World War Four

4

March 17, 2028

The rotting city of Paris is ghost-quiet but for the eerie screech of long forgotten appliances left running for as long as time. There is not a single person—well, living person—here to keep me company. I am alone. Ever since my plane crashed, I've been stranded alone, in a deserted city, surrounded by death and destruction.

            The foul smell of corpses, rotting away, fills the air like a scared skunk on a hot, humid day. The enormity of it all hits me like a bulldozer, and tears flood down my cheeks as I am snatched by sadness and misery. This is the world now, I thought, and to end this death and destruction we have to end this war. To do that I need to recreate my plans and find whoever shot down the plane.

            I will find them.

            And I will kill them.

���

Buzz, buzz

The ringing of my phone wakes me up from my deep slumber. Wishing I could go back to sleep, I drop out of the bed in Hassan's guest room, walk over to my phone, and unplug it from the charger. A mysterious number--American, with 10 digits--illuminates the screen.

Who could be calling me at this ungodly hour?

I slide the screen to answer the call, and a woman's voice meets my ear.

"Hello, are you Xavier Thompson?" the voice rings out.

"Peut-être," I respond groggily, knowing fully well that she wouldn't understand. She had to have found something of mine, but nothing I own has my name on it. Except...

The briefcase! She must've found the briefcase. That means that my plans are not lost forever. What a stroke of luck!

"Je ne parle pas Français," she said, using a Spanish tongue and mispronouncing every word.

" Lucky for you, I can speak more than two languages, because your pronunciation is god-awful," I chided, "also, my name is Nom."

"Mey Hindi bol suckthi hun y español w alearabia hé zhōngguó and English," she shot back.

"Impressive, pero yo hablo frances, inglés, italiano, polaco y aléman. I win."

"Well, I have your briefcase, so it doesn't matter if you win. If you ever want it back, be at the old ruins of Eiffel at 9:00 local time on March 23rd. Be there, or be square."

The phone beeps letting me know that the mysterious lady has left the call. I fall back onto my bed and peer at the ceiling trying to make sense of what had just happened. She had found my briefcase and was going to give it back to me.

But had she seen everything? Does she know what I am planning? Will she try to stop me?