As The World Burns (8 page)

"Smash it down!" he shouted, egging the group on further. "Smash the gate and kill them both! It's the only way brothers!"

The men had Mel's full attention. He steered erratically while looking into his rear-view mirror. The prisoner's eyes were filled with rage beyond reason. The gate clung desperately to life along the side of the bus interior.

"We need to get off this bus!" Mel shouted to Davis.

The prisoners erupted into joyous unit of cheering following the damage they had done to the gate. It would be only a matter of time before the divider was breached. Davis ignored Mel's plea and went for his Taser gun. Though clearly outmatched, he fired into the group from an opening in the gate. The Taser line hooked itself into one of the men causing him to go down like an epileptic seizure. However, it did little to stop the rest of the mob, as they kicked and smashed the gate relentlessly.

"Are you out of your mind? Let's get the hell off this bus!" Mel shouted.

Davis whipped around and grabbed his shotgun from its holder.

"Backup should be here any minute. We can't allow a bus of suspected terrorists to roam freely around the city."

"You're out of your mind, and I'm pulling over," Mel replied.

Davis turned to the prisoners with his shotgun aimed.
"This is your final fucking warning," he said with a determined glare. "I may not be able to hit all of you, but I'll take out most of you, that's for sure."

The prisoners remained undeterred. Roy continued to egg them on. The gate was uprooted on both sides. Mel glanced in his rear-view mirror in utter disbelief. He had never thought the gate so easily removable. Roy remained strategically behind the group demanding that they dispose of their captors. The prisoners in the front were noticeably hesitant to take a shotgun blast, as they began to push back. Davis noticed their ambivalence.

"That's right," he said. "Now everyone take your seats. I will not think twice about using this shotgun." For a moment things got quiet. Davis's plan had worked; no one seemed to want to be a martyr.

He held shotgun with steady aim, keeping his eyes on the men.

"Mel, find a spot and pull over, we'll wait until backup arrives."

Mel glanced into his mirror again, then back to the road. There was little space on the bridge to park. They were wedged between endless lines of gridlocked traffic. He inched his way over towards the right, trying to find a place where they wouldn't block traffic. Davis lowered one hand and retrieved his radio.

"Fifty-five, I'm on the bridge. Need status on that back-up."

Davis nodded as some indistinctive chatter came over his ear piece. "Roger out," he said.

Roy worked his way to the front of the crowd in disappointment. "Brothers, it appears we've been outmatched. Let's go back to our seats like the officer said."

Davis placed both hands on his shotgun, staying alert of any sudden movements. The prisoners grumbled and backed several steps away. Roy examined the gate and noticed that they had caused a large opening in its side where Sergeant Davis was vulnerable. Roy nodded to the middle-eastern man, who he seemed to already be acquainted with, as the man nodded back. Most of the prisoners had dispersed, but a few remained. Sacha looked up from his seat in curiosity. There was some kind of plot in the air, and Roy was far from conceding his fight. The remaining men at the gate spoke quietly in a huddle. Sergeant Davis took notice of their lack of compliance.

"The rest of you, back in your seats," Davis commanded. In response, Roy slowly knelt down, concealing himself behind two of his men. Davis tried to follow him, but couldn't tell what was going on. From his cloaked position, Roy pulled off his right shoe, jumped up, and whipped it at the gate with all his might.

"Get down!" he yelled to his men.

The shoe flew at Davis and hit the side of the wall, startling him. He pulled the trigger on the shotgun as a result. The blast of the shotgun caused immediate panic as the prisoners toppled onto each other trying to hit the floor. The blast caused a dazed weariness in Sergeant Davis. As he tried to regain his composure, Roy jumped up from the ground with implicit instructions.

"Now is the time! Get him before he kills us all!" Roy's most loyal men were the first to lead the charge. Soon the other prisoners--who only moments ago, lost their zeal--became energized with that prospect of escape.

They climbed through the gap in the gate and lunged at Davis in a fury.

"Move, quickly," Roy shouted while pushing them forward like a battering ram. They climbed through the gate and were soon upon Davis. In return, Davis held his shotgun up with pure resolve and blasted away the first man in the group. Sacha jumped up from his seat, covering his ears. As Davis fired his shotgun, Roy continued to push the men towards through the gate. Sacha ducked behind his seat following every gun blast.

