Countdown

"10"

Johnathan tore the top off the chest like a possessed beast, whirling his screwdriver over the screws and tearing the metal lip from its hinges, tossing it on the floor.
His eyes burned with searing pain in the gas from the burst pipe and with each agonising blink he felt himself losing more of his sight and his consciousness.

"9"

Sweat poured down the back of his neck, drenching his clothes in the sticky, putrid solution. Each breath was a struggle to remain conscious as he felt his air becoming more restricted every time he tried to inhale. His right arm throbbed with every movement that he made, so he made as much progress with his left as he possibly could.
He grabbed wildly inside the metal casing, clutching wires in his trembling fingers. He could hardly make out any of the shapes, so he relied on the stripes of blurred colour for vision.

"8"

Clutching bunches of wires in each hand he quickly sorted through the Technicolor mess, working with haste, yet faltering a losing track. He felt himself drifting into a numb, agonising void. Blood poured from his fingertips like a morbid, red river, dousing the wires in a coat of crimson and splashing against the inside of the box.

"7"

He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest as if it were the skin of a drum, being pounded and beaten by tribesmen in a hunt. Concentrating on the wires, and trying his best to ignore the constant throbbing he felt throughout his body he rummaged frantically, discarding wires as quickly as possible from the masses in his hands.

"6"

The pile was getting smaller but he wasn't working quickly enough. Keeping his concentration was a mindnumbing battle and his temples seared and throbbed with every tiny movement. He breathed in heavily, filling his lungs with all the dust and scattered particles that the dummy explosion had unearthed.
The gas was getting into his brain, forcing him to gaze idly at his task without taking it in. He almost dropped the wires, but the sharp pain in his lungs woke him from his trance.


"5"

He felt as though he'd been stabbed in the chest, almost falling backwards with the wind knocked out of him. His next breath was more of a struggle than keeping sane. He closed his eyes tightly for a split second, bearing the pain and forcing himself to stay faithful to his life.
There wasn't much time left, but it still gave him a chance. If there was time left there was still hope.

"4"

He sorted through the coloured mess quicker than he knew he could, hit with a new found optimism, fuelled by the desire to see his children the next day. Hit with this new hope he found his sight returning slightly, allowing him to see what he needed to do.
He was getting close now. The menacing pile in front of him was almost halved and he knew he was nearing the wire he needed, he could feel it.
He was going to be alright

"3"

Making a final attempt to ignore the pain he scoured the surface of the bloodstained wires, praying he would see the one he needed. Tears welled within his eyes and he wiped them with his wrist, staining his face a deep shade of scarlet and making his eyes sting. His vision returned to a blur as his hope began to fade.
Holding his breath, he visualised the black wire in his head and grabbed down, clutching the first wire he found between finger and thumb and tearing it out.

"2"

Wrong wire. John felt his mind slipping into a mindless fit of rage. All care and worry seemed to pass and his judgement flew out the window. He began ripping out every wire he touched in an insane act of selfless terror. “At least one will be correct,” he prayed as he yanked everything he touched out of it’s place in the casing.
All sane thinking subsided from his mindset as he screamed and moaned with anguish until every last wire in the bomb that had destroyed him had been pulled out of place.

"1"

He hadn't found it!! The wiring he had been working with wasn’t part of the bomb!! Another decoy!! He watched in horror as the number on the screen blinked, knowing it was his final second of existence. As he watched the blurred number his glazed, swollen eyes began showing him visions. Time grinded to a halt as he imagined Star at the airport, cursing those maniacs who had stolen her life.
He would be with her soon
As he said his final prayer he sobbed his final words;

“I’m sorry.”

"0"

A blinding flash filled the room as Jonathan felt himself being flung violently through the air, sailing through a crumbling wall as the buildings around him trembled and shook like trees in a blizzard. His entire body seared with pain as shrapnel pierced his skin, slicing through his bones with ghastly cracks and tearing through him like he was paper. Blood poured from his wounds and any skin that wasn’t broken was severely burned. He felt his hair alight, torching the skin on his crown and melting his brain away. Yet he did not feel any more pain, he acknowledged the burning, but was not worried by it. He knew he was going to die, and the comfort of seeing his wife again made him unafraid.
He landed with a huge crash at the other end of the street. Careening through a nearby shop window, the glass slicing his throat and covering everything around him with blood. As he died he glanced around him as much as his neck would let him, seeing corpses strewn out over the streets like burning torches. He saw what he could have prevented.
The city, normally thriving and pure, was now a picture of utmost desolation. For miles he saw smouldering buildings collapse and fall to the ground, and imagined the lives he could have saved. Amidst the wasteland he heard the muffled cry of a small child, screaming in terror and pain and crying for her mother, who lay dead beside her.
He had died for nothing more than to be a martyr for his cause along with the millions of others in the city. He had failed in his mission, and he had failed the world.

The machines had won