I squeezed out time between my clinic hours to write the short story below. This is my submission for the writing contest put up by 
I must confess that writing this piece was really fun and satisfying. I would like to thank
So here it goes. Enjoy!
Doctor Weinstein walked into the bar. In his right hand was a shard of glass, dripping with blood. For want of any other weapon he had broken the car’s window with his fist and torn out a piece to use as his murder weapon. The terrorists’ tracker he had stolen was blinking furiously in his other hand. He recognized the man. He could see the victim sitting alone in a corner. Save his drink on the table, he was oblivious to whatever was going around or within him.
The doctor knew he had to act fast. Time was running out. The police would be here soon. He had called them as soon as he had located the last carrier. Yet another victim he had to kill. He recalled the Hippocratic Oath he was sworn to several years ago. The irony of it all struck a nerve but he tried to keep a straight face. There was no time to reflect just yet. He had to do what must be done first. He was sure that the terrorists were actively hunting him down. They may find him soon. This was his only chance to thwart their plans.
Oliver Weinstein had been kidnapped by a group of terrorists three nights ago, on his way back from the virology centre. They had taken him to their secret location where he was made to inject one of the deadliest biological weapon mankind had ever known, in to seven heavily sedated victims. The VF-118, a viral strain that he had researched for over ten years, was the most lethal virus yet seen. Even the Ebola virus that recently ravaged some parts of West Africa paled in comparison with this virus. It had an incubation period of barely forty eight hours after which a carrier begins to manifest bizarre symptoms and at that point the virus was easily transmitted to whoever comes in contact. It had no cure.
They had kept them all in a confined area, awaiting an order from above to give them the various locations the carriers were to be shipped out to all across the country. It was over thirty hours from the time of inoculation before the order finally came in. The doctor was counting down. The first victim was to be released into a nearby town. The others would be transported alongside the doctor to a local airstrip where further instructions awaited them. They were being transported in a van with two armed men as escorts. They allowed the doctor ride shotgun while the armed men stayed at the back with the other six carriers. That was their mistake. Perhaps, they were thinking an aging doctor could cause them little or no trouble and so far, he hadn’t. They were terribly wrong. What no one told them was that the doctor was a civil war veteran.
It happened so quickly that even the doctor could hardly recall every incident. He had succeeded in causing an accident and had narrowly escaped himself before setting the van on fire with all the other passengers still in it. Hijacking a car from a dumbstruck driver that had stopped out of concern, he fled the scene with the only thing he was lucky to have grabbed quickly from the van. It was a tracker of some sort, which tracked the movement of all seven carriers. He knew what he had to do.
A few minutes after he heard the explosion from the van, already some distance off, six of the seven blinking lights went dead. Only one remained at the far edge of the tracker’s monitor. There was hope, the doctor thought.
John sat alone at a corner table in the bar sipping on a glass of cold beer. Thank God he found some change in his pockets. He was alone and scared although he tried not to show it. He didn’t know where he was or what had happened in the past four or more days. He had this strange feeling inside him. It was as if he was just waking up from a long coma. The last thing he remembered was some hooded men pouncing on him in a dark alley one night, on his way back from his favorite bar. He had been knocked out before he even had the chance to put up a fight. He now knew they had abducted him but what made him more confused was that he didn’t remember any other event until he suddenly found himself free in an unknown area. There was this uneasiness he felt.
It didn’t take him long to find the bar for which he was grateful for. His brain was foggy and he reckoned a drink or two would help clear his head after which he could figure out a way to get home.
John was on his second glass when the doctor walked in. In his right hand is a shard of glass, dripping with blood.
With no decipherable expression on his face, the doctor walks over to his table in the corner.
John is taken aback and suddenly begins to panic.
"Is everything alright, mate?" he blurts out.
Without so much as a moment's hesitation, the doctor lifts his hand and buries the piece of glass into John's carotid artery with surgical precision. It was over. The last carrier was dead.
There is this cold silence that falls over the bar. You could hear the blood gushing out of John’s fast becoming lifeless form.
The room is still in shock as the murderer sits down at the table where his victim once sat, and finishes his drink while he waits for the police to arrive and take him away.
As abruptly as the silence starts, it ends. A shriek or two is heard from the women in the bar as the crowd moves farther away from the scene. Soon everyone in the room begins to whisper among themselves as they stare at the bloody corpse on the floor, and the seemingly psychotic man responsible for it, sitting there calmly and sipping a beer.