An Atypical Typical Asian | Alex Yeoh
Chapter 04
10:30AM
27 January 2029
Azzah, Israel

He walks out of the shelter he crafted for himself years ago, purposeless.
Tzak. A shard of glass scratches his face.
He stretches his arms towards the sky. Tzak. Thud.
Another scratch on his arm, as a milk crate crashes into the wall behind him.
Ziiiioooooooom. Bang. Missiles fire and crash.
Coloured banners that used to hang with pride, dangling, flailing in the wind.
He turns left, curious to see what else he would find.
There is something mosaic about the fractured window panes of each store, with the perfect ratio of darkness to glistening, jagged pieces of glass that hang precariously.
Glass remnants sweep past him furiously along the sandy ground.
Tzak. Yet another scratch to his leg.
Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
He spots his family store. Half a blue door attached to the storefront by a singular corroded hinge.
He peers inside. Debris of dilapidated furniture, fragmented sharps and wood pieces mount atop a sea of dust. His eye almost skims past his favourite corner of the store. A corner where he once indulged in games of Tawla with his brother, a corner where belonging, excitement, voracious appetites for success prevailed all at once, a corner where he argued with his sister-in-law about how football was more important for their children than tedious algebra, now, a corner where a skeletal figure lay slumped.
Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
Ahmad is hardly bemused by the sight in front of him.
Ziiiioooooooom. Bang. Tss.
He closes his eye.
He hears the distant cries and pleas for help overlaid with the gusts of wind scraping sand against his ears.
Rahimahallah.
Ziiiioooooooom. Bang. Tss.
He furrows his eyebrows, uncertain of the last note he hears.
Missiles spraying across the neighbouring town, that wasn’t unusual, but what on earth is –
Tss. Crackle. Bang.
He is now hurrying along the desolate street of Omar Mukhtar, determined to find the source of the static noise.
He pays no mind to the rubbles of the Welayat or the disturbing cacophony of sirens, shotguns and explosions.
He skips along the remains of the Qissariya Market, hopping over blood-stained bricks and protruding limbs.
Tzak. Tzak. Tzak.
He pays no attention to the lines of crimson red embellishing every exposed area on his body and certainly none to the brewing sandstorm.
Tss. Tss. Crackle. Bang.
He’s closer, he knows it.
Tss. Tss. Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
“We are going live –” Ahmad catches the buzz of a man’s voice.
He steadies himself and closes his eyes again, careful to catch every word.
They’re reporting live from Washington D.C. – that’s as much as he makes out before it cuts to a static drone.
He crouches down swiftly before frantically searching for his window to the world beyond.
Tss. Tss. Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
He ploughs the earth, the coarse sand he’s digging through cutting his roughened skin.
He digs even faster now, certain that he’s closer to what he’s searching for.
And the moment he has the radio in hand, he does not waste a second for he pounds his fist against it thrice, praying to the heavens it would sound something coherent.
Tss. Tss. Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
Nothing.
He pounds his fist against it repeatedly, this time, rapping on the decrepit item a little quicker –
“– end is near,” A woman’s voice comes to life, “The East have launched a full-scale nuclear war. Go home to your loved ones.”
He breaks out into a smile.
Tzak. Ziiiioooooooom. Bang.
A piece of news for the first time in six years.