Reads: 338  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 2

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Four minutes. Four minutes until it begins.
My first story.

Submitted: September 10, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 10, 2016



The chattering of typewriters filled the building.

Four more minutes. Four more minutes until it started.

“Up!” A stern voice pierced the air of the large office. The workers covered their type writers and the noise of their work stopped.

“Turn Left!”

 The workers complied.

“Move!”  The man was yelling into the intercom. His voice echoed throughout the warehouse. There was nothing to absorb his voice, the only soft things were the people, but they were still cold. They started the march, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. They fed into 10 perfect columns preparing to vacate the building.

The industrial steel doors swung open at a frustratingly slow speed, but the workers did not mind, except one, number 86739. He started tapping his foot impatiently, a mistake on his part, the hard click of his leather shoes echoed, his fellow workers pivoted to stare at him. Number 56348 glared at him for a whole 30 seconds, until the doors opened completely and the sterile smell of the warehouse was broken by the stench of the industrial complex.

Two minutes. Only two more, and all of number 86439’s dreams would be realised.

Workers from all four warehouses syphoned into the square, the Peace Keepers were waiting. A podium had been erected at one end of the square, in front of building 3, directly opposite number 86439’s building. Plain black banners had been hung from the surrounding walls, already, mud and dirt had started to climb up the flags. The courtyard buzzed with anticipation and reserved excitement. A figure arose behind the microphone upon the podium. With the sun blocked by the fog, number 86439 could hardly see the man. Then a heavy light flickered and the spot light powered up, the man squinted. It was the General Chief Administrate, Number 187. His pale face stood out against the darkness of his suit and the building behind him, making it look as if it was floating in mid-air.

One minute. Number 86439 wondered who else knew. He peered between the columns and rows for signs of discontent.

Screech! The microphone was activated.

“Welcome, workers, I wish to start today by commemorating your hard work, for the good of this glorious city.” Number 187 had a stern yet comforting voice, like a father, who wishes to protect his children through instruction.

Thirty seconds. Number 86439 didn’t know how it was going to happen but it was happening soon.

He was worried, he knew when it started he would have to fight, but the Peace Keeper’s guns presented a good reason not to. He’d seen what they could do, Number 58732 had been a victim of their violent methods.

The General Chief Administrates’ voice returned to 86439’s attention.

“And today of course is the day of...”Screeeeech!

The Peace Keepers turned to look at each other with uncertainty. Number 86439’s ears pricked up and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

It was starting. The music, the start of something better.

“Dun dun. tick tick.”

“Dun dun. tick tick.”

“The warden threw a party in the county jail”

“The prison band was there and they started to wail…”

“What is the meaning of this!” the Administrate screamed.

Chaos erupted in the square. Workers covered their ears, while others started fighting with the Peace Keepers. Some took their weapons, others only had one intention: To kill as many of them as possible.

Bang!Number 187 fell down dead.

“Let’s rock! Everybody, let’s rock!”

86439 finally mobilized, he run to lean up against his warehouse wall. Thump. A bag fell from a window high above him. The smoke of the gunfire had blocked his vision; he couldn’t see which window it had come from. He opened it hesitantly, inside was an array of weapons, batons, knives and of course, firearms, all with red bandanas tied to them. He fumbled for something light and easy to operate. A pistol! Perfect!

“Little Joe was blowin’ on the slide trombone”

“The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, bang, BOOM!”

Warehouse Two exploded. Workers and Peace Keepers had to withstand the onslaught of falling bricks, steel and machinery. The podium was on fire, and the smoke hindered 86439’s glasses useless, he couldn’t see more than 6 metres in front of him. The rebellious workers had produced red cloth and were tying it around their heads and wrists, 86439 knew who to kill and who not to. he hastily tied his bandana tightly around his wrist to be sure it did not come off. The courtyard was littered with injured and dead. He couldn’t believe it they were actually going to be free!

“Come on and do the Jailhouse Rock with…” Screeeeech!

The music stopped. 86439 could hear vents begin to consume the smoke as his vision cleared.

“Thank you for participating in today’s simulation.” The stern voice from the start travelled through the intercom again.

“Return to your work”

Back into the warehouse, back to work.

The chattering of typewriters filled the building.

© Copyright 2018 JK.ROFLing. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:


More Science Fiction Short Stories

Booksie 2018 Poetry Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by JK.ROFLing


Short Story / Science Fiction

Popular Tags