The world outside hummed along in their own distress, taking little notice of the carnage within the bus. Several men lay dead on the floor. Sacha could see the hobo and the black baritone lumped on the ground in a nearly unrecognizable and grotesque heap.

The white gangsta had his young face blown off by Davis's next shot. Two of Roy's own men fell to the floor with their warm insides splattered against the walls. In a last-ditch effort, the remaining prisoners, led by black beard, pushed their way through the gate in a fury. They cornered Davis against the front of the bus as he reloaded his shotgun. Mel panicked and floored the bus against the railing of the bridge, smashing into a taxi cab and a few other cars along the way. The bus shook violently and threw several of the prisoners to the ground.

Sacha's face smacked against the window causing a temporary moment of blindness and a lost tooth. Grunting continued from the scuffle up front.

"Kill him!" Roy yelled.

Black beard gripped onto the Davis's shotgun, yanking it away from him. The barrel was hot, but he tried to withstand the pain. Davis pulled back on the buttstock as hard as he could.

"Stop the bus!" he yelled to Mel.

Black beard yanked the shotgun completely from the Davis's hands as Davis panicked and tried to get it back. He pulled back on the buttstock with all his might, causing black beard to turn the barrel in his direction. As they wrestled for the gun, the barrel angled towards Mel's back, and suddenly, the gun went off. The force threw Mel out of his seat and against the front windshield of the bus. Davis released his grip in a stunned reflex, as black beard ripped it away from him, firing directly into Davis's chest. He blew apart into two halves against the windshield. With their adversaries now dead, Roy looked at the teetering, unmanned steering wheel and saw that they were headed towards the bridge railing.

"Grab onto something," he shouted to the remaining prisoners. Black beard turned around in confusion and saw that they were bound for unavoidable disaster. The bus plowed through the bridge railing, and in a matter of seconds, sailed into the air, plummeting into the great abyss below. Sacha gripped his seat, but flew up against the ceiling of the bus with everyone else. His insides felt like they were being pulled out of him with gravity's pressure. The front-end of bus hit the black waters of the East River. A great force pummeled every man alive as bodies flew around like popcorn kernels within their sinking tomb. A blinding white light ravaged Sacha, followed by quiet darkness.

Sacha woke to find himself floating above the water over a bus seat that had been ripped from its core. He was still trapped in the bus with no sense of direction. He didn't know up from down, left from right. For all he knew he was already dead. Water had risen to the ceiling of the bus. A small amount of space remained to breathe. Sacha jerked up and gasped for air in a frantic coughing fit. He could feel the warmth of fresh blood from a large gash running down his forehead. After looking around in a dazed panic, thoughts rushed through his head. Where was he? What was going on? Was this a dream?

The bus was rapidly sinking and the cold water of the East River continued to rise. Sacha felt around for a way out, but all the windows were still intact. He had little time to react. There was nowhere to escape but at the front of the bus. Even that was a long shot. Black beard's body floated near Sacha. He shook the man, but a large opening in black beard's head told Sacha all he needed to know. The water reached Sacha's chin. He breathed rapidly in a panic, but knew that if he couldn't control his shock, he would soon perish.

An experienced swimmer in his youth, Sacha tried to regain all he had been taught about conserving breath for deep underwater swimming. He understood that once he went under, he would face pitch-black darkness. It was now or never. He took a deep breath, dipped his head underwater, and then came back up. The water was had reached two inches from the ceiling.

Sacha took several breaths in and out, and prepared for what could be a doomed attempt at survival. He took the deepest breath imaginable, allowing the air to fill his lungs, and then he went under. He kept his eyes closed and swam against the side of the bus, pushing himself forward. Every couple of feet he let out a small air bubble, releasing the oxygen in his lungs. He felt a body in his way and pushed forward, then another. Soon he came to the mangled ends of the gate and pushed himself through.

A force pushed him down further, making it hard to navigate. The bus was sinking, and he had to get out of it before they hit the bottom. His hands guided him to the front as he felt a jagged opening. Sharp edges of glass instantly sliced through his right hand. He wanted to scream out in pain, but knew that in doing so, he would lose the oxygen he had stored. It would have to be released in increments if he had any chance of survival.

