168 Hours- Zero Hour

by Raylan Kane

  DARLA STARR

  5TH AVENUE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  9:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  Darla finished washing her face and she gave herself a slight smile in the mirror before dabbing the water from her pale skin with a crisp white towel. A beep emanated from her phone. She recognized the tone meant she had a paying customer waiting for her live feed. One of many. She was dressed in a white tank top and white gym shorts. Most of her high rise apartment was decorated in minimalist white. The unit consisted of one large open concept area with her bedroom and ensuite bathroom attached. The brown stained hardwood floor and the gray stone counter tops and fixtures were the only colors other than white in the entirety of the place.

  Darla looked out over the cloud-covered city through the sheer curtains. Her king-sized bed sat next to a wall of glass thirty floors up from street level. A white laptop sat on the duvet. Darla adjusted the cameras mounted on their tripods, one at the foot of the bed, the other at the side. With the click of a button she engaged the microphones as well.

  She laid down on the bed and touched the space bar on her computer and could see the small square images along one side of the screen. The faces of men, mostly, who'd paid their monthly membership fee to Darla Starr's website, giving them exclusive live webcam feeds from her apartment. For $9.99 per month, thousands of men had the privilege of watching Darla pleasure herself on her bed. Sometimes with toys, sometimes without.

  Another beep from her phone and she could see on her laptop screen there were more than four thousand people watching. She smiled coyly and gave a small wave looking directly into the camera. She still got a mighty thrill from watching the reactions of those viewing her sessions. Many of the watchers waved back, grinning ear-to-ear, eager with anticipation. Her lips appeared dark in contrast with the translucence of her face and they curled in a wide smile, her bright blue eyes, aided by colored contacts widened inviting the watchers in, teasing them with what was to come.

  “Shall we begin?” She said in a cheerful tone.

  She giggled as she saw many heads nodding in reply on her laptop screen. Sitting up slightly, she reached behind her back and removed her tank top.

  THE HOLDEMAN FAMILY

  HIGHWAY 598

  15 km EAST OF ROCKY MOUNTAIN HOUSE, ALBERTA

  10:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  Constable Bryan Holdeman of the Rocky Mountain House RCMP leaned against the passenger side of his police cruiser, arms laying outstretched on the vehicle's roof, watching brilliant orange flames lick against the cloudless morning sky. An abandoned barn burned across the other side of the highway, completely engulfed, the charred boards crackled, sparks snapped embers off into the grass surrounding the structure. Holdeman and the other first responders stood and watched while the volunteer firefighters clustered together coming up with a plan of attack to fight the blaze.

  Constable Terry Allen hopped out of his Crown Victoria and sauntered over to where Holdeman was standing. “Hell of a fire,” he said, “can feel the heat from here.”

  “Yep,” Holdeman replied. “They'll be a while putting this one out. Good thing there's no wind.”

  Allen scuffed his boots into the gravel on the shoulder of the highway and slid his hands into his pockets. Both of them smiled as the owner of a local restaurant they frequented passed through all the parked emergency vehicles and gave them an awed expression as he went.

  Allen turned his attention back to the fire and nodded at the derelict structure. “Deliberate or what?”

  “Hard to say,” Bryan answered, “wasn't in use before. Doubt it was insured.”

  “We know the owner?”

  “Couldn't tell ya off the top of my head.”

  “Could be those Warski brothers,” Allen offered, “remember that arena fire, couple years back? They did that one. Thought there might've been another we liked 'em for too.”

  “Be worth looking at, I suppose.”

  “What else you got going on today?” Allen said.

  “Not a lot. Taking off early. Gotta take Cassie into Edmonton, see the cancer specialist.”

  “Damn. Everything alright?”

  “Think so, yeah. She did good on the radiation. Immune system's a bit run down is all. Hasn't been feeling the best. We're gonna check things out anyway.”

  “Hope it goes well, brother.”

  “Me too.”

