"There," a raspy voice screeched over the background noise around him. "Take Kelly Mill Road towards Cumming. Once there call and we will supply you with further instructions."

A skinny, pale man with jet black hair nodded to the figure behind the shadow, then looked down at the map on the table in front of the two of them. "What if I run into a problem?"

"The GPS will track you the whole way. If you stay in one location for too long, we'll be there in no time. The substance must make it to the target location." This voice came from a man in a lab coat. He was walking down a flight of stairs behind the pale man. The new figure was a bit older, with beady glasses shielding matching beady eyes. He stroked his long, gray beard as he approached the table. "We are counting on you, son. I will be leaving this location tonight to head back to Atlanta. If anything happens," he looked to the man behind the shadows, "I want to be notified immediately."

Both of the other men nodded. The one in the shadows disappeared deeper into the facility while the bearded man traveled back up the stairs, leaving the pale man at the table alone. 'Do this, do that,' he thought. 'What's so important about this tanker, anyway?'

...

'This will be looked up upon by my people,' the man thought nervously. 'And I will survive, so unlike a martyr I can relish in the fame that will come of my deed.' He looked down into his coat, pulling the gun from the pocket and examining it. His hands were shaking lightly. He was not entirely sure about this.

'Don't fall out now, you must do this. Allah is watching you.'

He stood at the entrance of a small church. The lights outside had given him the ability to make sure the gun was loaded inside his coat. Now only one thing stood in his way; his own shaking.

The man was a Muslim radical. He had been dispatched from a camp to do a bit of research on America, but they did not tell him he'd be in the middle of a Christian culture. Well, the culture itself wasn't Christian, but there sure were a lot of Christian churches in the area. Too many for his taste, actually. That is why his grand idea to get praise from his superiors would work. He'd hit them in the heart. The youth. Yes, the youth. They would go first. Their faith was not well rooted, surely they would falter. Maybe the gun wouldn't even be used this night. Maybe.

...

Brent Holcombe, teen idol. No, not teen idol, but one really cool guy. Alright, so maybe not that either, but he was in a very comfortable place that made him feel this way. He loved the youth group. What better way to learn about God and have fun at the same time? None. Brent sat on the first row of chairs in the fellowship hall of his church, listening intently to the youth pastor's sermon. He was a good guy, but shy. This hindered his social skills a lot, but it didn't matter to him. Once a loner, always a loner, right? Sure he had friends, but he was most comfortable sitting in his room alone. Alone. Sad, but the truth.

...

"Don't even start with me, you've owed me the money for a month now!" the blonde girl screamed. Curtis shrugged at her, acting like he couldn't hear her over the music. The party had been kicking up until then, and now Elena had ruined it for him.

"I can't hear you!" he screamed at her. "Pass me the beer next to you, will ya?"

Elena picked up an opened beer can and hurled it at Curtis, then jumped up at him. "I'll strangle you right here I swear!" she screamed. "Do you want to die at sixteen?"

Sirens sounded in the distance, but no one could hear them.

"Do you want to get your fat ass off me?" Curtis retorted as he thrust his arms forward and forced Elena off him. "Lose some weight chubby!"

She wasn't very fat, but the insult was legit enough he supposed.

The sirens drew closer.

"Don't you dare do that again!" Elena screamed as she stood up and landed a kick on Curtis' forehead. He fell back to the floor, finding it hard to do much in his drunken state. Lucky for him, she was drunk too. Maybe he still had a chance.

The music cut out. "The pigs are here!" a guy by the radio screamed. In an instant there was a sudden explosion of chaos. Curtis stood to his feet in time to see Elena disappear out a window. By the time he had regained himself five others had done the same. With a bit of stumble in his movement he jolted to the window as well. He would get away. He had to. He couldn't go to jail. He just couldn't.

...

"We must use our gifts, our talents, and even our curses the best we can," the youth pastor said. Brent absorbed it all. Every single bit of the message could be read like a book in his mind. To further the kingdom of God all tools given had to be used. Self sacrifice could be asked of them. Could they take the challenge?

Yes. Brent thought he could. How hard could it be? He had nothing anyway. Being fifteen didn't require too many extensive responsibilities.

...

"Please have a seat, sir." The man had entered the church, found the location of where the youth were, and was stepping in with his gun pointed at the youth pastor. He made note of how they met in the kitchen area. He wondered if they all did this, but quickly threw the thought out temporarily so that he could focus on his lines. He had recited them right before entering, so they'd better be perfect.

"I am here because that man lies to you. You must not believe his lies. He is feeding you death, but I can feed you life. Allah has sent me to intervene in this disgusting activity and give you the chance to accept him. If you do not accept him, you must die."

Perfect. He felt good about it. No one else would, but all that mattered to him was that he was satisfied. He waited for a response, but none came.

"Do not push my patience," he said as he waved the gun around at the group of young people sitting in front of him. He slowly moved to the front of their room. "If no one speaks up, you will all die."

