Of Good And Evil by Gerald G. Griffin

     But his hope faded. The traffic was unbelievable. It was Saturday night and many people were out on the town. Laying on his horn, Ron dashed the truck in and out, passing vehicles as best as the traffic flow would permit, his threading maneuvers becoming the object of many unhappy looks, shouts, shaking fists, and colorful epithets. At times, with the dense mob of cars he was facing, Ron was making little headway at all.

     His inner turmoil edged into panic. Where the hell are they?
     In hopeful search, he sent his vibrations full force out into the night. Then it struck him: Their destination is somewhere on Peachtree Street. Just keep moving. Then he grimaced. Peachtree Street? The damn Hyatt Regency, where Amber's staying, is on Peachtree Street. Christ.
     His mouth now dry, his tension increased. So did his panic as he attempted to suppress the intense sickness weakening him.For the first time he was afraid. His hands clutching the steering wheel were nearly white. Time? Is there any time?
     Ron felt the pain of smoldering doubt, and as if a portent, the night sky seemed drained of all color. He expected to be disintegrated at any moment. Still, he had to keep going, futile or not.

                                                                              ******

     Ivy Snow, her Beretta semiautomatic on the seat beside her, the tinfoil container on her opposite side. studied the traffic flow ahead of them, then checked her watch, It's time, she concluded. She turned to the container, lifted up the latch, and pushed the lever down.

     "The bomb's triggered," she announced to Wexler. "Eight minutes."

     A look of exultation shone in Wexler's eyes. "Khalid be praised," she exclaimed. "We've done it. Ivy, we'vedone it. Any outside interruptions now will be useless. We're close to heaven."

     Snow closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat cushion, heaving a sigh of relief from the tension she had held for so long under iron control, knowing her mission was finally completed. Opening her eyes, she said, "I really don't think it matters now whether we reach our point or not."

     The two fell silent for a moment, totally overwhelmed in their contemplation of what was about to occur. Then, biting her lip, as though torn between two decisions, Wexler asked, "Shall we use the guns, or wait for the detonation?"

     "If you ---"

     Suddenly the Impala jerked from the force of a jarring impact on the driver's front side. Wexler struggled to control the vehicle. "It's Radu's truck," she shouted, her voice shrill. "It's ramming us. What damn stupid thing is he doing?" The Impala received another jolt. "It's not Radu, but some mustached freak trying to force us off the road. He looks crazy!"
     Snow smiled bitterly, then laughed. "What does it matter? Nothing matters now." She sat upright. "We're using the guns."

                                                                                    ******

     Ron's ramming tactics forced the Impala to the side of the road. He parked in front of it at a blocking angle --- blocking other traffic as well, leapt out of the truck, and ran up to the car. It didn't phase him that the driver was slumped over the wheel, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. A woman, still alive, bending over near it, was searching for something which had been knocked to the floor by the last impact.

     Ron jerked the rear door open, his Magnum ready. He could see the woman had retrieved a Beretta semiautomatic, but wasn't holding it in a position to threaten him.

     Snow glared at him furiously, her eyes enlarged in a deathly defiance of green-eyed hostility. "You're too late, whoever you are," she hissed chillingly. "The bomb's been triggered. You have less than five minutes. Praise be to Khalid."

     In a quick motion she raised the Beretta to her temple and pulled the trigger. The sound of the revolver's discharge thundered brutally through the air as did pieces of Snow's skull, splattering blood all over the front of Ron's clothing. Ignoring it, quickly re-holstering his Magnum, Ron reached across Snow's body and grasped the bomb container, lifting it up and pulling it forward, sitting it outside the car on the ground.

     A woman with that shallow look of intelligence came running toward him, yelling, "You monster! What have you done to these poor women?"

     "Get the hell out of here," Ron barked thickly, giving her a quick minatory glare. Then he turned his attention back to the bomb, ignoring everything else around him.

     The woman fled, screaming, a piercing, bloodcurdling, reverberating scream. "Aaaaaiiieeeeee! Police! Police!"
     Ron's eyes riveted on the lever. He saw that it was pushed down, a faint peculiar sound humming within the container, engulfing him with a sense of desolation.

     The bomb's been triggered. It can't be stopped.
     And that reality swept him away. His body became frazzled and numb, his face clammy, his knees barely supporting him.

     I've failed. It's over. Oh, God. Oh,God. My Go-o-o-d!
     For a moment his mind was frozen from thought. Then his vibrations reviving him, he began working the muscles in his cheek, as though indicating atonement for all his sins, and wondering if he would ever see any kind of salvation. Grimly, he recalled his mother's words in the dream: "But you may need a royal flush."

     I don't have one.
     Ron suddenly became aware of the throng of people crowding about, and the traffic backed up. Pointing at the container beside the Impala, his breath racing, he yelled at the crowd at a pitch higher than the noise around him, "Get away! A bomb. A nuclear bomb ---- set to go off in minutes!"
     Waving his arms, motioning the people away, he felt impelled to keep repeating these words with force, even though he realized how ridiculous the warning was. Whether here, or blocks away, even miles, it made no difference. It would be a nuclear blast.

     But the people gathered thought otherwise. With pallid and shocked faces among those who could hear him, the now fearful crowd suddenly turned into a stampede, its painful cacophony like a swarm of bees which had forced its way into the wrong hive, now wanting out. Amidst screams, people in the throng begin scrambling, darting around in search of safety that didn't exist, abandoning cars that couldn't move as the word spread, many fleeing in trampling panic.

     Ron was left alone. He just stood there, standing like a condemned soldier paralyzed before a firing squad, aware that his vibrations were checkmated and there was no escape. Completely out of breath, he could feel his entire body tighten. As his pale face turned even paler, his last thoughts were of Amber, of their wondrous times together --- her laugh, her smile, how beautiful she looked. The thought of her no longer existing seemed an insult from the gods, turning Ron's face into a fixed sorrowful expression of yearning.

     Forgive me, love. So sorry. So sorry. I tried.
     Reduced to fatalism, he bowed his head toward the ground, his eyes glassy and resigned, little circles appearing before them. There was nothing left inside him, not even anguish. He wondered how long it would be. He wanted it over with quickly.


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