The Crashers

by Cubed, Magen

  The cab pulled up on the curb outside St. Bart’s emergency room and Kyle hung up. He paid the fare and slid out, searching the parking lot for Adam’s black Barracuda. People poured out of the emergency room doors in an anxious wave, herded by orderlies and security staff or pushed along in wheelchairs. Alarms rang out from inside as people in the shifting crowd speculated about fire drills, bomb threats, and terrorism. Kyle finally found Adam’s car in the ocean of parked vehicles with Bridger slumped in the passenger seat.

  “Good to see you, fearless leader.” Bridger snorted his sinuses clear. “Sorry, you just missed everybody.”

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Inside.” Bridger gestured at the hospital, then wiped his nose with the heel of his hand. “Clara pulled the fire alarm. Adam and Norah are looking for the bomb.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Kyle said. “I told them to stay put.”

  “Sorry, I saw an opening and told them to take it. Do you have a better idea?”

  Kyle paused. “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. What’s the worst that could happen? They get blown up? It didn’t stick the last time.”

  He pulled out his phone and started to dial Amanda back. “They need to make it fast, whatever happens. I already called it in.”

  “Look, we’ve got bigger problems. I think this guy’s here.”

  “What? How?”

  “Gut feeling. Are we really in the business of questioning these things right now?”

  The line rang twice and Amanda answered with a curt, “Where the hell are you?” He quickly recapped the situation as he knew it with a hand cupped over the mouth of his phone. Across the parking lot, a man in the crowd locked eyes with Kyle. He shuffled, grabbed his red ball cap and pulled it down to the side of his unshaven face. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles. When he turned to melt back into the gathered mob, Kyle hung up with a half-hearted apology and pocketed his phone. Amanda’s frustrated curse melted into silence.

  “What?” Bridger lulled his head to follow Kyle’s line of sight.

  “You’re right.” Instinct brought Kyle’s hand to the gun at his hip. “I think he’s here.”

  When the other man broke out into a run, Kyle followed suit. He navigated through the unsuspecting crowds to hit the sidewalk edging the parking lot. The runner made his way to back of the building complex and rounded the corner. Beyond it was a series of loading bay doors flanked by abandoned supply trucks. Their engines were still warm, doors and hatches left open. Kyle caught up with him and ducked between two blunt-nosed trunks. He drew his gun and aimed for the center of the man’s back.

  “Stop,” he barked. “Or I will shoot you.”

  The man stopped in his tracks and put his hands in his pocket. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t do anything. Cops can’t shoot without provocation.”

  “I never said I was a cop.”

  “Then why are you chasing me?”

  “Depends. Why did you run?”

  A sudden boom tore through the hospital complex behind them. Kyle looked away as his ears chased the reverberation. The other man escaped to disappear amid the trucks. Turning back, Kyle fired a shot after him, but the bullet bounced uselessly off the pavement. He wanted to follow but instead threw a punch at a nearby truck container. His fist connected with the metal in a satisfying crack. He felt no pain, leaving behind an outline of his fist as he returned to the scene of the crime.

  III.

  Clara did the only thing she knew how to do: she ran. She ran up the employee stairwell in the center of the emergency wing, through the bolted doors and crowded hallways to pull the fire alarms on each floor. Chaos followed easily as the initial waves of confusion spread from room to room. Time slowed down as the world drew thin around her. Panic followed close behind, moving from person to person as cold realization flickered into light. Clara was banking on that fight-or-flight response unfolding; emergency procedures would fall into place and staff would conform to protocol.

  One by one, she pushed all the exits open and guided people toward convenient doors and routes. In the sprawling kitchen behind the cafeteria, she activated the sprinklers by leaping onto the countertop and holding up one of the long-necked lighters saved for igniting the pilot lights on the stove. The sudden rain made people move faster. They ignored Clara’s blurred outline in the corners of rooms and open doors. There was no time to chase shadows with the threat of a fire bearing down on the entire hospital.

