CHAZILLION DEATH -Speculative Fiction

If Guy refuses to exterminate alien babies, the government will kill him. In dystopia Norway, Guy has no choice but to accept the job assigned to him. But his wife, Kjersti has other plans.

I am forced to kill their babies. "The grim reaper of birth," the media calls me. I didn't ask for this job. Hell, no one asks for their job.

"No more wasting years and money at college for an education you will not use," when the advertisement announced the lavish app Forecaster, almost like an IQ test of industry. Forecaster took the world by storm. At first, it appeared as a rage, somewhat like a trend. Soon, the government took over, as they always do.

"The problem with our current way of life," Senator Hall had said, "is too much lying, cheating, and stealing. If we could use Forecaster in every elementary school, we could curate each child's education to produce bedrock individuals." And like that, Forecaster picked our jobs.

Not many of us, baby killers, enjoy our employment, but Fritz Johansen does. Fritz directs the entire Norwegian continent. While struggling to breathe during our run, I look at this homicidal maniac. I hate running, yet he keeps inviting me to run through Vakker Kvadratisk in the mornings with him. Fritz loves the park.

"The other runners at the park give me energy." He always claims.

Fritz's face shows no pain or effort when he runs. He rarely even sweats, but I do. We end at the waterfall where the statue of the Madonna cradles a cherub baby. I swirl my hand in the cold water and cool my face with it.

"I must head out. I just want to compliment you on a job well done," Fritz says, referring to my earlier kills. "I will catch up with you later this evening." I hate Fritz, but he is my boss. His very existence seems fueled with each baby that we massacre. As he struts away with authority, a shiver runs across my arms, and I wipe my hands repeatedly on my corduroy pants. Fritz leaves me feeling drained, as if he sucks the essence of my soul. I hate running with him.

I try to shake off the encounter as I pass the tinted glass greenhouse. I pause to look at my reflection. -My all-silver teeth catch the sun and glimmer. I quickly close my mouth to hide my biggest flaw. I should accept these teeth, but I never have. My long blond hair flutters in the wind. Does it make me look like the god Thor? All the girls used to drool over Thor. Was it right to find an attraction to a god? But, since I had these stupid teeth, I had to do something to offset the girl's abhorrence of me. So, I have chased the image of Thor ever since, trying to look like him, even though Thor doesn't woo the girls today as he did in my childhood, the Norsk religion of Odin slipping away. My hand sweeps my hair out of my face, and I flash myself a sexy look without opening my mouth. Yeah, I got it!

"Nice," a woman behind me says. I look at her reflection and feel flattered to see a lady at least ten years younger checking me out. Without thinking, I smile at her.

Her face squints in disgust, and she looks away. Dang me. I had forgotten and showed her those damnable teeth. I rub my hands against my pants as I try to think of something witty to say.

She sneaks another glance at me, and then her face lights up.

"It is you," she says. "The grim reaper of birth."

Embarrassed, I push past her in a hurry.

"Grim reaper of birth." -my title, my brand.

The world hates me. I hate me.

"Sorry!" a Chazillion screeches in a high-pitched sound after bumping into me. I cover my ears and look up as I continue in the sea of bodies commuting on the sidewalk.

Chazillions. I shudder. I still haven't grown accustomed to their kind mingling among us. Most people aren't. That is why I have my job.

"Alien refugees."

"Beep," goes the alarm on my watch. Another Chazillion baby is about to be born, and I must be there to deliver it.

Then kill it.

After the deed is done, I walk in the door of my monolithic home, nausea gripping my stomach. I don't enjoy the work I do. If I lived in the days when I could pick my career, it wouldn't be this, that is for sure.

I see my family at the kitchen table. I try to shift my thoughts to them and forget about the life I just ended.

My beautiful wife, Kjersti, stands next to my twelve-year-old son, Fimbul, as he does his homework. I know after a grueling day as an elementary teacher, my wife doesn't enjoy helping with homework. The dark bags under her eyes seem more prominent lately. She hates teaching. She wouldn't have picked her career either.

