Chapter 644

The Afghan man, Javad, woke to the morning call to prayer, though from his rooftop in Kabul, the sound felt muted, distant. He stretched, feeling the familiar aches in his twenty-seven-year-old body.

The city below was starting to stir, a low rumble of life beginning to awaken. He breathed in the cool air, the scent of dust and distant bread ovens faint on the breeze. It was a day like any other, or so it seemed.

Javad descended into his small home, the scent of cardamom tea already strong. His mother was in the kitchen, her movements slow, practiced. She placed a steaming glass in front of him, the ceramic warm against his hands. "Did you sleep well, Javad?" she asked, her eyes, the color of warm honey, regarding him with concern.

"As well as I ever do, Mother," he replied, taking a careful sip. The tea was perfect, bitter and sweet at once. He knew she worried about him, about his restless nights and the shadows that sometimes seemed to cling to him, remnants of years lived in the heart of conflict.

He finished his tea quickly and prepared to leave for the small mechanics shop where he worked. Outside, the streets were filling.

Donkeys carted vegetables, vendors shouted their wares, and the usual morning congestion was beginning. He navigated the narrow walkways, nodding to familiar faces, the everyday sounds of Kabul enveloping him.

At the shop, his employer, a stout man named Rahman, was already present, sorting tools. "Javad, good you are here," Rahman greeted him, his voice gruff but kind. "We have that truck to look at today, the one with the engine trouble."

Javad nodded, ready to begin. He loved working with his hands, the feel of metal and grease, the satisfaction of coaxing life back into broken machines. It was a quiet solace, a world away from the memories that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.

The morning proceeded in its expected fashion. They worked on the truck, the sounds of wrenches and hammers filling the small space. Rahman listened to the engine, a furrow in his brow. "Sounds like something internal," he grunted, wiping grease from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Javad leaned in, listening intently. He had a knack for diagnosing problems, an intuitive understanding of how things worked. He pointed to a specific area of the engine block. "I think it is there, Rahman Sahib. Perhaps a cracked manifold."

Rahman considered this, then nodded slowly. "Could be, could be. Let's take a closer look."

As they worked, a different kind of sound began to filter into the shop, faint at first, almost imperceptible. It was a popping sound, like distant fireworks, but irregular, without celebration. They ignored it initially, attributing it to the general background of city sounds.

However, the popping grew louder, more frequent. It began to carry a distinct sharpness, a metallic crack that resonated differently. Rahman stopped hammering, his head cocked, listening. "What is that?" he asked, a note of unease entering his voice.

Javad paused, his wrench still in hand. He listened intently, the sound now unmistakable. Gunfire. But it was not the usual scattered shots he was familiar with. This was widespread, chaotic, coming from multiple directions.

He stepped out of the shop, peering down the street. People were starting to react, their usual bustle replaced by confusion, then apprehension. Some stopped walking, looking around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Others began to quicken their pace, a sense of urgency taking hold.

Then, a scream pierced through the growing unease. A woman's shriek, sharp and terrified, followed by another, and another.

The gunfire intensified, closer now, echoing between the buildings. The sounds of shouting joined the mix, but not shouts of alarm or warning, something else, something harsher, more primal.

Javad felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. This was not like anything he had experienced before. Even during the worst times in Kabul, there had been a certain terrible logic to the violence, a reason, however twisted. This felt different, senseless.

He saw a man running past the shop, his face contorted in a strange expression, eyes wide and wild. He clutched something in his hand – a pistol, small and black. He wasn't running away from something; he seemed to be searching for something.

Another shot, much closer this time, cracked the air. From inside the shop, Rahman swore loudly. Javad turned back to him, his expression mirroring Rahman's growing alarm. "Something bad is happening," Javad said, his voice low.

Rahman nodded, his face pale. "Very bad. We need to get inside, lock the door."

They hurried back into the shop, pulling the heavy wooden door shut and bolting it from the inside. The sounds outside were escalating rapidly. Screams, gunshots, shouts, now mixed with the shattering of glass and the heavy thud of impacts. It was becoming a maelstrom of violence.

