“What exactly are you saying?”
Parks cleared his throat nervously; “This hole couldn’t have been made unless the door was open. But that isn’t possible, watch,” with that, he let go of the door and the three men watched as it swung shut as an automatic response, “There is no way, unless someone had opened it. That hole wasn’t caused by a car, or any part of one. That was made by a human being.”
They remained in silence before Jones stepped forward to examine the hole more closely. No blood. He peered over the edge, letting his torch dance on the pavement below. No body. Then he looked up, the torch going with his line of sight until it shone on a window directly opposite the hole. In it, a man, or a youth of about eighteen years stood gaping stupidly at them like a kangaroo caught in headlights.
“Get him. I want him for questioning.”
The two didn’t move, neither sure whether they were looking at the person who had gone through the wall or just an unlucky individual who crossed Jones’ path. Either way, with the dorky expression on his face, they weren’t too sure if he were alive or not.
“Now!”
The detective’s voice echoed through the heart of the building and spewed forth, much as the fire did, into the street below.
* * *
The world was a rush.
From the moment the light captivated him from across the street, to when the door burst in as several armed policemen made their way forcibly into the room. He wasn’t arrested, according to the detective in charge; protective custody was what he called it.
Reporters, who were already on the scene, trying to pick what was left out of what seemed to be an already dead story, ambushed him the moment Russell and the police emerged from the building. The officers did their best to shield him from the prying cameras, flashing like a miniature lightening storm, but every now and then he would have to flinch, even recoil as both the harsh assault of light and lollypop looking microphones were thrust at him. He remained silent the whole way to one of the cars. He couldn’t make out the questions in all the din, let alone know what he would say anyway. From the time he opened the third storey door to when he finally spotted the car he was being led to, the world seemed a confusing ball of nonsense. So much for his early woes and betides he had squirming inside of his head as he entered the building itself. They were nowhere to be seen for the present.
He spotted the patrol car ahead of the group. A white vehicle with a blue checked line around the side. The lights were flashing red and blue, but there was no siren.
Of this, Russell wasn’t entirely sure, though. How could you tell with at least thirty reporters yelling questions, eight police yelling warnings and the general rush of the gathered populous at the scene?
It was starting to consume him.
From his left, someone shoved through the police barricade of bodies, knocking him sideways into someone else, effectively destroying his safety bubble. A wave of microphones darted through the hole, some hitting him in the head, bouncing off, but annoying him no end.
What kind of people were these?
He had studied journalism at university. He knew some of the methods of obtaining information were uncouth, but this was ridiculous. He’d never been on the targeted side before. But this wasn’t about getting the story. This was about getting the story first.
They didn’t care if he was hurt, if he knew what had happened or how. They didn’t even care if he had caused the explosion in the first place. They only cared about beating their ‘colleagues’ to the deadline.
Claustrophobia has been one of Russell’s little problems throughout the years. Nothing major. Just the inability to go into caves, tight tunnels, anywhere he couldn’t move freely or have a way out. Trapped in other words.
He was starting to feel this now.
All around him people had begun pushing and shoving, the police were unable to do anything about the forceful attacks of these sturdy journalist monsters craving recognition that, frankly, they didn’t deserve. Then there was the sound. Screaming, yelling, and yes, the sirens were going, he could tell now as he moved, or was pushed, closer to the car.
An ongoing onslaught on his ears and subsequently his brain, thumping him from the inside out, racking his body with waves of nausea, confusion, anger. He could feel it welling up inside of him. The crowd around him became a mass of faces, no longer individuals. The fearful look on the policeman’s face beside him seemed to super impose on the maniacally hungry snout of the journalist pig beside him. They were everywhere, monsters that had once been people. Pushing, shoving, yelling, screaming!
All he wanted was for them all to shut up and stop pushing.
Someone belted him in the back with their knee and he lurched forward, collapsing onto the pavement.
Then they were on top of him. Not on purpose. They were being pushed from all sides, there was now a gap to fill and the closest bodies to him filled it, squashing him onto the ground, creating a tiny cocoon around him.
He could see lights between the legs around him. Legs that flailed and kicked and stepped and trod everywhere and yet going nowhere.
And he could feel the breeze. A cool breeze, winding its way through the masses, curling, licking at the bodies. In his daze, he could almost imagine that he saw it. A beautiful swirl of clouded, yet strangely transparent air. Like it was physically there, but still invisible.
But it didn’t matter. He wanted out. He wanted to get these people off. He curled into a tiny ball on the concrete; letting the air wash over him, comfort him.
The screams were slightly muffled from above, but still managed to grow in intensity. He wanted it to stop. They had to go away. But they weren’t. Shut up, it ran through his mind. Enough. He thought his blood was boiling, the anger, frustration and confusion congealed into a white-hot ball of emotion within his brain wanting to escape. Enough! They kept kicking and pushing above him, a riot of movement and sound, trapping him like some wild creature, no longer interested in him, but what he has to say. Maybe now not even that, but their own fight for survival in such an anarchistic mob.