  Clara weaved between the people running away from danger as she sped toward it. She watched the water drops bounce off walls, bedrails, and countertops. They split under the force of impact as they crashed onto her cheek and caught in her eyelashes. Her breathing and her pulse slowed as the corridor stretched to a tiny, finite point. When the hospital was finally empty, Clara stopped, looked around at her good work, and took a deep breath.

  “Now what?” she asked the silence.

  IV.

  In the guts of the St. Bart’s service elevator, Norah reminded herself to breathe. The alarms that howled after her muffled every other sound as she wandered down the hallways abandoned by staff and security. Adam had split off to take the east end of the basement floor. He promised to meet up again at the elevator bank in ten minutes, but she had already lost track of time. She had no map, no training, and no skills for chasing terrorists or disarming bombs. Maybe Kyle was right after all: this was best left to the police. They were all out of their depths down here—just tourists or children playing dress-up in a world they knew nothing about. Of course, she would never say that to Kyle’s face.

  Bridger said machines. There was something to do with the humming, so she thought of the laundry immediately. She rounded the corner to the long, skinny laundry room. There she found columns of tumbling dryers and sloshing loads of sheets and linens. The wailing alarm system drowned out her racing heart as uncertainty tingled in her fingers. Tucked away in two duffel bags under a rack of folded towels sat the bombs. They were packed with nails and ball bearings ready to shred anyone nearby. She took a deep breath.

  “Norah,” came Adam’s voice at the doorway. She turned to find him peering in. Clara was at his side. “I found Clara. Did you—oh.”

  Clara brought her hands up. “Wow, okay. I guess that’s it, huh?”

  Norah nodded, dumbstruck. “Yeah, apparently.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Adam. “We didn’t get past this part.”

  “Well, can you teleport it away or something?” suggested Clara.

  Norah threw her hands in the air. “Why do you keep asking me that? No, I don’t teleport. If I decide to teleport, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Okay, let’s think... Is there any way to get it out of here?” Adam asked. “Clara, can you haul this thing off?”

  “I have no idea what I’m looking at. If I run them out, they could go off and kill everybody anyway.”

  It was then that Norah noticed the cell phone peering out from inside the half-zipped bag.

  “All right, let’s just call the cops like Kyle said,” Adam suggested. “Then, we can let them handle it.”

  “Um, guys,” Norah said.

  “How do we know they’ll even get here in time?” asked Clara.

  “Guys.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” Adam said.

  “Guys!” Norah shouted. Adam and Clara turned to her. “I don’t think we’re going to have time for this.”

  “Why?”

  The phone began to vibrate. A number flashed on the caller ID. Suddenly, the explosion erupted from the bags in a blinding flash of light and noise and fire. Norah’s hands flew up in defense, pushing back against the heated plume under the force of her invisible shield. Adam grabbed for Clara and pulled her to the ground to protect her from the blast. Norah held her breath, focusing on the wall between her and the bomb. Flames shot out
in every direction to lash at the walls and drive into the ceiling. They punched holes through the plaster wherever they could reach.

  “I can do this,” she said. The fire pushed up through the floor overhead to tear through the sheetrock and metal in a spiral. “I can do this. I can do this.”

  With a snap like sinew, she was knocked back in a final rush as the explosion collapsed in on itself. The shock of it hurled washing machines and dryers, and blew the tiles from the floor. The ceiling fell, plummeting in broad sheets of debris. Instinct closed her eyes and brought her arms up to protect herself. She didn’t see Adam run to cover her from the hail of plaster, wood, and nails. The floor three levels up caved in, landing squarely on his back to rest on his outstretched hands.

  “Oh my god.” Picking herself up from the floor, Clara marveled what remained of the laundry room. Her eyes and mouth drew wide. “We are so awesome.”

  When Norah opened her eyes, Adam looked relieved.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She blinked, coughed, and tasted singed wood. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

  Adam’s little smile was infectious. “Clara might be on to something with this superhero stuff.”