"How was your day?" I ask Fimubl, rubbing the top of his head.

"Ha, ha, you're doing it again." Fimbul laughs in ugliness. "How was your day," he repeats, using my slur.

My tongue glides across my silver teeth as if willing them to change back to regular teeth. I have spent my life trying to master my speech, but the slur slips out when I don't concentrate on it�"damnable teeth.

My thoughts immediately return to age twelve at the academic social club. I detested club.

"Say sister Sussie sitting on a thistle," Asbjørn, the bully, taunted me during club. All the kids formed a circle around me and egged him on. Since I had lost my natural teeth, this marked me as the target of ridicule. My dad promised all silver teeth would make me cool. No. They destroyed my life. I slumped to a ball on the ground, ducking under my arms as the kids launched their snack wrappers at my head.

"Guy," Kjersti calls to me as she rushes over for a kiss. I pull out of my memory as her lips near mine. She turns away. "You smell like Chazillion death." Her face wrinkles in disgust. I hate when she looks at me like that.

"I didn't pick this job," I say in defense as I madly wipe my hands on my pants.

"Doesn't change the fact that you have blood on your hands."

I look at my clean pink hands. Even though I don't see blood, I feel it.

The toilet from the bathroom flushes, and Roald Larsen walks out.

What is my wife's boss doing here?

Roald has his hand out from a mile away to shake mine as he strides up to me.

What is he doing here?

"Guy, always a pleasure," he says, vigorously pumping my hand up and down. He sits next to my son, where I notice a tea setting for Roald. Why is Kjersti serving him tea?

"Principal Larsen," I reply, then wipe his touch off on my pants.

"Dad," Fimbul says, looking up from his computer. "I can't find the answer. Do you know which country was first to counter-strike in the Chazillion's war?"

"It was the Russians," I reply, not looking at my son but eyeballing Roald. Why would my wife entertain a man while I was gone? Does she do this often?

"That's not true," Kjersti interjects. "The world didn't counter-strike in the Chazillion war. They started it. I am not even sure the Russians killed the first Chazillions. I think it was many countries combined."

"Kjersti," my voice goes shrill. "You can't teach him that!"

Kjersti's face hardens. "I can't teach my son the world's true history?"

I glance at Roald, who seems superbly interested in our conversation. Kjersti better watch herself. Her boss could report her.

"Kjersti, what are you doing?" I ask.

Kjersti turns to Roald, and the two's eyes embrace. Is that a question they share, or is it a love passing between them?

"Guy," Kjersti says in that tone of voice I hate. "You know as well as I do that the history we teach our kids is false. You were there for the war. You know what happened."

My hands feel on fire, burning from within. I rub them together, but that only intensifies the heat.

"Kjersti, don't forget all those they have executed for teaching the true history." I look down at Fimbul, who watches us with a look of shock. I bet he didn't know our world was a lie.

Kjersti's face reddens. "I can't take it anymore, Guy. And neither should you. The Chazillions did nothing wrong. They escaped the destruction of their planet and found Earth. We should have welcomed them, not slaughtered them."

"We did welcome them."

"No, Guy, we most certainly did not," Roald interjects. Who invited him into my conversation with my family? "When they invaded our planet by the millions, we had no choice but to offer hospitality. The Chazillions were graceful guests. Peaceful creatures. But our people feared them. We often fear what we do not understand. We were on edge with them. Our media constantly struck terror into our hearts, painting the Chazillions as blood-savage aliens. The minute we created a reason, we slaughtered them."

"That isn't what I have learned at all," Fimbul says, squinting his eyes.

"Fimbul, you should probably go to your room," I say, staring at Roald. Who is this imposter sitting at my table, in my house, using my wife's tea set?

"No, stay," Kjersti says.

"Is this what you teach your students at school?" I challenge Roald.