They huddled inside the shop, the thick walls offering a small measure of protection, but the sounds were still overwhelming. Javad pressed his ear to the door, trying to make sense of what was occurring. He heard raised voices, furious and unintelligible, close by.

"What in God's name is it?" Rahman muttered, his voice trembling.

Javad shook his head. He did not know. But the feeling growing inside him was chilling. It felt like something unnatural, something gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Then, he heard a new sound, distinct and horrifying. A man's voice, yelling, but not in anger or pain. It was a sound of pure, unbridled rage, a guttural roar that seemed to come from the depths of madness. And then, more shots, very close, impacting something solid just outside the shop.

Rahman scrambled back, away from the door, his eyes wide with terror. "They are out there," he whispered, "They are right outside."

Javad moved slowly to a small window at the back of the shop, peering cautiously through a crack in the dusty glass.

What he saw made his blood run cold. The street outside was unrecognizable. It was filled with people, but not the people he knew.

Their faces were twisted, their eyes alight with a terrifying fervor. Many of them held guns – pistols, rifles, even larger weapons he couldn't immediately identify. And they were turning on each other.

He watched as two men, who just moments before might have been neighbors, perhaps even friends, faced off in the middle of the street.

One raised a pistol, firing point-blank into the other's chest. The victim crumpled to the ground, and the shooter let out another of those chilling roars, then turned, scanning the street, as if searching for another target.

It was not a fight for territory, or for resources, or for anything he could understand. It was just violence, pure and senseless, unleashed with a horrifying intensity. And the guns…the guns seemed to be the focus, the objects of this terrible transformation.

Javad backed away from the window, his mind reeling. "It's the guns," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Something is happening with the guns."

Rahman stared at him, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about? Guns? It's just…madness. People have gone mad."

"No," Javad insisted, his mind racing, trying to grasp the impossible. "It's like…the guns are making them do it. They are…infected." The word felt absurd even as he spoke it, but no other explanation seemed to fit the horrifying reality unfolding outside.

He looked around the shop, his eyes falling on a rusted rifle hanging on the wall, a relic from some past conflict, a forgotten thing. He instinctively recoiled, a primal fear surging through him. It was as if the gun itself was radiating something, something malevolent.

"We need to get out of here," he said urgently, his voice regaining strength. "This shop…it is not safe. We need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere without…" he hesitated, searching for the right word, "…without influence."

Rahman looked at him, still dazed, but a flicker of understanding began to dawn in his eyes. "Influence? What influence?"

"The guns," Javad repeated, pointing to the rifle on the wall. "They are doing this. I feel it. We cannot be near them."

It sounded insane, even to him. But watching the carnage outside, the mindless, gun-fueled violence, a terrible certainty was forming in his mind. The guns were not just weapons; they were something else, something that had taken hold of people's minds, twisting them, turning them into killing machines.

They moved to the back of the shop, searching for another exit. There was a small door leading to a narrow alleyway, usually used for deliveries. It was flimsy, less secure than the front, but it was their only option.

Javad carefully unbolted the back door, listening intently. The sounds of violence were still raging, but it seemed slightly less intense in this back alley. He pushed the door open a crack, peering out. The alley was deserted, cluttered with overflowing bins and discarded boxes, but no people, at least not yet.

"Come on," he urged Rahman, pulling the door wider. "We have to move now."

They slipped out into the alley, the stench of refuse filling their nostrils. They moved quickly, keeping close to the walls, trying to stay hidden. The alley twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the labyrinthine backstreets of Kabul.

As they moved, they passed other shops, other homes. Some were silent, seemingly deserted. Others were scenes of carnage, doors smashed open, interiors ransacked, the sickeningly sweet smell of blood hanging heavy in the air. It was as if a wave of brutal madness had washed over the city, leaving destruction and death in its wake.

They came to a wider street, cautiously peeking around the corner. The scene was even worse here. Bodies lay scattered across the road, vehicles were overturned and burning, plumes of black smoke rising into the sky.

People were still fighting, shooting, screaming, a horrific ballet of death playing out under the morning sun.

