Numbers
The dusty old gray-green shortwave radio sat in the hollowed cubby hole in his desk as it had for the past ten years. He put on the old headphones that might have been old before the war. His hand reached out, twisted the knob and it crackled to life in his ears. It was a quarter past eleven and the broadcast would start soon. Now all he heard was the static and crackle of the ether. He smelled the dust burning off the old components as they heated up. It reminded him of the radiators coming to life at the first sign of winter in the block of flats he lived in as a boy.
He prepared his one-time pad and remembered the algorithm that would make sense of the seemingly random numbers and letters that would be broadcast to everyone, but meant only for him. He didn't know where the radio tower that broadcast the messages to him was. He knew a frequency and a date and time that the message would be more than a music box song followed by random digits read by a monotone robotic voice. He always felt paranoid that someone would find him hunched over his desk and put things together and turn him in. He always consoled himself with the thought that they'd think he was just an eccentric with a junk shop radio and headphones listening to a crazy preacher on the other side of the world tell of the oncoming apocalypse.
Three long tones played. They played again. This was letting him know that the broadcast was about to begin. Three long tones corresponded to a section of the one-time pad which he marked with his pencil the beginning and the end. He knew he'd be eating that page of the pad when it was done, as clichéd as that sounded. It wasn't something he looked forward to.
There was a small moment of silence and then the tune began. Pop! Goes the Weasel played as if coming from a jack in the box. Every day at the same time the song would play and anyone listening would feel somewhat unnerved by the mystery of it. It was nonsensical rubbish to everyone but him. It repeated and there was another short pause.
YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT. YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT. NOVEMBER DELTA TANGO UNIFORM. FOXTROT JULIET HOTEL INDIA GOLF VICTOR VICTOR. ZULU SIERRA OSCAR GOLF. KILO ZULU LIMA PAPA CHARLIE ZERO. FIVE NINE SIX LIMA FOXTROT YANKEE. ZULU ZULU CHARLIE ALPHA. ZULU ZULU CHARLIE ALPHA SIX.
It began repeating but he turned off the radio. He had is message. It took only a moment to work over the cipher and get the message. He read it, then read it again.
YOU HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED. ESCAPE NOT AN OPTION. PLAN DELTA IS IN EFFECT. GODSPEED.
He was already chewing on the paper. It tasted bland in his mouth. He took a long pull from his glass of water. The chlorine taste was particularly strong. Knowing your death is imminent has a way of focusing your mind on all of your senses.
He picked up the one-time pad and tossed it into the fireplace. It wasn't a perfect way to deal with it but he knew it would be the fastest. He started a fire with his lighter then lit a cigarette with it. The chrome plating cast his reflection back on him. He saw his face and saw that there was no fear there. He reached and pulled out a drawer and removed a bottle of cheap vodka and threw it onto the fire. It shattered and the fire blazed up and consumed the pad. He hoped it would be enough to save anyone else who might be out there. He watched the flames for a moment, finishing his cigarette, contemplating what was next.
He heard some commotion on the street. He walked over to the window and looked out to see a sleek, black car that didn't belong in this part of town pull up to the side of the building and four men get out of it. The all looked up at his window and he thought they must have seen him. They hurried to the door. He knew he didn't have long. They'd be up the stairs to his fourth floor flat in two minutes, maybe less.
He took the necklace he wore and twisted the coin depicting Saint Michael to the side. A waxy seal broke and a white powder waited inside. He knew it was either swallow the powder or endure hours of torture and possibly cost others their lives when he finally broke. Everyone broke in the end. He didn't dwell on the decision. He dumped the powder into his mouth. It was bitter and burned his tongue. He finished his glass of water washing the white powder down.
He sat the glass down on the desk and pulled a chair out from its place by the wall to face the door. He didn't want to miss the looks on their faces when they found out it was too late. He sat down, sighed, and felt the pain searing in his belly. It would be over soon. The door flew open with a kick and the men burst into the room. He smiled, and the world ceased for him.
Numbers by Brian Godfrey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