"You know I can't," he snaps at me. My fists ball up. Do I need to remind him I am not one of his students or teachers that he can talk down to and that he is in my presence, my home? My hands limp. I can't hit him. I am not violent. I could never harm another person.

Yet, you kill babies. I remind myself.

"Listen," Kjersti places her hand on my tense shoulders and rubs them. "Let us all calm down. Principle Larsen and I have no choice in what we teach our students. But enough is enough. In my home, the truth can reign."

"I don't know what you plan to accomplish by teaching Fimbul information that will only get him killed if he speaks of it outside these walls."

Fimbul sinks in his chair, evident worry on his face.

Kjersti and Roald again share an eye embrace.

"Guy, Principal Larsen came to speak to us. He has something important to share." Kjersti looks at Fimbul. "Maybe this is a good point to go to your room," she says.

I can tell Fimbul doesn't want to go as he slowly enters his room. When we hear the door close, Kjersti continues.

"Please listen to Principal Larsen with an open mind."

I want to slug Roald, but I slump into a chair as a coward, allowing this man to speak of things he shouldn't in my home.

"Guy, do you find joy in being a baby killer? Does it bring you satisfaction and peace?"

My adrenalin skyrockets. How dare he! And yet, like the weak loser I am, I permit him to continue. My eyes look at my itching hands in my lap.

"I know you don't. Kjersti has told me as much."

What else has my wife told you about me? Does she tell you about our love life as well?

I remember the wrong we inflicted on the Chazillions. We used downright evil and inhumane methods. Sure, they are not humans, but they are life. Life needs protection no matter where the life comes from. How dare we think ourselves above them? The Chazillions appear infinitely smarter than humans in every way. The only reason we have the advantage is our blood-thirsty natures, while they cling to peace.

I remember the first time I saw the Chazillions on TV. We all held our breath as they exited their space crafts.

They poured out like ants escaping a flooded hole. Tall creatures standing at nine feet rushed out. Their skin had a mixture of teal and purple. -human looking, and yet not. They had long antennas protruding out of their sides. Pretty much the rest of their limbs looked like ours. They had a similar face to us, yet their features were harsh and offset.

And how we feared them. Every government in the world put aside their differences and united�"every finger on the trigger. And we waited...We waited for an excuse to annihilate them. At first, they didn't give us one.

The Chazillions shared their technology with us, which surpassed ours. They were frugal and had great ideas to help save our planet from our own destruction.

As the peaceful years passed, our people became divided on the opinions of our new inhabitants. We either accepted them, or we hated them.

The media created chaos and panic, constantly reminding us that, yes, the Chazillions were peaceful, but they were planning to take over our planet at any minute. And even though the Chazillions never gave us a reason to distrust them, we did.

They lived among us for five years in complete peace, yet we attacked. We had found what we were waiting for.

Someone had caught on video a Chazillion stomping on a small child and killing her. The media ran wild with that clip, painting the Chazillions as truly vicious killing beings, waiting to unleash their true self. The media didn't show the beginning of the video with the child stuck in a burning car. Her mother had approached the Chazillion and begged the Chazillion to rescue her child. The Chazillion pulled the car apart and rescued the burning child. In attempts to put out the fire, the Chazillion foolishly stomped on the child, causing the child to die.

With the media brainwashing us on how to think, we went to war against the Chazillions. It was a one-sided war. We made all the killing. We have no accounts of the Chazillions killing any humans in that war. We probably would have destroyed all the aliens if the pro-life groups hadn't stopped us. So, in a disgusting compromise, we gathered the rest of the Chazillions and put a good number of them in torture camps while allowing some to remain as partial citizens, actually, more like unwanted guests. How did the government classify who got freedom and who didn't?

And like that, the government rewrote our history as all world powers united into one central government. Humans couldn't look like savages. Oh no, we must give the Chazillions all the blame.

And then they created my job�"the grim reaper of death. The pro-lifers couldn't stop this.

Up to that point, I practiced as a midwife. But suddenly, my job changed to more than just delivering Chazillion babies.