  V.

  The six local networks blacked out their programming for around-the-clock coverage of the fire at St. Bart’s. Anchors in blousy tops and perfect makeup crowded the police barricades around the hospital. Their crews jockeyed for the best blurb from first responders and witnesses. Every station promised the best footage and in-depth reporting as police and firemen cleared the scene for the night. There were seven injuries but no fatalities.

  Hospital staff escorted patients and employees to safety outside. Those who were left inside during the blaze were brought out with the help of orderly Charlie Desmond. Good, kind, brave Charlie Desmond was a hero in green scrubs. He went from changing bedpans to being swarmed by reporters and flashing lights. Brave Charlie Desmond was plastered on every television screen in the EBC. He was the hero of the day.

  At his tiny worktable at his tinier apartment, Damon White raged silently. Behind his eyelids, he dreamt of fire and concrete and blood—and smashing Kyle Jeong’s face into the pavement. He didn’t know Kyle yet, but someday he could choke the life from the man who fired at him behind the hospital. First things first, there would be reprisal. There would always be reprisal. Somebody had to pay for this.

  So, Damon worked faster. He refined his plans, pushed up the schedule, and fine-tuned his processes. Three down, two to go. The next one would nestle in a new high rise in Camden that he couldn’t wait to rip to shreds. Pretty people with holes in them. Pretty little people like Kyle and Charlie who would bleed when told and die on command. Someone had to make that happen. It might as well be him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I.

  Adam had spent the last half hour feeding dollar bills into the digital jukebox on the far end of the bar to call up Al Green and Marvin Gaye. No one else paid it much mind as he swayed between songs, his back to the group crowded around a table in the cramped bar that Clara had dragged them all to. None of the others believed the class valedictorian—the girl voted most likely to succeed—when she announced that they were going to get drunk that night. Clara’s grade point average didn’t usually allow for that kind of thing. As she dragged Adam in by the arm and swore revenge on anyone that would deny her the right, Norah, Kyle, and Bridger didn’t fight her. They piled into the rickety old bar on her side of town, found an empty table, and stole nearby chairs to accommodate their assembly.

  They ordered beers, then more beers, and then shots. Adam opened his wallet to pour money into the jukebox while Clara hovered over his shoulder to meddle with his song. Kyle sat at the head of the table. Bridger and Norah sat across from him, nursing liquor and beer respectively. Kyle shook his head and took a very long drink of his third beer.

  “I still can’t believe you idiots actually pulled that off,” he said to the television behind the bar. It cycled through images of St. Bart’s over the bartender’s head. “I can’t tell if I hate you or if I’m actually proud.”

  “It’s probably hate.” Bridger shrugged. “You’re confusing pride with tequila.”

  “Hey, to my credit, I handled it. Nobody blew up,” said Norah. “I expect to be feeling some love from you, Jeong.”

  Adam made his way back to the table, taking the seat beside Bridger. “So, what happens now?”

  “Cops are going to think the bombs failed, which keeps them from looking our way at the moment,” answered Kyle. “But now, I know I was right at least. They are chasing the wrong guy.”

  “You think he’ll retaliate for us crashing his party?” asked Bridger. “I mean, you got a look at him, right?”

  Kyle shrugged. “Not a good enough look. And my best guess? Yeah, he might. We’ve publicly undermined him and the press is eating it up. He’s going to want to change that and get back on track.”

  Adam let out a sigh. “Okay. But what do we do?”

  “About what?”

  “C’mon, Kyle. We did something kind of amazing today,” Norah reminded him. She took a sip of her beer. “Yeah, I know, we’re not trained and we have no idea what we’re doing. Fine. But one way or another, we made a difference today. That has to stand for something.”

  “The bigger question that everyone has failed to address is how we’re all immortals—and it’s awesome.” Clara sloshed her way over to the table with her fourth beer in hand. “That’s the shit we need to be discussing.”