Sacha felt around the shattered windshield more carefully to find an opening. He pushed himself through and swam to the top of the water as hastily as his legs and arms could push him. He grew dizzy as his body jerked in its need for oxygen. Sacha swam and swam, pushing himself with growing terror for the need to breathe. At the moment he thought he was going to die, Sacha's felt the thinning water and knew he was close.

He shot up to the surface and gasped for air. He paddled above the surface and took in breath after breath of glorious air. He continued to fight as the rough waves pushed him up and down like a buoy. He looked up and saw the city skyline, seemingly hundreds of miles away, but still unsure of where he was at. With fleeting energy, he kicked and flapped his way towards the East River docks in view.

The exhausting swim caused doubt in Sacha's every move. He had lost a lot of blood since the accident, but a primal instinct to survive pushed him to reach the shore. After about a mile of erratic swimming, Sacha reached the muddy and polluted shore. He collapsed on the mud as waves splashed over him. He lay there for five minutes taking in all the oxygen he could, no matter how rotten the air. Several footsteps moved towards him, their feet splashing in the tide. The men were hard to recognize, as one towered over Sacha with a gapping grin.

"You survived," Roy said. "That's wonderful."

Others gathered around, but Sacha couldn't make them out. After regaining his breathing, Sacha sat up and stared at Roy coldly. "You almost got us all killed with that stunt! Are you out of your mind?" he shouted. It may not have been the wisest way to start a conversation with a murderer and suspected terrorist, but Sacha couldn't help himself.

"At times, we must make certain sacrifices to reach our desired goals," Roy answered.

Sacha shook his head in disagreement. Roy stuck his hand out to help him stand.

"That is not to suggest that I believe people must die in vain," Roy added. Sacha deliberately pushed himself up from the ground as to not take the Roy's hand. Roy seemed oblivious to the veiled insult and continued.

"My name is Ammon, but my friends call me Roy because they say all mechanics are called that." Sacha stood up and wobbled. "Easy there, friend. We have to get you some place so we can treat your injuries," Ammon, formerly known as Roy, continued. Sacha looked at the men curiously.

"Why would you care about my injuries?" he asked.

"Because we want you to be one of us," Ammon answered.

"We want you to join the Brotherhood."

Chapter Six

Paul and Julie sat in Samantha's hotel room, as if waiting for her to return. Paul paced the room in anticipation, while Julie sat on the bed with her legs crossed. 

"Why don't we stay here for a while? Maybe stay the night, and see if she comes back," Paul suggested. Julie looked at the busted hotel room door swaying open with deep reservation.

"Do you really think she's coming back?" she asked trepidatiously.

"Why not, all her stuff is here?" Paul shot back.

"Not all of it, her suitcase is gone."

Paul looked to the busted door then back to Julie as a feeling of sickness spread within his gut. He almost said it, but held back. It looked like someone had broken in. Maybe it explained the whereabouts of her suitcase. Maybe it even explained the whereabouts of Samantha. Paul didn't want to give it another thought. There were no signs of any struggle that may have taken place, but he was no detective.

Paul pulled his phone from his pocket in an attempt to call the number on the back of Samantha's card. Why she had the business card of a lawyer, he didn't know. His phone was completely dead, naturally, only because he had lost his phone charger five states ago. Even if it worked, Paul doubted he could get a signal. All towers seemed to be out of commission.

"You wouldn't happen to have your phone on you, would you?" Paul asked Julie.

She gave him an almost stunned expression in return, as if he had just asked the most ludicrous question in the world.

"What?" Paul asked defensively.

"I told you that I lost my phone, like, five times now," she responded.

"Well excuse me for not having the world's best memory, Julie. You can drop the smart-ass attitude and try to help me out here," Paul said.

The frustration in the air neared its breaking point. They were supposed to have found Samantha by now, but even in Denver they were left to contend with each other. Julie ignored Paul, as she was often good at, flopped her back on the bed and turned the opposite way.

"Whatever," she muttered.

Paul was left to figure out their next step, as Julie curled up with a purple T-shirt Samantha left behind. 

"She has to be coming back," he said out loud. "Her stuff is here; maybe she went out to get some food or something."

He got no response from Julie.

"I'm going to search around a bit and see if anyone else is here," Paul continued.

"Got it," Julie muttered.

