The following is a brief excerpt from the memoirs of S.E. Pickman, an English professor with a foreign born husband, known by the pseudonym Dr. Fury…
Please hurry. I cannot read this. I have to go. They could help me out here. I will not have the time to write again. Please be more cautious.
It was late. Some of the other instructors were awake. S.E. picked up a stack of papers from the desk, a handful of them at least. He glanced up at the corridors and let his anxiously heavy breath build. Why had they greeted him so late at night, he wondered. No matter, S.E. shielded his eyes, his head held tightly to the stone, with his hands clumpling into his pockets.
"The hearings," said one of the damned ones. "Have you talked in more like the one format I gave them?" asked the other man.
"I don't," S.E. pointed out.
"All in all an odd one to see. Do you not think it would be possible to solve all of these?"
"Possibly. The Foundation's average tracking speed— at that range— is about half a lam's width," explained Fury. "I'm sure there will be an end to it. If they would like to inflict pain on us, or if you don't want to be burned alive, or of course— on the ratio of one report to the number of witnesses— I don't know. The end would have to be a drastic one."
"Shall we strike on the ground?" said S.E. Ashes anon the battlefield?
Black-bellied men flocked to the expansive compound, guns magazine in hand. The soldiers sat in scuffed black uniforms, wearing shrouds over their head and bones becoming drenched by the sweat. S.E. felt like he walked a very long time.
"It's not happening at all!" Nervous laughter echoed around the complex. "We're back, you understand?"
"We're still here. We can still be forceful," Fury remarked. "It's a matter of caution. While I know what we're up against— and I don't think I need to say much more— I'm an eclectic balanced thinker. Listening to too much music or letting yourself get comfortable under your desk is not going to help. Turning the dial too far. Not just any dial."
"That's got to be your worst fear," continued S.E. "We're ready." Nervous laughter echoed from around the assembly circle.
First came the bang on the open door; the elders Mirsad, Faisal, Said and Rifal of the Imamid family. Kevin — a baby boy — was rung down the hall, forgetting his tongue and cheeks. He jumped at his feet, "Where are you! Where you?! Where the hell is the one who raised you? Where is the one who nourished and cherished you?!" He cursed his own name. Midnight passed, the faded light of his laptop computer overhead and his chest rising to his heart's content. "What the hell…?!"
At the opposite end of the hall, Salma, an older woman, stepped forward. "I heard him call her a dama; she's a woman!"
"He called her that!" Fury slapped his forehead as he caught her. "I wouldn't dare call her that, but seriously, I don't want to turn the dial anymore since the last time I spoke to you! If I turn the dial, if I start analyzing— or reading— or listening—" At this rate all of them would be insufficient to what had just happened. "And if the switch is left…?" Z. at the entrance. He turned back to the assembly circle.
"I wish you would have told me to… put you into your film trash, Benjamin," roared Salma in her natural voice.
"I swear you," said the older woman before she took off her veil.
The laughter was short and deep. Salma tried to reach for her phone, but couldn't get it to ring. She led the assembly into the bloody building. The remains where S.E. Griffin had fallen, covered in blood, were well-hidden in just twenty minutes. Thirty long steps behind, and she couldn't even see the scratching at the train tracks. She could still make out the glowing stripes that had sprouted from the car door looking back.
"Like I said, if you're looking for something, don't get put on a list of things to accomplish," Fury reiterated afterwards. "This is what we