I killed them.

"Principal Larsen has come to ask you to save the Chazillion babies," Kjersti says, drawing my attention to her.

"What!" I yell out.

Kjersti and Roald stare at each other. I wish they would stop the intense eye locks.

"I can't. How would I? Do you know what you are asking?"

"Guy, I know you do not like killing their babies. How could you? Nonetheless, you are killing life. You will have to atone for that in front of God one day."

"I do not believe in your God," I say. "I follow Odin. Odin killed."

Roald remains silent. I have stomped on probably his biggest debate tool. -God.

Kjersti places her hand softly on mine. Has Roald felt her soft hands? "Guy, you are not a murderer. Listen to Principal Larsen."

How has he lured my wife into his thinking?

"Guy, I have a network that saves and rescues the Chazillions. You could have an intricate role in this work. Tell me, when you kill a baby, what do you do with its body?"

"I put it in a portable incinerator."

"So, you do not have to account for any bodies?"

"No."

"Then, how easy it would be for you to save these lives. Nature's most precious and vulnerable creations."

"Not our nature."

Roald and Kjersti look at each other. Kjersti shakes her head.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to keep the Chazillion babies alive after each birth and then send them to you."

"On, no, not me," Roald laughs. "I play a distinct role in this complex operation. You will have a different contact. They have a fail-proof design for you to smuggle the babies to them. You are not the first baby-killer we have recruited. But you are vital to the cause."

"Who is this contact?"

"I will never know. The least I know, the safer the operation is. We all play vital roles, but our information is limited."

Roald stands next to Kjersti.

"That is too close," I shout. Get away from my wife.

"What is too close?" Roald asks.

"Never mind," I say, not meeting his gaze. Why am I such a coward?

"You know, Fitz Johansen is my boss?" I say.

"What is his role in this?" Roald asks.

"Well, he was the head lobbyist in passing the law for Chazillion genocide."

"And, I am currently working on Chazillion sterilization," Fitz's voice booms out as he walks into the kitchen.

My heart spazzes in my chest. What is Fritz doing here? I am pretty sure Roald's and Kjersti's heart explodes as well. Fitz often stops by unannounced. And here he is, possibly a witness to a conversation that could get us all killed.

How long has he been here?

How much did he hear?

***

Nine months pass, and I haven't heard a word from Roald. Fritz's uninvited appearance rocks our world. What had he heard?

But nothing happens to us. Indeed, if Fritz had listened to our conversation, we would have been executed unless he is waiting. -waiting to catch us, allowing us to lead him to the lair of the operation. If Fritz plans on gleaning information from me, he will only discover disappointment. I don't know anything.

My execution could come at any minute. The waiting tortures my peace. But life goes on, and Fritz never acts suspicious of me. In fact, he promotes me to his position as Director of Genocide as he focuses more time on passing the bill for Chazillion sterilization. Most likely, Fritz had only entered my house when we were talking about him. But I just don't know, and I feel relieved that Roald and Kjersti don't talk about things of treason anymore to me.

***

"Cattle die,

friends die,

and the same with you;

but I know of something that never dies

and that's a dead person's deeds."

I try to hide the irony of this verse during my poetic reading of Hávamál. Would all my killings of babies tarnish my name after I die?

"And, that is verses 1-80 known as Gestaþáttr. Tomorrow night, I will recite verses 81-102 about Odin and love." I had slurred a little too much during my reading. I cover my mouth with my hand.

Kjersti has given me a two-week cruise starting in the Aurlandsfjord to celebrate my promotion. She doesn't like that I am the director of killing babies, but she loves that my pay has increased three-fold. When the cruise director discovers I am well-versed in the Elder Edda Manuscript full of Odin's speeches, he invited me to share them each night.

The small gathering claps as I take a modest bow. How disappointing that more didn't show up for such a sacred experience. The last four generations don't appreciate the beauty of Hávamál poetry. I am an anomaly.

