Prologue

The Touch of Death

The humid evening was in full force as Salma and Tarek sat in the El Khandek El Qably park, situated in the middle of the thriving city of Alexandria. Salma was pretty, with tanned skin and a bright smile, straight brown hair running down her shoulders in rivulets. Tarek was broad of shoulder and somewhat short, yet made up for it with that cunning glint in his eye that he always had. The two of them had been dating for nearly a year now and both felt like it may just be time to move further.

Salma was certainly expecting him to pop the question any second now. Throughout the whole evening he seemed to be distracted, yet focused. Not like Tarek at all. He would often give her the side-eye when he thought she wasn't looking, yet Salma caught it each time. There was nothing else it could be… they had jokingly laughed about the question a number of times over the last year and Tarek had always said that if he were to ask her, then it would be in a park just like this one, with the stars high above them and the night just settling in.

So far, everything had been exactly as he had told her it would be.

Tarek sat staring with his hands clasped, looking through the dry trees, past the bushes that lined the park, and straight at the line of white buildings that made up the Salah Mostafa road, though it was clear he wasn't paying it any attention at all.

"Bimadha tafkr?" Salma prompted, gently rubbing Tarak's shoulder, feeling the firm muscle under his loose shirt. She didn't want to push him to it but she had to admit that she was getting slightly impatient. Then again, she supposed it must have been nerve-wracking for Tarak.

Tarak glanced at Salma and smiled. "'Ana 'ufkir hadha hu alkamalu."

"Almuntzah?"

"Kl shaa'." His voice was deep and velvety and always managed to send shivers down her spine. "Alnujum fi alsama'… Nafkhat bahitat min hayat almadina…" His dark eyes peered around. "Fi 'ahsan al'ahwal," he repeated. Then he stood up and Salma felt a tremble run through her body all over again. Tarak slowly walked in front of her as she sat on the bench and put a hand in the pocket of his shorts. "Salma… Waqad kan hdha aleam almadi rayieatan lilghaya…" He smiled softly and his eyes twinkled and Salma was glad she was sitting. Chances were she would have lost her footing had she been standing. "Wa'aetaqid 'ana aleam alqadim min hayatuna yjb 'an yakun 'afdal…" Tarak lifted his hand from his pocket and Salma could clearly see that he was holding something within his fist.

For a moment Tarak seemed unsure but his eyes suddenly moved past Salma's shoulder, behind the bench. His dark eyes widened. "Madha?" The question was quiet but full of shock. Salma twisted in the bench to see what Tarak was seeing and her own eyes widened.

Something white was floating six foot off the ground, rotating slowly. Salma's eyes could hardly process the fact that it was a perfect white skull, completely unmarred with glistening teeth. She could only stare – along with Tarak – as the skull came to a stop and seemed to look right at them with its black-holed eye sockets. Then something dropped from behind the skull, extending downwards. A spinal cord, each segment popping into existence as if someone were painting on the air.

Salma and Tarak were speechless. They couldn't process what they were seeing as bleached white bones jutted out, forming a ribcage. Then something moved from within the skull and red strands shot out, wrapping themselves around the skull in a tight weave. They watched in amazed, unbelievable stupor as muscles wrapped around the bones that grew. They watched veins stitch themselves through the muscle and watched organs grow from nothing like forbidden fruits. The heart pumped once within the ribcage and shoots of blood started pulsing out before being hidden by muscles that criss-crossed over the chest.

One foot hit the dry earth of the ground – nothing but muscle and sinew – before a coating of dark, ebony skin wrapped around it like an obscene bandage. The skin continued up, past the calves and thighs, coating both legs as it moved up the groin, belly, and chest. The arms followed next as the skin crept up the red-muscled neck, finally stretching over the grotesque muscles on the skull to become a face with closed eyes. The jaw-line was strong, the nose steeped, and the cheeks flat; If either Tarak or Salma could get past their stupor, they would have realized this face was extremely handsome.

The figure stood behind the bench, completely naked and completely hairless. Then the smooth, dark skin of the eyelids opened and eyes that were completely white stared at Salma. Then it opened its mouth.

Whatever words it spoke – if they were words – were a language neither of the two shell-shocked figures could recognize. "Where are my children?" The figure closed its mouth and narrowed its eyes, taking a single step towards the bench.

This step seemed to take Tarak out of his stupor. He blinked, shook his head, and quickly moved in front of the bench protectively. "'Ana la 'aerif min 'ant walakun ealayk 'an tatrk!"

The naked man opened his mouth again and this time the words were in the Arabic that came natural to Tarak and Salma. "'Ayn 'atfali?"

"La tati ayu 'aqarab!" Tarak stood his ground before the man as he came closer. This man's gait seemed strange – almost robotic. His arms swung back and forth and his legs jerked forward. Yet still he came. "'Ant, la—"

But the man continued to walk unsteadily forward, unfazed by Tarak who stood before him. He raised his hand and directed it towards Tarak.

"La taqturuba! 'Ana 'ahdhiruk!" Tarak continued. The man frowned and glanced to his hand.

He took another step forward.

"Tawaquf ean dhilk!" This time Tarak slapped away the man's hand. However, the moment his tan skin touched the naked man's own ebony skin, Tarak fell to the ground without warning. His legs buckled and his shoulder crashed into the dirt at the man's feet. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes were dull.

"Tarak!?" Salma rushed over to her boyfriend, mouth agape. She crouched down next to him and grabbed his shoulders. "Tarak! Tarak!"