Silence. Were they that stupid? How could they not accept the truth he brought them? Why would the die for this lie? He searched the room for someone, anyone, he could use to prove his point. Right in front of him sat a rather hefty young man. Good. Perfect. Fat was good. He was not fit for Allah's army anyway. He would be the example, yes him. The man brought the gun up and pointed it at the boy's head. "Goodbye, heathen."

...

Who did this guy think he was? Who comes to a church with a gun and threatens people with it? Idiots, that's who. Brent was convinced that this guy was a total moron. He had threatened Sonny, the youth pastor, a mentor in Brent's life that he did not know what he'd do without. Brent followed the man's movements closely.

The gun came up to his friend, Will's, head. No. Not Will. Brent felt himself inclined to act, but what was he going to do against a gun? He had to do something, or he'd lose a good friend. Sacrifice. He could do it.

"Goodbye, heathen." No. Brent acted. He leapt from his seat and snatched up the man's arm, in particularly the one holding the gun. The Middle Eastern man struggled to fight him off, but Brent was determined. He got a good grip on the man's bicep with one hand, then brought the other down and under the man's wist. With a quick application of force Brent was able to snap the two bones between the elbow and wrist in the man's arm. He screamed in pain and dropped the gun to the floor as he stumbled back to hold his arm.

...

Blast him! Allah would bring judgment against this one who defied my plan!

The man was in a lot of pain, and no longer had his weapon. How was he not ready for that? Shouldn't he have been able to take the boy without a fuss? He had come at him too fast, that was the problem. Now all that mattered was making a clean escape.

The man bolted towards where he had come, realizing the one who had attacked him was following. Blast him.

The man made it through the door and made a run for the yard in front of the church, seeing as he crossed the road that a tanker was coming. Maybe the boy would run out in front of it. Yes, Allah was good indeed. Justice would be served.

...

Curtis ran like nothing else. Did adrenaline have an alcohol negating property? He was sure of it, because it seemed that since the cops were on his tail he was able to interpret what was going on around him. He wasn't complaining at all.

A road was coming up ahead. Curtis was out of breath, but had to make it to the field beyond the road. He could hide there for a while, then when everything was calmed down he could get home. That was the goal, at least.

"What the hell?" he asked himself out loud as he realized the road was busy. "I have to dodge all this traffic? Freaking terrific." He did a prep stretch, then bolted without looking. Not knowing what would hit you was better than knowing, he figured. That and he knew he'd chicken out if he looked. Horns blared as he took his first couple of steps, realizing this highway had four lanes. Great. Upon his second step he heard tires squeal and metal grind with metal.

'Don't look,' he told himself as he kept across. He heard the sound of a liquid rushing. 'Damn, look.'

Coming at him was a wall of clear liquid pouring from a tanker that had turned over right beside him and busted. Curtis hoped it wasn't gasoline. Gasoline was bad, he knew that. The liquid hit him, washed him right off his feet, then threw him to the ground. After the force of the oncoming liquid was gone he stood again and took off towards the field as if nothing happened.

'I have to make it, just have to,' he thought as he felt himself weaken. What had that been? He stumbled from his lack of energy all of a sudden and fell into a clumsy roll. He landed on his back, looking up at the stars. 'I don't feel so hot.'

His skin began to burn. Then everything else from the outside in. He uttered a light scream, but was quickly silenced when he was blinded by a green light, then blacked out quickly after.

...

The pale man yawned as he drove up Kelly Mill Road. He would need to call in soon. How long was this road? Surely he was almost to the end. It had been ten minutes. This was a back road. It was small on the map. That's it, he was calling in. He took a quick glance at the road in front of him, then looked down to fumble around for the phone.

"Got it," he said as he sat it in his lap and looked back up. A man had just cleared the road in front of him, but a boy was just coming out. The pale man slammed the brakes and turned the wheel out of impulse, completely forgetting that he was driving a huge truck with a tanker on the back. "They're going to kill me," he muttered as he felt the tank on the back swinging around and the truck flipping.

...

'I have to make sure he does not get away,' Brent thought as he bolted through the church's front doors. He was almost to the street. Great. Brent had to pick up the pace if he was going to catch him. He threw one leg in front of the other as fast as he could manage. He took his first step into the road to the sound of wailing brakes. He turned to face the sound, and quickly realized that his was not the best idea he had ever had.

He faced an eighteen wheeler turning over not twenty feet beside him. He was going too fast to stop, but he would not have to. The tank slammed against the concrete, burst open, and spewed its contents onto the road. It hit Brent with a large amount of force. That force combined with his momentum sent him at an angle through the flowing blue liquid until the liquid could not carry him any more. He came to rest by the curb on the other side of the road a little farther down than he had started.

He blinked, stunned he wasn't dead. He had lived. Great. No, wonderful. He had cheated death! Wait, he was going to be in trouble, wasn't he? What was tha...

Burning sensations began to engulf every part of his body that the liquid had made contact with; his face, his head, his torso, his arms, legs, throat, nose, stomach, everywhere. Stomach? Ouch, he must have swallowed some. It didn't matter now. Now he wished he had died. He screamed in pain as the burning intensified. He tried so hard to fight off the pain, gave up so much of his will to that one thing. After a moment of struggle he was overtaken and, from pure pain and exhaustion, he blacked out.