  Bridger rolled his eyes. “Who bought the twelve-year-old beer?”

  “I’m nineteen,” she pointedly corrected.

  “Same difference.”

  Adam chuckled. “Hey, somebody had to buy us beer when we were nineteen. Circle of life.”

  “Then this is your fault,” Bridger said.

  “I’m just doing my civic duty,” said Adam. Paying it forward for future generations.”

  “Well, if Incredible Drunk Girl pukes in the back of your car, that’s on you.”

  “Seriously, seriously,” Clara continued, stealing another chair from a nearby table. “Why is no one talking about this? We’re immortal now. I’m talking heroes of myth and legend here, like Hercules and shit. This is huge. This is beyond huge.”

  “I don’t think we’re immortal,” Adam said.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty good at dying,” said Bridger. “I seem to have a knack for it.”

  “Fine. The point is, you guys need to start looking at the big picture here. If we can come back from the dead, who’s to say that we can’t live forever?”

  “And, what?” Kyle asked. “So, we just sit around together for all eternity, watching everyone else die off?”

  “Wow. No, but thanks for that, Captain Misery.” Norah shook her head and finished off her beer. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe I’m still in shock, but it’s just me and my kid. My fear has always been what will happen to Hannah if I’m not there for her. Now, that’s not a problem for me. If something happens, I know I’m coming back. I know she’s safe. And maybe that’s weird, but I’m okay with that.”

  Adam nodded. “No, I get that. You want to be here, to be present for her. This lets you do that.”

  Bridger blinked, bleary-eyed. “You people get really heavy when you drink.”

  “And if we do live forever?” asked Kyle again. “What then?”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Norah reminded him. “It’s scary, yeah, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t afford to worry about that right now. I’m just enjoying the moment, wherever that takes me.”

  “Exactly!” Clara said. “Live this shit up while we can. I, for one, want to be immortal. I’ll live to see mankind’s first steps toward deep-space travel, intergalactic colonization, first contact with an alien species—”

  “You’ll be there when man nukes himself off the planet,” added Bridger.

  “And when the sun explodes,” added Adam.
<
br />   She waved them off. “Whatever. I’m talking full on Star Trek future. Green women, phasers, warp technology. You fuckers can be sad for all eternity, but I have plans.” Across the bar, the jukebox paused to load a new song. It was one of Clara’s choosing, something distinctively ‘90s and sugary sweet. Clara screeched. “You, come with me,” she said, clambering up to her feet and grabbing for Adam. “We’re dancing right now.”

  “What? No.” Adam’s embarrassed laughter didn’t deter her. He scooted away to weasel out of her grip. “I don’t dance, sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure you can dance,” Bridger said, patting Adam on the back and pushing him toward Clara. “Just get out there. It’ll be fun.”

  “It won’t be fun.”

  “Then, it’ll be fun for me.”

  “White boys with asses like that are few and far between,” Clara insisted, hauling Adam up and pulling him to the open floor by the jukebox. “Use it or lose it.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  They moved onto the makeshift dance floor, where Clara drunkenly coaxed Adam into an awkward choreography. Bridger applauded their efforts. Norah nearly fell from her chair laughing. Kyle stood to fish some money from his wallet.

  “And that’s where I throw in the towel.” He left enough cash on the table to cover his drinks and a decent tip. “Have fun, children.”

  “Where are you headed?” Norah asked, catching her breath.

  “Train station. I have a hotel room across town.”

  “Let me walk with you, then.” She put her portion of the bill in the middle of the table and stacked the glasses up for the bartender. “I have to catch the train anyway and get home to my kid before my mother freaks out on me.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “All right, one: we’re heading in the same direction, so we might as well not walk alone.” As she rose to her feet, the beer floated to Norah’s brain. She wobbled slightly but played it off, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “And two: don’t take it personally. I’m not trying to pick you up, you miserable fuck.”