"Fata," the man spoke in that deep, hypnotizing voice of his. Salma looked up with wide, wet eyes. "Ayn 'atfali?"

"I-I la… 'ana la 'afham… madha faealt… madha feealt I Tarak?" Tears started running down Salma's cheeks. She didn't understand, couldn't comprehend what had just happened. This man had just appeared as if from nowhere and with but a touch Tarak was on the floor, not moving, not breathing.

"Lykan," the man said and reached forward, putting one smooth hand on Salma's cheek. Salma froze for a moment, eyes wide. A single tear dropped from her chin and she tilted to the side, falling next to her boyfriend with eyes just as dulled as his. The naked man simply walked past them, leaving the couple to their lonely deaths. His head turned left and right as he walked, his movements more natural now, less stiff and more flexible.

He followed the path down until he came across an old woman sitting on a bench, looking wistfully into the trees. Her eyes focused on the man behind her glasses and she let out a small gasp.

"Ayn 'atfali?" Once more the man asked, peering down at the woman. The old woman merely shook in primal fear, her teeth chattering and her hands shaking. The man raised his hand and the woman stiffened, that look of fear frozen on her face, before she fell forward in a heap onto the dirt. The man raised his hand and looked at it, letting a small smile play over his face. Then he peered over the tree-line to see lights shining up into the night sky. Once more he started to move, this time looking as natural as a human being.

"Miro, wa'ana la 'aerif eank walakun 'aetaqid Ammar hu safqat mae hdha wahd," the smooth voice of George Gamal said into his microphone, glancing to his co-commentator in the booth with him.

"George, watati Alana, hia, la 'aqsid 'an 'akun waqhaan walakun muta'akid, Ammar jaydt, walakun hdha laeib wahid faqt," Under a head of white hair Miro beckoned down the pitch down below. "El Oympi ladayh ahd eshr min 'afdal alllaeibin Alexandria lhda aleardu. Kunt tafeal alriyadiaati, George."

"Miro, mushahidatan wanaraa. Hunak sbb yasmunah Ammar maejazat alrajli. Afdal sajal min almawsim. Watanmu faqat 'aqwaa. 'Anah wahid waeishrun faqat hataa 'anah hasal ealaa mustaqbalah klh 'amamaha, sanajeal almumin minkum allayla."

As Miro and George bantered back and forth on commentary for a local football match in the Alexandrian Stadium between the teams of El Olympi and El-Koroum, the fans cheered and shouted. While the Alexandrian Stadium wasn't the biggest stadium in Egypt, the city still came out in full force to support their local players. With the star power of Ammar in El-Koroum and the all-around great players of El Olympi, it was a local match not to miss if you were a football fan.

"W hahu! Ammar ladayh alkr! Miro, wahadha hw, wahadha hu ma yaeni 'an yakun Ammar Ismail almueajaza! Wawa! 'Anah sayatimu tamririha 'iilaa Salama… Alaintizaru alaintizari, la! Kan khmwl! 'Anah hasal ealaa khatin wadih lilhdf! Nem fela!"

"Aintazar aintazer!" Miro's tone had changed – from excited to confused. "nak shaks ma ealaa 'ard almaleab w… wa, George, ybdw 'anah la yartadi shayyanaan ealaa al'itlaq!"

There was confusion on the pitch. The referee had blown his whistle to the disappointment of the excited fans who had been waiting for Ammar's goal. Ammar himself stopped to look back, confused. Just as Miro had informed the viewers at home, the dark-skinned man had walked onto the pitch without a care in the world.

"Eifu!" The referee called out as he jogged over, whistle rattling against his chest. "Eindaka—" Whatever the referee was about to say disappeared into the humid air as the man waved his hand. The referee seemed to tilt mid-jog and crashed against the floor motionless. At this, the crowd grew silent and unsure murmuring rose up. Was this some kind of stunt? Some advert, perhaps?

Two security men in black ran over and the naked man turned, swiping his hand through the air again. Both men collapsed in a heap, shoulders hitting the dry mud. The naked man raised his arms into the air and spoke – yet his voice was somehow magnified as if a microphone was held in front of him. "'Ayn 'atfali!?" His voice was angry now, as if unable to believe that nobody was able to answer his request. He looked around, dissatisfied, and then threw his arms to the floor.

A sudden silence filled the stadium – not even any murmurings. The first to fall were the football players, including Ammar Ismail, collapsing to the ground without warning. In a wave of death the staff lining the pitch fell along with a pair of paramedics rushing to the field. The first row of the crowd keeled off – into their benches or falling off the side to collapse against the dirt. The second row followed and then the third and so on and so forth. Miro and George both had a moment to look to each-other before they slumped in their seats, falling to the floor with dull eyes. In only a matter of seconds, the entire stadium had been silenced with the grim defeat of death.

The naked man's face twisted in grief and he sat in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by the dead. Sirens could be heard past the stadium but he had no care for them. Instead he put his hands to his head and let out a wail of anguish, his voice echoing over the emptiness of the mausoleum the Alexandrian Stadium had become.

A/N:- Welcome, welcome, welcome, to Final Destination: The Last Laugh and the third book in the World's End Chronicles. The walls are breaking down and the supernatural is coming in full force, as you can well see. Last Laugh will be one to remember. I hope you guys enjoy reading it, experiencing it, and seeing where it's all gonna take us! Thanks, as always, for reading!