Paul walked to the bed and sat. "It's going to be okay, Julie, I promise."

Julie turned over to her other side to face Paul, tears had run down her face.

"Just leave me alone!" she shouted, then she flipped back over.

There was nothing left for Paul to say. He got up and walked out of the room, slowly closing the door behind him. He wandered the second floor of the hotel looking for signs of life. He randomly knocked on doors along the way. No other door had been busted open, which had Paul thinking about Samantha's room. Was it safe? He climbed the stairs to the third and forth floors finding no one in sight. How odd that no one stayed behind, or that they weren't using the hotel to house evacuees.

While walking on the third floor of the hotel, Paul heard the slamming of car doors outside. He ran to the nearest window, at the end of the hall, to have a look. It was the police. Three black SUVs with flashing lights were parked below. The police, startling in their riot gear, examined the entrance to the hotel. Paul saw them draw weapons from their holsters and signal to each other.

"Holy hell, Paul said while breathing against the window. He backed away from the window carefully then sprinted down the hall at full speed.

Still curled up, Julie heard footsteps running to the hotel room. Maybe Paul had found her mom and they were rushing back in excitement. She sat up from the bed in anticipation. Creeping dread settled in as the rapid footsteps got closer. It was only the sound of one person running, not two. It could be a total stranger for all she knew. Julie rolled off the bed in a thud on the side farthest from the door. The hotel door swung open revealing Paul.

"Julie!" he said with a loud whisper.

She peeked her head over the bed.

"What is it?" she asked.

Paul shut the door carefully, then pushed against it.

"There's cops outside, investigating the hole we put through the door. Looks like they're about to do a sweep of the building."

"What are we going to do?" Julie asked, climbing back onto the bed.

"We stay quiet. We stay in this room, they'll never know we're here."

"Except for the big gash on the door."

She was right. The door to 237 looked noticeably different than the rest. While most of their electric card-reading door knobs were securely intact, their door had been pried open with a crow bar, thus leaving a splintered frame and obstructed door knob where force had been applied.

"Maybe they won't notice it," Paul said optimistically.  "We tell them that we rented the room. Problem solved. Someone tried to break in when we weren't here," Julie said.

"I don't know, Julie. We seem to be the only people in the hotel and that troubles me. I don't know if anyone is
supposed
to be here."

The echo of the door to the stairwell could be heard from their room. Synchronized footsteps followed.

"Shit, they're on our floor," Paul said under his breath.

He turned quickly to Julie.

"Find somewhere to hide, quick," he said.

There was no room for argument. Julie jumped off the bed, carrying Samantha's T-shirt and ran to the closet, shutting the door. Paul stood still while holding the doorknob. The clomping of boots down the hall grew near. A single bead of sweat fell from Paul's forehead and dripped on the carpet below, leaving a tiny spot. Paul pushed against the door slowly. His muscles tensed in preparation of force. He wasn't going to let them get into the room, they had come too far to find Samantha, and they weren't going to have anything get in their way.

It was at this moment that Paul recalled the gun he had in his backpack, sitting near the nightstand. It wasn't registered to him. He would have it confiscated or worse, he'd be locked up. He quickly erased any thoughts of using it from his mind.

"Sir, over here," a muffled voice called out.

"Shit...shit," Paul whispered, pushing against the door.

“
World is going to shit and they're sweeping a hotel because someone smashed one of the front doors. At least they have their priorities straight,” he thought.

They were close. Paul could hear them throwing commands at each other. If they were caught, what would be the charge he faced? Breaking and entering? That would be if the police proved that they weren't residents of the hotel. Even if they were, where the hell was everybody else? A moving shadow could be seen from the crack at the bottom of the door. They were right outside. Paul took a deep breath and pushed against the door with every ounce of strength he had left. One kick from the outside would send it flying open. Another bead of sweat hit the carpet. Silence. Then came the lights, the television, and the bathroom vent. In a miraculous feat, power surged through the entire building.

The movements of the team outside swiftly turned the other direction, just as the television in Samantha's room began to blare. 

"The Sergeant wants us on the fourth floor, immediately," an authoritative voice said. "Says they found our guy. He was sleeping in the hallway."

The team quickly scurried away, leaving Paul to hustle to the TV and turn its volume down.

"Julie, you can come out now," Paul said.