Javad felt a wave of despair wash over him. It was as if the world had ended, not with a bang or a whimper, but with the deafening roar of gunfire, and the sickening cries of humanity tearing itself apart. He looked at Rahman, his face etched with fear and exhaustion. "Where do we go?" Rahman asked, his voice hollow.

Javad had no answer. He had no plan, no destination. All he knew was that they had to escape the guns, escape the madness. He scanned the street, his eyes searching for anything, any sign of hope, any direction to take.

Then, he saw something. A small doorway, almost hidden in the shadows of a crumbling building. It looked old, unused, but it offered a possibility of shelter, a temporary refuge from the chaos. "There," he said, pointing to the doorway. "Maybe we can hide there, just for a while, until…until we figure out what to do."

They made their way to the doorway, darting between overturned carts and piles of debris. As they reached it, Javad saw something else, something that made his heart sink. Leaning against the wall, just beside the doorway, was a rifle. Not just any rifle, but a sleek, modern assault rifle, black and menacing.

He froze, staring at it, a cold dread gripping him. It was like the gun was waiting for them, an invitation into the heart of the madness. He could feel its pull, a strange, unsettling compulsion, drawing him towards it.

Rahman saw it too, and recoiled, stepping back, his eyes wide with terror. "No," he whispered, "No, we cannot go there. It's…it's too close."

Javad hesitated. He knew Rahman was right. The gun was a danger, a focal point of the infection. But the doorway…it was the only shelter they had seen, the only chance of escaping the open street.

He looked back at the street, at the ongoing carnage, the relentless violence fueled by the unseen force emanating from the guns. Then he looked at the doorway, at the rifle leaning against the wall, a silent sentinel guarding the only possible escape.

A decision formed in his mind, a desperate, terrible gamble. He had to try. He had to risk it, for Rahman, for himself, for any chance of survival, however slim. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I have to move it," he said, his voice low but resolute. "I have to get it away from the door, so we can get inside."

Rahman stared at him, his face a mask of fear. "Javad, no! It's too dangerous. Don't touch it!"

But Javad was already moving. He approached the rifle slowly, cautiously, his eyes fixed on it, as if it were a living thing, something that could strike at any moment. He reached out, his hand trembling, and grasped the cold metal of the barrel.

As his fingers closed around the gun, a jolt went through him, a searing, burning sensation that seemed to explode in his brain.

His vision blurred, his thoughts became disjointed, and a wave of pure, unadulterated rage flooded his consciousness. It was like a voice, not a sound, but a feeling, a primal command, echoing inside his skull. Use it. Use it. Kill.

He staggered back, dropping the rifle as if it were burning him. He clutched his head, groaning, trying to fight off the overwhelming sensation, the terrible urge that had taken hold of him. The world swam before his eyes, the sounds of violence outside intensified, merging with the raging voice inside his mind.

Rahman watched him, his eyes filled with horror. He understood now. He saw the change in Javad's face, the same terrifying fervor he had witnessed on the faces of the shooters in the street. He saw the gun lying on the ground, radiating its unseen influence.

Javad looked at Rahman, his eyes no longer his own. They were wide, wild, alight with a terrible purpose. He reached down, picked up the rifle again, his movements now fluid, almost graceful, driven by the unseen force.

He raised the weapon, pointing it not at the doorway, not at the chaos in the street, but at Rahman, his friend, his companion in this unfolding nightmare.

Rahman did not run. He did not scream. He just looked at Javad, his eyes filled with an unbearable sadness, a profound understanding of the horror that had consumed them all. He saw not Javad, his friend, but something else, something twisted and broken, a victim of the gun's terrible infection.

And Javad, or whatever was left of him, pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was swallowed by the ongoing cacophony, just another fleeting crack in the symphony of destruction.

Rahman crumpled to the ground, lifeless, another casualty in the world's final, gun-fueled frenzy. Javad stood over him for a moment, the rifle still in his hands, his face blank, his eyes searching, already seeking his next target in the endless battle royale that had become reality.

He was no longer Javad, the Afghan mechanic. He was simply a weapon, wielded by something unseen, lost in the madness, forever consumed by the gun's infection, his story ending not with a bang, but with the cold, empty click of a trigger and the brutal silence that followed.