The cruise director places his hand on the back of my right elbow and says, "Come, we have a small reception celebrating Odin on the fifth deck." I put my left hand out for Kjersti and allow the director to usher us to the fifth deck.

We enter a small room with about twenty people around a table. It doesn't feel like a reception. The all-metal door bangs closed as a giant bar secures it and locks us in. I rub my hands on my black tux and look around the room. None of these people were at my poetry reading. Kjersti, the director, and I are the only ones in formal attire. Something seems amiss. I scan the faces and trip over my feet as I see Roald seated at the table.

"What is going on?" I turn to the director in fear.

"It is okay," Kjersti says. "Don't be alarmed. Take a seat and hear us out."

Is she in on this coup? Of course, she is. Kjersti had "given" me this trip as a "celebration". Her mom agreed to watch Fimbul for us.

Roald stands and snakes his power-hungry hand at me. This time, I don't take it.

"Kjersti and Guy, thank you for coming."

I have been duped.

"Guy, please take a seat and be open to what we have to share."

No way I will sit for this man. But, with all eyes on me, I crumble into a chair.

"Guy, as Director of Genocide, you are in an all-powerful position. You could be invaluable to our movement."

The meeting goes on for the rest of the night. Anger surges in me. How could Kjersti beguile me like this?

I want to kick her out of our stateroom, wishing nothing to do with her, but she might find refuge with Roald if I do. I refuse to talk with her or anyone else for the rest of the trip.

The ship ride feels excruciatingly long, especially since they refuse to let us off the fifth deck. Our destination is a secret, keeping me in the dark to its location.

Finally, after over a week of Hel, we dissent the ship.

What I see blows me away. A village of Chazillions. The bright sun burns my eyes since I haven't seen natural light for the duration of my capture. Tears run down my cheeks as my eyes burn, but I feel delighted standing outside again.

The island appears unlike anywhere on Earth I have ever seen. They have built dwellings in a manner not familiar to human's structures. Chazillion's buildings resembled the monolithic domes we live in, but they have shapes pieced together like the ancient Tetris game. What are the shapes made from? -somewhat like concrete and wood, yet nothing like it?

I have never seen plants and flowers like theirs. Did they bring them from their planet?

I enjoy the partial tour of their island. It seems larger than I thought. Immediately, I feel the peace and love the civilization has. The Chazillions are industrial creatures, and they have gardens and shops skillfully laid out on a grid system.

Every minute of my day I spend learning about the Chazillions. They share images of their home planet. They present me with plays and poetry. They demonstrate some of their inventions, which will change our world if we obtain them.

Why do we fear them? I can't help but fall in love with them. They are nothing like the media had led us to believe.

"And you see all their young running around," Agot, the tour guide, says with a smile. "We rescued most of the youth that lives here from extermination at birth."

I shudder at the thought. Their children are delightful and polite. They all seem highly talented and artistic compared to human kids. They excel our young in every way.

Are we really killing them off?

How many Chazillion babies have I killed?

As the director, how many will I be responsible for destroying before they even have a chance at life?

"How did your teeth grow silver," a young Chazillion asks me as she touches each tooth. She has mastered our language phenomenally.

"I had weak teeth and didn't take care of them. When I was young, they removed all my teeth and replaced them with these silver teeth. I hate them."

The Chazillion's eyes lit up. "I have never seen anything like them. You should love them."

Maybe she is right. They do make me unique yet, they ruined my childhood from all the teasing I had gotten. Because kids constantly tormented me, I think my teeth made me a coward.

I remain a prisoner on the island for three days, and on the last night, we sit in their stadium and watch a marvelous show of aurora borealis. Breathe-taking streaks of light illuminate the sky. Children sit all around me. And although the northern lights seem the finest I have ever seen, I can only feel my guilt as my heart aches for the destruction I have caused on this race of living creatures.

***

"He is captured!" Kjersti's voice, high and shrill, blares through the phone. "The government came and took him in the middle of the day."

