Cryptic Text Message by Emma D
You hear a muffled ringing coming from your left pocket.
You pull out your cell phone and check your messages. There’s nothing.
A moment later, the phone is ringing again, and this time you stare at the screen, and you wonder if you’re going mad.
Before your eyes, the word ‘Run’ is slowly typed out, one letter at a time. You wonder if this is someone’s idea of a joke.
The message is erased.
You continue on your walk through the museum, trying to ignore the worry that is fluttering in your stomach. And when your friend asks you what’s wrong, you tell her that someone was messing around and texting you for a joke.
You lie so well, you almost believe it yourself.
But you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you should leave. Leave this museum, cancel the rest of your plans for today, and go back home.
You hear your phone ring again, and you subconsciously pull it out and check the messages.
So you do.
It’s barely an hour after you’ve gotten home when you hear on the news that there was an explosion at the very same museum.
You find out that there were no deaths, but some were seriously injured.
Mostly everything in the museum is salvaged, with only minimal damage.
Everything that wasn’t in the area containing the display you were observing when you were first warned to run.
You keep your eyes on the screen, ridiculously hoping the mysterious someone who sent you that text will be on there.
You see two people—a woman and a man, probably in their early twenties—who are obviously a team. The way they interact, the way they stick together, the matching uniforms.
Yet, they are obviously not part of the police investigation.
They look smug, and under that, relieved.
As if she can see you, the woman smiles and salutes, her eyes meeting yours, and then she nods to the man.
He punches something into what looks like a watch, and they disappear in a flash of light.
You don’t tell your friends or family, they’ll think you imagined the whole thing, that you were crazy.
After a while, you start to believe that yourself.
That is, until the day when the opportunity comes up to go back ten years previously and blow up evidence of the Council’s involvement in a certain historical event.
Said evidence happens to be in the same museum.
And, well, you can’t resist, you text yourself, knowing that you’ll follow orders.