Ray Sullivan SciFi Zone: Project: Evil – The Mindless Bloody Finale Meeting part

Project: Evil – The Mindless Bloody Finale Meeting part 2

‘I meant, why would I start the countdown,’ stated O’Feld firmly. Public sector man nodded sagely.

‘Oh, I see. Well, the alarm is linked to an algorithm that compares the risk to the kebabs against the time to launch, based on the assumption that either the rocket will self destruct on take-off, destroying us all and everything around us or the facility will be taken apart by a lone octogenarian armed with nothing more dangerous than an inhaler and a plastic diving knife picked up at a sea-side stall. If we start the launch early then the theory determines that as the kebab stall has only a relatively short time left anyway then the risk is trivial, so the alarm stops.’

‘Where the hell did you get that warped sense of logic?’ asked Brian, impressed. Daw held up public sector man’s CV.

‘Personal advisor to Gordon Brown when he was Chancellor of the Exchequer,’ he said, noticing some frenzied activity in the kebab queue. ‘Looks like they’re opening up,’ he said.

‘The Greeks will be grumpy as hell tomorrow after we’ve all died if they’ve been woken up from their guard stint,’ said Brian, heading towards Mrs O’Feld with the food order, hoping Froshdu didn’t reach her first. If he did, he’d likely eat her, losing Brian his only chance of getting his order in before the fat bastard. As he neared Mrs O’Feld he became aware he was being called.

‘If you’re jumping the queue, could you get me a kebab as well, the deluxe goat flavour?’ asked Bund, holding out a fiver. ‘And a receipt, if you don’t mind,’ he added. Brian took the fiver and checked it for authenticity; the Secret Service forgeries were notoriously good, almost as good as the O’Feld forgeries. Then he realised that the situation was ridiculous; a fiver wouldn’t cover the standard kebab let alone the deluxe goat. He turned to complain, but he realised that Bund had left the queue to wait next to the armoury, where he was chatting amicably with O’Feld.

Passing Froshdu proved trickier than normal, well certainly more of a detour than he remembered and the sound of the kebab warning klaxon was even louder once he’d rounded Froshdu’s bulk; Brian realised that Froshdu had been insulating most of the sound himself. Then, suddenly, it stopped, to be replaced by an automated female voice.

‘Thirty minutes to launch,’ said the calm voice, adding, ‘duty free will close in ten minutes.’

‘Where the hell did public sector man get this system from?’ he growled to himself. But at least the klaxon sound had stopped, he thought. Then the klaxon started up again. He looked back at public sector man, now just visible around the bulk of Froshdu and watched him shrug and mouth ‘it’s the launch klaxon.’ Brian pushed his way to the front of the queue, slipping past Mrs O’Feld in the process. This was no time to rely on a cat to pick up your kebabs; the world was now scheduled to end way sooner than the project plan. He beckoned to an uninhabitant guard stood nearby and asked to hold the guard’s rifle. The guard passed it and Brian turned to the Greek twat opening up the kebab stand.

‘Five kebabs, everything on, now,’ he said throwing the fiver on the counter before adding, ‘and I want change plus a receipt. Make that two receipts.’ The man behind the counter pleaded with his eyes.

‘Will you pay me what I’m owed in the future, after you have destroyed the planet?’ he asked.

‘Will you pay back the European loans?’ asked Brian, not waiting for an answer. Of course they bloody wouldn’t. Brian sank his teeth into his kebab as he carried the others back to O’Feld, Daw, public sector man and Bund.

‘Twenty nine minutes and thirty seconds to launch,’ said the calm voice, adding, ‘probably a good time to check that all the systems are working and the gonads are loaded.’ A sinking feeling hit Brian. Thankfully it was the goat kebab; the gonads had been loaded a week early thanks to a crease in the Gantt chart. He walked over to the group, noticing that public sector man had been hand-cuffed. O’Feld was beaming.

‘Brian, have you met our visitor?’ he asked as Brian passed Bund a kebab and a receipt.

‘Change?’ asked Bund, raising a single eyebrow, dislodging his glasses. Brian huffed and pulled £1.53 out of his pocket.

‘It’s all they had,’ he said before turning to O’Feld. ‘No, I don’t believe I have,’ he lied, almost convincing himself. ‘Why’s public sector man handcuffed?’ he asked, shifting the rifle onto his shoulder so that he could complete handing out the kebabs.

‘It seems he and Bund know each other,’ answered Daw, sinking his teeth into his kebab. ‘This is very good,’ he pointed out. Brian looked at public sector man, who just shrugged.

‘So I forgot to mention on my CV that I worked in procurement for MI6 for a while,’ he explained, wiping sauce from his chin with the back of one of his handcuffed hands. ‘Apparently I’m going to be shot,’ he added. Brian felt this was not looking good; if they were going to shoot him just for working with Bund in a previous job, what would they do to Brian when they found out he’d been collaborating with him in this?

‘When are they shooting you?’ he asked, trying to keep it conversational, ‘before or after we’ve destroyed the planet?’ Public sector man opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the voice system

‘Twenty eight minutes to launch and fifteen minutes to self destruction,’ said the calm voice.

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