  The two officers watched as the firefighters split up from their huddle and started pulling hoses from three of their trucks. Bryan's eyes followed the huge gray plume billowing out from the barn's roof up into the sky, wondering to himself just how high the smoke would carry.

  HELENA HILLEN

  PAWEO PALMS ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY

  KAUMAKANI, HAWAII

  6:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  The nursing home staff responded to unit 17 quickly upon discovering Walter Johnson's daughter and granddaughter had broken the rules and spent the night in the elderly man's quarters. Johnson's daughter, Nancy and her young daughter, Libby were given away by Libby's puppy who began barking around 5:30. The dog's presence in the facility was also an abuse of the rules which stated no pets allowed outside of sanctioned animal visitation sessions scheduled for one hour each week. Walter himself, still in a coma and kept alive by machines, was visited everyday by his daughter. This was however, the first time six-year old Libby had seen her grandfather having been too young to remember him before his nasty fall.

  Paweo Palms security stood outside Walter Johnson's unit waiting for Nancy to gather her things. The assistant director of the facility, Max Tremell stood next to his guards, fuming at Nancy's blatant disregard for the regulations. Nancy walked out of the unit, her hair a mess, clutching her handbag.

  “You realize this will be brought to the board,” Max sneered, “we may have your father removed from our care over this incident.”

  Nancy glared at the man. She never did like the staff at the Paweo Palms and felt they handled the residents there without tenderness. She deigned not to respond to Max's threat. “Where's my daughter?” She said, looking up and down the narrow corridor.

  Helena Hillen, a resident in unit 14 opened her eyes, waiting for them to adjust in the early morning light. When the blur came into focus she could see a little girl before her, holding a small gray pitbull pup. A dream, she thought. I'm a girl again. No. This is my girl. My child. I don't dream up children. She is mine.

  “Hi,” the little girl said to the elderly woman. “I'm Libby.”

  Helena managed a feeble smile, wishing to move and perhaps sit up but unable to summon the strength so soon after waking. “Libby,” she murmured. “So pretty.” My child, she thought to herself. My Libby. The silver stallion approves, was her next thought. The beautiful horse. The most beautiful. He sees what I see.

  Libby held her puppy out in front of her. “This is Rico,” she said. “He's a baby.”

  My baby, Helena thought. Part of the silver stallion. Part of us. She turned her eyes up above her bed to the silver bust of a horse's head, a large paperweight that sat on the shelf. A gift from her nephew.

  Libby's attention snapped to the door as Nancy let out a loud sigh upon finding her child. “There you are,” she said, “you scared me to death. Don't you ever wander off like that.”

  “Sorry mommy.”

  “Mrs. Edina, you need to leave right now,” Max Tremell reiterated. “These men will escort you out.”

  “We're going,” Nancy said, pulling away from the annoying man. “I know the way.”

  She grabbed her daughter by the shoulder and led her out of Helena's unit. Another child leaves me, Helena thought. Libby gave the elderly woman a small wave. The security staff followed Nancy and her daughter all the way to the parking lot.

  DEREK TANEV, JON ADDIS, & FREDDY WALSH

  MCKINLEY AVENUE, VENICE

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  9:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  Derek had one foot dangling over the side of the em
pty pool situated behind his house on McKinley Avenue in Venice. He laid with his long hair matted behind him on the bricks. His friends Jon and Freddy laid nearby.

  “This is my least favorite time. Like, right now,” Derek said.

  “You kidding me?” Jon said, “I think this is best time of day. That's why they picked the work day to start right now you know?”

  “Who picked?” Freddy said, passing what was left of his joint over to Derek.

  “They did,” Jon said, “the powers-that-be. They chose nine a.m. as the start of the work day. They chose the optimal time that humans were found to be their most productive.”

  “But lots of people start work before nine, Jonny,” Freddy said.

  “What's your point?”

  “Well, what about those people?”

  “Who cares, both of you,” Derek said. “None of this is helping my hangover right now, do you get that?”