"Where did they take Fimbul?" I yell.

She didn't hear me as she frantically continued. "A whole swat team busted into our school. They cuffed Roald! What am I to do without him? He wasn't the only one they took. They took Birgit, Rakel, and Siri."

"So, not Fimbul," I ask, hoping.

"Who said anything about Fimbul?" She barks. "They took my boss and three of the teachers."

"Why did they take them?" I ask again.

"For their help with rescuing Chazillions."

My lungs have tightened. "Are you at risk?"

"I don't know. If they knew my involvement, they would have taken me then. But, if anyone talks, then we are doomed. They don't just take the resisters. They take the whole family."

***

I think back to that phone call three months ago. I know I should feel pity for Roald. I guess deep down, he had decency. He did a lot for the Chazillion aliens. But, I feel relieved having him away from my wife. They seem too close.

But we live on the edge all the time.

-Waiting for our turn to be taken.

***

As the new director, I reorganized the Chazillion Genocide project to secretly rescue babies as we safely can, introducing cremators. No longer will the midwives kill the babies. The cremators will come in and take over the killing. That way, the cremators with the resistance can smuggle the babies to safety.

I now have twenty-two midwives/cremators assembled. Of the cremators, thirteen work with the resistance. If one cremator gets caught, the government will kill me, not only me but Kjersti and Fimbul. Well, maybe Kjersti deserves it since this is her movement, but not my sweet Fimbul.

I look at my watch. I have to leave in ten minutes to kill a baby. If there isn't an available midwife or cremator, like today, I get called to fill the spot. But, at least as director, I now murder far less than I used to.

A team of smugglers will meet me at Vakker Kvadratis, and I will deliver the baby to them, where they will get the baby safely to Chazillion Island.

I stand and rub my hands on my pants. I don't like being this involved with the operation of saving babies. So much could go wrong.

I think of Benjamin Thorpe's Pocket Hávamál to give me courage.

"A cowardly man

thinks he will ever live,

if warfare he avoids;

but old age will

give him no peace,

though spears may spare him."

I grab my toolbox and head to the door.

I must do this.

***

Why would the contact choose this place? Hordes of people pass my truck as I watch for a brown cargo van. I have already dropped the trailer that holds the Chazillion baby. My instructions say that when the van arrives, I pull away. They will swoop in, hook up the trailer, and rescue the baby.

The trailer rocks back and forth as the Chazillion baby must be doing something inside it. Every now and then, it squeals, and my nerves electrify when it does. I look around at all the people walking or running by, and no one seems to notice.

I notice.

I do not want to be here. This is Kjersti's cause, not mine. I am too much of a coward for this line of work.

The trailer shakes as a high-pitched squeal explodes. I grip the steering wheel and look around. How is it that everyone is so oblivious? I scan for the brown van. Where are they already?

The trailer settles, and so does my heart rate. I watch a man and woman as they loudly fight, unconcerned about the scene they make.

Pound, pound, pound!

I jump and turn to the passenger window. There is Fritz!

What is Fritz doing here!

Fritz can't be here.

No, no, no! This is all wrong.

I jump out of my vehicle and run to the passenger side.

"Fritz," I say, my voice high and tense.

"Ah, Guy. You came to run with me?" I last ran with him when I became director.

I look at my watch. How stupid of me. Of course, this is the time and place that Fritz runs.

How stupid I am.

"I almost regret making you director," he laughs. "I miss my running partner."

I haven't missed it.

I vigorously rub my hands on my pants. I scan around for the brown van. It better not show up right now.

Fritz looks at his watch. "How about a quick run," he says.

"Well, I can't really, I am actually working now."

"Oh," he says, giving me a puzzled look.

"Yeah, one of our cremators was sick, so I um, I will do his job for him."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Well, um, Dag, the midwife, said the baby has about, about thirty minutes to go, so I am, I am just waiting here for the call."

"Oh, then you have time for a run," Fritz says.

