later. “That’s … disgusting.”
“It gets worse. Think about it, what would you need if you wanted to pull something like that off?”
“More than a printer,” Marcus mulled. “You’d probably need a special transmitter to make them explode.”
“True. A drone did a fly-over and located a warehouse not far from where the Magnet was stopped. It was stocked with explosives and equipment for making remote detonators. But more importantly, you’d need someone like Adrian Faar.”
Marcus rolled the name around in his head. “Never heard of him.”
“He was travelling with the Magnet. He was taken alive.”
“Is he another weapons smuggler?”
“He’s a surgeon. Guess where he received his training.”
It felt like Wally was stalling which made Marcus frustrated. “In don’t know, Harvard? Maybe the whiskey’s hitting me hard but I’m not getting where you’re going with this.”
“Adrian. Faar.” Wally stressed each word.
It took a moment for Marcus to understand what Wally was saying. When he did his frustration was replaced with intrigue. “That’s not an Atropian name.”
“No, it isn’t. That’s what Simon wanted you to know. Adrian Faar isn’t Atropian. He was born and raised in Donovia.”
****
The makeup artist hadn’t said anything or looked him in the eye for ten minutes, despite their faces being inches apart. Marcus tried to remain still, but keeping his head positioned properly meant looking at his interviewer who was beaming as he received the same treatment. It would have been preferable to speak with someone who shared his experience, or at least someone who respected the gravity of the situation. In school he’d learned about reporters who’d bring recording devices to conferences or even question political figures one-on-one. But those days were gone and this was the press now.
Carlos-Coolzeez, head personality of the most popular vlog in America, reviewed the makeup artist’s work with a hand-held mirror. There was one underneath Marcus’ chair as well but he didn’t care enough to use it. When Carlos was satisfied he performed vocal exercises and placed a phone on the arm rest so he could read comments that came in during the show. Finally, the camera turned on.
“It’s the coolest show around and I’m Carlos-Coolzeez!” He sang the words more than spoke them. “Today I’m talking to an awesome dude who’s been to Otso and back.”
A number of infuriated responses at being referred to as an awesome dude went through Marcus’ mind, but he maintained his composure and said “it’s great to be here.” He needed to limit distractions and get to his story as quickly and carefully as possible. While he didn’t appreciate his interviewer’s demeanor, he respected his power. If Carlos made a case for shoes to be made out of cardboard a petition would circulate the internet to make it a reality.
“You posted an article on LDW about actually experiencing a bombing set up by a radical Atropian group.” Carlos turned to the camera. “We’ll put a link in the description. Seriously, everybody, check it out.” He looked back at Marcus. “What was it like being in the middle of the action?”
Marcus folded his hands in his lap. “Terrifying. Not the explosions, those were over in a second. Memories of the chaos that followed, and what I learned later, are what keep me up at night.”
“You know, there’s people saying crazy things about the video that went up with your article.” He turned to the camera. “Again, link. Description. Check it.”
“I’ve heard what people are saying, and they’re right. If you pause my video you can see a glint of light before the second explosion. That’s the sun reflecting off the bomb. The attacker had metal prosthetic hands stuffed with explosives. Each was as powerful as a PETN grenade.”
“Talk about getting the most bang for your buck.”
“This isn’t a joking matter,” said Marcus, although he supposed wittiness like that was what turned someone into the most influential personality on the internet.
Carlos looked at his cell phone. If people were tuning out due to Marcus being too serious, the interview might end early. There were likely plenty of Fail Compilation videos to fill in the time.
“Sorry, you’re right,” said Carlos. “Instead of making weapons better at killing, people have modified their bodies to make themselves more efficient at dying. That’s some messed up stuff right there, man.”
“I agree,” said Marcus, glad that the show was still interesting enough to continue, “but I need to point out an error you made earlier.”
“Oh, don’t be that guy who calls out Carlos-Coolzeez.”
“I’m not calling you out. It’s more like… fact checking. I never said the attacker was Atropian.”
Carlos laughed. “You’re not the only dude who caught the bombing. There’re other videos where you can hear the guy shouting before blowing himself up. He spoke Atropian.”
“The bomber’s face was covered. There’s no way to verify his ethnicity.”
“Sure there is. The bombing fits the Atropian’s M.O. Who else would attack Otso like that?”
“A group who’s had strained relations with Otso and would benefit if American support was occupied elsewhere. A source told me the identity of the surgeon who implanted the explosive hands. He was Donovian.”
As the interview continued Carlos became less relaxed and stopped trying to make light of the situation. They talked about Donovia’s current state of power, and what it would mean if they were behind the bombing. There was a major push for American troops to occupy Atropia when the attack was believed to be their doing, but Donovia was a different matter.
As Marcus expected, there was even more talk after the interview. There were marches where people waved signs demanding Donovia answer the accusations, and #donoviansurgeon dominated multiple platforms.
There were actions from higher up as well. The president met with leaders of Donovia, Atropia, and Otso. Soon it was verified that the allegedly Atropian bomber was acting in Donovia’s interests. The ruse ended and a full invasion of Otso ensued. The president later announced that America would go to Otso’s aid.
Marcus soon discovered that Simon was among those aiding Otso. He prayed nightly for his brother’s safety, and that he wouldn’t be targeted by some sort of Donovian assassin for setting this whole ordeal in motion. He’d only been doing his job, but the internet had grown to the point where even a forty-five second video could have consequences that at times amazed even him.