  “Sorry,” Freddy said.

  “Forget your hangover,” Jon said. “We go and grab something greasy to eat, you'll be fine.”

  “You paying?”

  Jon sat up and over-exaggerated his motions as he patted his button up shirt and shorts. “You know me, I'm tapped. Lacey has her demands.”

  “She sounds expensive, Jon.”

  “You try having a model for a girlfriend.”

  “Doesn't she fold T-shirts?”

  “And she occasionally wears them for the customers,” Jon said, “what's your point?”

  “That doesn't really qualify as being a model.”

  “Are we gonna go get something to eat or what?”

  “Does anyone here have any money?”

  No one answered.

  “That's what I thought,” Derek said. “One of us needs to get a job.”

  Jon flashed a dirty look over at his friend. “What did you just say?”

  “A job, Jon,” Derek said, “a friggin' nine-to-five. I'm tired of us always being so broke, man.”

  “That's it, give it here,” Jon said, reaching to take the joint away from Derek, “clearly, you've had enough.”

  WARREN BOYD

  TWO-MILE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

  SOUTH OF BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA

  12:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  “Chow,” the guard said, no expression in his voice. Just part of the routine. He laid the tray on the floor and slid it a few inches through the open hatch, barely tall enough for the small paper bowl of chowder to pass under.

  Warren Boyd laid his book down on the mattress and swung his legs over, planting his feet on the floor. The guard watched through the window as Warren leaned forward from the bed and pulled the tray to himself across the concrete floor. A paper plate of fish sticks and a small clump of peas next to the paper bowl of chowder and a dinner roll. No utensils. Warren recognized the guard, Rodriguez. No nonsense, but usually fair. He bit into the bun and dipped it into the chowder. Usually the soups served in the prison were flavorless, but he noted an extra bit of saltiness this time, and he appreciated it.

  “New chef?” Warren said.

  Rodriguez didn't acknowledge him.

  “Tough crowd.” Warren picked up a fish stick and popped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing with his mouth open, loud. “You're gonna miss me when I'm gone,” Warren said, sending bits of fish spewing outward, “I just know it. Secretly, you love having me around.”

  “Hurry up and finish,” Rodriguez said.

  The instruction only caused Warren to chew more slowly. He was already on Death Row, he figured. What else could they do to him? Warren was one of 350 prisoners awaiting the needle in the state of Florida, and he was all out of appeals. Mind you, it didn't help Warren's bids for freedom that he confessed to butchering 18 women over a period of 12 years, just as it was difficult for anyone to believe his claims of innocence when he eventually led police to all the places their body parts were buried. As with everything else in his life, he enjoyed making others suffer, and dragging out proceedings in court was just another way he'd found to aggravate. No more. The last of his appeals fell through and he was left to sit in a 6x10 cell until the state could get around to ending him.

  Some had argued a life sentence would be better given he was in his mid-forties and in good health. It would give him time to sit and stew over what he'd done. To live with the regret. The thing those folks didn't understand was that Warren Boyd was incapable of regret, a true psychopath. He enjoyed killing and torture and felt no guilt about it whatsoever. The only problem in his eyes is that he got caught.

  He tilted the paper plate in front of his mouth and swallowed the peas as they dropped into his mouth. He sopped up the last of his chowder with the final bite of his roll and tossed the empty paper dishes onto the tray.

  “Slide it out,” Rodriguez instructed.

  “Hang on,” Warren said, never one to fully cooperate. He took the small paper bowl and held it under the tiny tap jutting from the wall over the aluminum sink. He filled the bowl with water and took a drink. Then he poured the water over his hands and wiped them through his salt-n-pepper beard. He could've washed the crumbs of food from his beard from just the tap alone, but that wouldn't have wasted the guard's time.

  “Here you go,” Warren said, a sly grin on his face as he slid the tray back out through the hatch on the floor.

  Rodriguez collected the tray full of empty receptacles and disappeared from Warren's view. Warren let out a content sigh and sat back down on his bed, lifting up his book and finding the place on the page where he'd left off.