“Enough!”
The Air rushed in from between the legs, a force in itself to be reckoned with as it knocked some people off their feet. He could feel it coming for him; he opened his eyes, watching the silvery clouds come like a heavenly wave sent from God.
He could hear it calling out to him. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he was losing his mind. He didn’t know. He was lost in the middle of confusion, not only around him, but in his own mind. He wanted them to leave him alone!
The wave of Air finally reached him, somehow managing to ease over his prone body before –
“ENOUGH!” He yelled, not only to the people around him, but to his own frantic thoughts.
The silver waves crashed together above him, their ethereal breaking created the loudest thunderclap he’d ever heard. Though not technically or scientifically such, it was as loud and shook the very ground he was lying on, not to mention his bones and nerves.
The resulting explosion of the silver air pushed upward and outward like a volcano through the people piled above him, pushing them backward like a set of dominos, air rushing underneath them, through their legs, only to explode forth back at them, blasting them backward, freeing Russell from his cocoon.
There was silence.
Even the sirens had ceased to work. People lay prone, unhurt, but dazed in a circle around Russell who was slowly getting to his feet. They stared in wonder at each other, at Russell; unsure of what had happened, too scared to ask.
As he looked around, it was like an explosion had gone off in the middle of a forest of people, a blast wave knocking them all back in a circular pattern.
It looked amazing, something he wished he could capture on camera. Maybe one of the journalists would get it. The thought angered him once more, but nowhere near the level of frustration he had felt while consumed and concealed beneath the mound of bodies.
&n
bsp; He was ready to leave now. He stepped over the people who watched him in what may have been awe or just downright dumbstruck confusion.
The car was only a couple of metres away. He opened the rear driver’s side door and got in, slamming it shut behind him.
* * *
The hospital had been alerted to his arrival. They had made sure his entrance would be unattended by journalists. They were ready to cart him inside and treat his wounds, whatever they may be.
It was only two minutes drive from the car park, but as Russell pondered the events of the evening, it felt like an eternity. But his mind drifted elsewhere once he arrived.
The doctors fussed over how healthy he was, having been blown through a wall and across the street with such force only to receive a couple of scrapes on his back, not to mention the nail in his arm.
They talked excitedly about the remarkable feat of survival, the strength of the human body and set about treating his wounds, but Russell didn’t listen. Their lively conversation seemed more like the droning of a fly stuck in one’s bedroom, unable to escape, who finds it necessary to occupy the airspace around your ear as you try to fall asleep.
He didn’t care what they had to say. He had worries of his own to tend to.
Like Kristen. Odd that even at this point in time she would arise in his thoughts.
Infatuation was perhaps the most appropriate term, maybe even lust. But it wasn’t physical. Not yet anyway. She worked with him. A sales assistant; only metres from his own counter. She was tall, attractive with even features on a long heart shaped face. Her hair was short, boyish even, but growing out. And her eyes were a piercing blue, not just in the colour but in the manner she looked at you. From the second moment he laid eyes on her, Russell was lost. It wasn’t love at first sight. Maybe second, but it wasn’t just her appearance that captivated him. She had a brain inside that beautiful body. She was kind, knowledgeable, trendy, even compassionate when she needed to be. She seemed to fit in wherever she was, even if she remained on the outskirts of the activity. No one would question her presence, merely smile, acknowledge her, and maybe even joke with her.
She sold computers. And as far as Russell could tell, she did it well. She was a competent worker, she was a spirited personality, she was, for all Russell could see, perfect.
She was also very much in control of his heart without even knowing it.
He let out a sigh at the mere thought of his own unrequited love, as he liked to refer to it.
Oh they flirted. Little jibes, quips, even polite conversation. But what did that mean? Was she interested or merely being friendly? Russell didn’t know and it had gotten to him.
Light flared in his eyes, bringing him back from his reverie.
“Mister Paige, how did you escape from the blast?”
“Is it true you were thrown through a foot of concrete and across the very street?”
“Mister Paige, our viewers would appreciate a true account of your remarkable survival.”
Reporters! Again!
He squinted against the video cameras and the odd flash bulb, raising his arms against them.
He realised he was no longer lying down, but had been transferred to a wheel chair which was now being pushed through the mob that had gathered within the hospital.
Then the police were there, once more holding them back. It was becoming farcical. That wasn’t to say Russell was amused by his becoming a media spectacle. Just the opposite. He quickly tired of it and was now getting annoyed once more.
Then a door opened ahead of him and he was wheeled into a private room.
Even after the door had shut behind him, he could still hear the crowd beyond. It was already a long night, how much longer would it last?
The intern wheeled him around and reversed him into a position beside a bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Moving you onto the bed.”
What? Russell finally regained his senses; “I’m not staying here.”