Maybe if I run with Fritz, I can get him away from the trailer, and the team can pick it up.

"Sure," I say, looking at my feet. "I don't have on running clothes, but let's do it, for old-time sakes."

Fritz slaps my back.

"That's my boy," he says.

I start running, but Fritz doesn't follow. I turn and look at him.

"Hey, let's stretch first," he says as he leans against the trailer and rotates his legs.

The trailer shakes, and my lungs seize up. I can't breathe. That baby, what is it doing? Stop, baby, please stop. Oh Odien, please stop that baby.

"What?" Fritz says as he walks to the back of the trailer. "What is in there?"

I look away and don't answer. Screeching accompanies the shaking. Fritz turns to me with a look on his face I have never seen before. The look scares me with a fear as I have never known.

"Is there a Chazillion in there?" He asks. Without waiting for me to answer, Fritz opens the back of the trailer and walks in.

"Guy, explain the meaning of this!"

I could run. I could live in the underground. Maybe they will let me live on the Chazillion Island. How about I punch him.

"GUY!"

Who am I kidding? I can't punch him. Like a dutiful slave to his master, I enter the trailer.

Fritz wears the betrayal on his face. "How could you, Guy? I trusted you. How could you join the resistance? You know what this means. Kjersti will die. Fimbul will die. You will die. Was it worth this? Why Guy, why?"

The Chazillion baby flops around in its box. I slump against the wall. I have no answer for Fritz. By the end of the week, they will slaughter my family.

I should stop Fritz, but I can't. I am a coward.

"...and Thor and Odien knew what they had to do to save their people. Without fear, Thor lifted his hammer and ran toward Fenrir..."

I notice the toolbox at my feet. A hammer sticks out.

Thor used a hammer.

I wipe my shaking hands on my pants. -Hands that are never clean. -Hands that have murdered babies. An image of the Chazillion island enters my head. The Chazillions present as a delightsome people. They deserve life more than us, blood-thirsty humans.

Fritz pulls his phone out. "I enjoyed our runs," he says, shaking his head. "I hate to do this."

I rub my hands harder and harder, generating friction and energy. That energy powers my entire body and jolts me. As Fritz goes to dial his brute force to take me away, I grab the hammer and knock it over Fritz's head.

Fritz immediately drops to the ground.

"Ah!" I shriek as the hammer slips to the floor. What have I done? Dread fills me.

"What is going on?" A voice from the outside says.

I turn and see two men looking in. They flash the sign of resistance at me. I recognize Sverre from a meeting.

"I think I killed Fritz," I sob with my body shaking. I wanted to stop Fritz, not kill him.

"That isn't Fritz Johansen, is it?"

I nod my head.

"Oh, this is serious," the one guy says.

Sverre jumps in and takes Fritz's pulse. "He's not dead. What is he doing here?"

"Well, he is my boss, and he recognized me and was talking to me. Then, the baby started shaking the trailer, and Fritz came in."

I pause for a minute, then all the fear in me explodes. "Why were you guys so late! If you had gotten here on time, this never would have happened."

"Fritz is in charge of the sterilization bill, is he not," the man said.

"Yes."

"Hmm," Sverre says, rubbing his chin. "This could be a good thing." Sverre runs to his van and returns with a green chord. The two men tie up Fritz while I check on the baby.

"What is going on?" Fritz says as his eyes open. He looks around and takes note of his predicament.

"You guys are going to pay for this. Not only will I execute you and your family, but I will also destroy every friend and acquaintance that you know."

Sverre removes the sock from his foot and shoves it in Fritz's mouth.

"That will be hard to do from where you are going." Sverre threatens.

Relief washes over me to see Fritz still alive.

***

I watch as the trailer drives away. Where had that power come from? I have never stood up for anything in my life. I can't believe what just happened. Had I really knocked Fritz out to save the baby and my family's lives?

Am I no longer a coward?

I start my vehicle. I look at myself in the review mirror.

I am Thor!

Thor with silver teeth!