  ADELE MYJINSKI

  NAVAL AIR STATION SLOAN

  12 MILES SOUTHWEST OF LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  9:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  Lieutenant Adele Myjinski, call sign “Magic”, walked in her flight suit with her helmet under her arm. She strolled across the concrete plaza to the hangar where technicians finished their pre-flight checks on her F/A-18C Hornet.

  “Magic!” Her superior, Commander Dominguez, called to her from across the plaza. She turned toward him as he jogged over. “Was hoping to catch you before you were in the air,” he said.

  “What's going on, Commander?”

  “Just got off the phone with Captain Tibbetts. Your transfer's been granted.”

  Adele's face lit up. “You're kidding?”

  Dominguez smiled. “For my own sake, I wish I was.” He held out his hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

  She gulped and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. Before shaking the man's hand she gave him a salute which he returned in kind.

  “That's all, Lieutenant,” he said, turning to walk back to base. “I wanted to let you know as soon as I knew.”

  “Thank you, Commander.”

  “Don't mention it. Have a good flight, Magic. Now officially your last patrol with the 859th,” he added with a smile. “Enjoy it.”

  Adele practically hopped as she made her way over to her plane. Three hours of work then it was off to San Diego.

  PHILIP & CHARLES STIRLING

  ABOARD TIDINGS FISHING VESSEL

  195 km SOUTHEAST OF LUNENBURG, NOVA SCOTIA

  1:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  Philip Stirling finished the last bite of his cheese sandwich before checking the riggings one last time as the first gales of the summer storm came through. His father Charles, the only other soul aboard their small fishing boat looked on from the wheel. Philip could see the worry in his old man's eyes as whitecaps rolled higher and higher with each passing minute. They were still a lengthy ride from home on the South Shore, closer to Sable Island than they were the mainland.

  “Get on your suit,” Charles said, referring to the dry suit hanging nearby.

  “You too.”

  “Don't worry 'bout me. Just get it on.”

  It wasn't their first storm at sea by any stretch, but as much as Philip knew his father was a risk-taker when a big catch was involved, he also could tell by Charles' demeanor that he was thinking he might have bitten off more than he could
chew this time. The forecasts had called for gale force winds, but it was only when they were within 40 km of their final pull that Environment Canada upgraded the strength to storm force. Charles told his son to expect winds up to 50 knots. If that forecast held up, it'd be the strongest the old man had experienced since his time as a teenager on a freighter in the Gulf of Mexico. As it was they were already riding up and down on 18 foot seas.

  Philip walked to a floor hatch near the stern, even as the wind whipped spray past his ears he could still hear the strains of 80s music coming from the old radio hanging on a nail from the bulkhead. The clouds overhead had gathered fast and loomed like charcoal ghosts, the wind and water seemed to become more violent by the second. Charles dropped the brave act for a moment and let go of the wheel long enough to grab the bin containing his dry suit.

  “Better get mine on too, I think.”

  No sooner had Philip donned his orange survival suit when a forceful gust doubled him over and he heard his father holler from twenty feet away. The sound of Charles crying out caused Philip's heart to jump to his throat, then he nearly fainted when he looked past the standing shelter and saw the cause of the old man's distress.

  “Philip! Grab on, son!”

  Philip could barely register his father's words. Before him, a few hundred feet off their bow lingered a gray wall of water tall as an office tower, rising out of the depths like a dark demon out to swallow the world. A rogue wave? Philip barely had time to think, he and his father stood there exposed, their 50 footer slid down the back of a twenty foot swell. Charles wrapped his hand in a length of pale rope knotted to the sheerline. Philip crawled to the bulkhead, grabbed a metal handle bolted to it with both hands and looked in horror at the monster over head.

  The two men watched as the giant surge seemed to roll toward them in slow motion, throwing them into darkness, a tiny matchstick bobbing in the shadow of a watery beast.