“But, sir…”
He pushed up from the chair, using both arms as leverage, the dull throb from his injured one barely noticeable. He swung around to face the lady who had steered him through the fracas. She was in her thirties and ovular in face and body. She would have seemed motherly if her face wasn’t so young.
“No, seriously, I’m fine. I can barely feel it,” to emphasise this he shook his arm around in the air, “I mean, is there any medical reasoning behind my staying the night?”
The stunned intern shook her head.
“Well, I don’t want to be paying huge medical bills that I can’t afford. So I’ll be on my way.”
He knew he was being rude, but it seemed right. Not that this innocent woman deserved it all, but all those reporters behind the door were behaving worse than he was; besides, he was only being honest.
“Yes, sir. But first, there will be a few bits of paper work to sign you out. I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared out the door; the volume level of the crowd beyond having slightly decreased rose to an ear splitting pitch once more before the door closed.
Russell shook his head and moved to the window. He was three stories up on one side of the building facing away from the street. In fact it looked onto the church grounds next door. A large cathedral lit by strategically placed spots to look even more archaic and mysterious. A beautiful building with a history Russell couldn’t even begin to imagine. But it was nice to look at. So he did until the intern returned.
The crowd outside the door had thinned out; the police having forced them to leave under the pretence Russell needed rest. How were they to know differently?
It didn’t take long for him to fill the necessary forms before being sat back in the wheelchair and wheeled toward one of the smaller exits.
As he moved, he was joined by a man in a dark suit. An elderly gentleman with a friendly face.
“Mister Paige?”
“Yes?”
“Detective Corrigan, how are you feeling?”
“Fine thanks and you?”
The detective smiled at his polite response, slightly unsure as to whether it was a joke or not, “As well as can be expected after the events of this evening.”
Russell smiled, “I know what you mean. How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to inform you that we will need to gather a statement from you and ask a few questions.”
“Fine with me.”
“Great, I’ll have someone get in contact with you in a day or two.”
The detective didn’t walk with him the rest of the way.
Once outside the building, Russell stood and stretched his legs.
“Oh, excuse me,” He turned after the intern who was quickly disappearing inside.
She faltered before turning, “Yes, sir?”
“I’m sorry about being so rude back there.”
She smiled sweetly before resuming her exit, “All in a days work.”
Work! Bugger! Russell remembered he had a full day of work the next morning.
Oh well.
He put his hands in his pockets, finding his keys had somehow made their way back there, and set out for home. Along the way his mind flashed through the events of the night, never anchoring on one thought for long before flitting away to a completely new train of thought. He was too tired and confused to think straight, but too weary to turn his mind off.
CHAPTER THREE
An hour later and he had made it. It was only a small apartment located above a pastry and pie place on the outer rim of the central business district. He was lucky to have found the joint, let alone score it. The small façade of the pastry place was quaint, with a central door set back from the main path. Two display windows then jutted forward and ran for a couple of metres on either side along the concrete walkway. The frames were made of polished wood creating the aged appearance of an old candy store you could imagine back in the turn of the last century. Alr
eady the smells of fresh bread and other delicacies were wafting through the air as the young couple who owned the shop set about cooking their supplies for the following day.
The warm smell drew Russell’s thoughts away from the events of the day, replacing his worries with an almost peaceful longing to be safe and sound in his own bed. Not long now.
Beside the shop was a small doorway. Russell unlocked the deadbolt and the handle lock and went inside. A sensor light flashed on in reaction to the door's movement, allowing enough light for Russell to re-lock the door and make his way up a narrow flight of stairs to his apartment.
Once inside he threw his keys, badge and wallet on the kitchen counter and headed straight for his bed.
Being only a single roomed establishment, however, where the kitchen looked onto a decent sized lounge room that doubled as a bedroom once you pull out the fold down bed, he had to make the extra effort to do so before falling face down onto the unmade, but very welcoming mattress.
Sleep consumed him, freeing his mind of his tumultuous thoughts, replacing them with drifting images of the sky, clouds, and birds. It was as if he were dreaming a children’s storybook full of bright colours and perfect skies. He could almost imagine himself spreading his arms as wings and flying through the gentle, caressing air.
* * *
He awoke the next morning with a shudder. His bed seemed to bounce slightly as he regained his bearings.
“It’s Friday I’m in love!”
He reached over and slapped the top of his clock radio, stopping the offending song.
He blinked a couple of times before making any further effort to move. It had been a good night’s sleep. No muscle cramps, no dead arms for having been slept on, just a complete sensation of relaxation.
Yawning, he pushed himself up, realising quickly he was still fully dressed.
Odd, he thought. Normally, even if he were dead tired, he would change and, from the looks of his dirt encrusted and torn shirt he had more of a reason than ever to have done so.
“Odd,” he repeated, aloud this time. But it didn’t really matter.
He showered and dressed again for work, pulling his trousers and a second shirt from the small cupboard beside the fold up bed.
Cartoon Heroes: Book One of the Dark Skies Series Page 2