Julie opened the closet door slowly.

"The power's back? Is this for real?" she asked astounded. Cheers could be heard from outside, all the way from the convention center, by Paul's estimate. 

The weight of the situation suddenly hit him. There, on the television was an actual newscast, the first of any of its kind that Paul had seen in weeks. His eyes locked onto the screen like magnets to a current. He couldn't blink. He could barely move. His hand moved to a nearby remote control where he pressed the volume button.

Julie ran to the bathroom and flicked the light switch on and off repeatedly.

"I can't believe it," she said. "It's like waking up from a bad dream."

The volume on the television increased tenfold as Paul's full attention was locked on the broadcast newsman. He was an older gentleman, gray-haired and sharply dressed in dark brown tweed suit with blue tie. He read from a series of notes listed on a sheet of paper that he held in his hand, similar to how anchors read the news in the old days. In the right-hand corner of the screen was an imposed box with the title that read:
The End of Days?

"While officials scramble to provide the numbers for casualties in the ten states reportedly hit with some range of nuclear weapon, we can be most tragically assured that they rank in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions."

The small box in the corner presented a montage of shots from throughout the country. The images showed vandalism and destruction, civil unrest, and the aftermath of explosions in various cities. The newscaster wiped a tear from his eye with one finger. He paused to clear his throat, then proceeded with the news.

"This leads hundreds of millions of other Americans to ask, what next? What next for areas not devastated by attacks, but reeling from weeks of no power due to faulty electrical grids? The loss of electricity itself has been pondered over by experts and officials for some time now. The most widely believed reason behind the strange surge of power outages involves electronic magnetic pulses, otherwise known as EMPs.

Others argue that the rolling black outs, brown outs, and severe power outages are attributed to an overall failure in the nation's recently conjoined power grid, or a national failure of energy producers to manage power after such devastation. Perhaps the most damning question of all represents the whereabouts of the federal government. President Howard, the Vice President, and several members of their administration have not been heard from since the attacks started and are feared dead along with hundreds of thousands or, perhaps millions, of Americans along the east coast."

"Of course it's millions, you idiot," Paul said to the TV.

"Functioning states have taken steps to declare martial law to deal with the widespread swarm of evacuees from neighboring states looking for refuge. The governor of Louisiana, for instance, was quoted as saying, 'Without the aid of the federal government all states must accept their constitutional responsibility to act on their own.' After up to three weeks and no end in sight from what has befallen our great nation, the country is left with an unimaginable outcome: the East Coast obliterated in a single day.

The questions we face are elementary in nature. Who, what, when, why, and how? Who committed the greatest single act of terrorism ever committed in human history? No single terrorist group has claimed responsibility, though experts have concluded the attacks too elaborate for a terror cell or network to achieve, leading many to believe they were from a nation, perhaps several nations.

While Americans in certain areas reel from loses large and heavy, officials have to contend with perhaps more attacks. Hours ago, there were reports of a bomb known as the "megabomb” is missing from the country’s nuclear artillery. If detonated, the bomb could potentially take out the rest of the country in a single blast. If you're watching this broadcast, and you're lucky enough to have power, you are advised to seek shelter until more information is known. If true, it is all too obvious that we must stop "megabomb" before it is too late."

Suddenly the picture switched to color bars, ending the newscaster's broadcast.      

"What the hell?" Paul said, punching the button on the remote to his side. Each following channel displayed color bars. Then came static.

"We need to know more, dammit! Tell us more!" Paul shouted.

"Paul," Julie called out, standing outside the bathroom.

In response, Paul switched off the television and turned to Julie.

"We need to find my mom before it's too late," she said.

"Yes, Julie. We'll stay here a little longer--"

"She's not coming back, I know it. I don't know if someone took her or if she just left, but she's not coming back."

Paul took a seat on the bed.

"It would seem that way."

Then it occurred to him that the power was on. He knew Samantha's number by heart now.

"Let's try her phone," he said excitedly while picking up the hotel landline receiver. He dialed her number and it went to her voicemail. Though she didn't answer, it was a gratifying relief, just to hear the sound of her voice.

"We're sorry, this mailbox is full,"
an automated voice said that followed her message. Paul tried the number five more times before he gave up. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, but Julie's presence told him otherwise. Julie walked around the room shutting off the lights.