I had barely any time to take in the decimation before they began breaking us civilians into three groups of thirty to forty people for the first shift. Each group was responsible for certain tasks throughout the day. My group was assigned the duty of hauling the intact and recognizable pieces to a safe distance away. Another group was in charge of the smaller pieces, while a third was tasked the tedious job of documenting every little detail and minutia of what we were doing and where everything had been, in hopes of discerning the truth behind what had happened there. Each of us were to keep our collective eyes and ears peeled for anyone, survivor or otherwise, the service men and women might have missed.
8
When the little guy from the parks service blew the air horn at a few minutes past noon, everyone was very much relieved. Despite the conditions, we found ourselves starving. Moreover, we were tired. It was a well-needed and well-deserved break. The lunch wasn’t as fancy as the breakfast had been. Really, it was just sandwiches and chips in a brown paper bag, but we devoured it, nonetheless.
Lunch was, also, a perfect time for us to tell our tales. Our groups filed in with those who had been here since the beginning. There were so many uniforms represented, it was hard to keep score at times. It was at this lunch, I got to hear the first reported sightings.
We were exchanging tales of the tasks performed that day, who had found which pieces still intact and such, when a worker who had been on the island the night before spoke up. “My name is Juan Stykes. I’m not sure I should tell you guys this. I – I’m not sure I even believe what I saw, and I was there. I just … I just think I’ve gotta tell someone, or I’ll go nuts. I served in this country’s military for 22 years before retiring and being hired by the National Park Service. I’ve seen my share, believe you me. Last night, though, really takes the prize.
“It was getting late, about 9:15 or so, and I was getting ready to settle in. I had been drafted to do the night watch closest to the front of the pedestal. I had just poured me a cup o’ Joe from my thermos when I thought I caught a spotlight or a movement or something outta the corner of my eye. I figured it was probably the brass coming by to check everyone was in place and whatnot. When I turned around, though, there was no one there. No light. Nothing. Even when a man’s served his country as many years as I have, he can still let himself get worked up. I figured I had just spooked myself, you know. So I turned back to my coffee, and I pulled me up a seat in one of the lawn chairs they had brought over. I had about another 15 minutes till I had to make my first circuit of the area.
“Just as I was taking my first sip, though, I did see something. There was this bright light off to my right a little ways. My coffee would have to wait. I shouted out for whomever it was to stop. There shouldn’t have been anyone else on my side of the statue. The light did stop, kinda hovered, really. I could see it was off the ground a little ways, floating there.” He lifted a saltshaker off the table, making it hover in demonstration. “At this point, I didn’t know if I was dealing with the lights of some terrorist, one of our guys, or what. I kept thinking it was shaped kinda funny, kinda specific, too. Though I knew I musta been wrong, there was no way I could be seeing what I was seeing. As I got closer, I became certain of what it was, though. I’ll be honest with you. This soldier boy was scared shitless.”
“What,” I asked, voicing the question on everyone’s minds. “What couldn’t you have been seeing, Juan?”
“It was the shape of a man.” He let this sink in, waiting for the laughter to come. It didn’t come, though there were several who looked on expectantly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Yes. It was a man, illuminated and hovering. It was like something right out of a comic book, or a movie, or … or the Bible. In my fear, I had removed my sidearm. God forgive me, I fired at the light, and it went out. God sent us an angel, and I shot at it. Hit it for all I know.” He finished, quieter now.
We all took this in. Finally, it was a young woman, practically a girl, who spoke up. “It’s certainly not unheard of in times of crisis for those of us, pushed beyond our limits to have visions – whether real or imagined, I’m not saying – of someone who has come to watch over and guide us. It’s very human to want there to be a being of greater power pulling the strings.”
“Maybe you were tired; maybe you only saw spotlights reflecting off the cloud of smoke that lingers above,” offered another at our table.
“Hmm, I know what I saw. You will see, there are angels at work. God’s angels.”
9
That morning, we meticulously worked our way from the outskirts of the island to the pedestal area. When we finished with lunch, we only had a few meters until we reached the point of the base closest to us. These last few feet were the most crucial, because, now, we were getting to where we could start finding victims. Moreover, it was here the brunt of the mangled steel and copper had landed. It became an almost inhuman game of pick-up-sticks. There were impossibly heavy beams and mesh. Huge, unrecognizable portions of the statue blocked our path at every turn.
Around 1:30 or so, our section chief decided to combine the groups in a coordinated effort to get us moving forward. Shortly after our arrival, they had some heavy-duty cranes and other construction/demolition equipment ferried over. They had just finished setting them up, so we decided to employ one of the mid-sized cranes. Thanks to the new equipment and our combined force, we were able to drastically speed up our operation. That was, at least, until the bodies.
The experts estimated there must have been around 1,500 visitors and workers, either in the lobby or immediately around the outside of the base, at the time of the attack. Those same experts said there could have easily been twice that, island-wide. Thousands had already been evacuated to the mainland or taken to hospitals. Close to a thousand people remained unaccounted for. Eleven of those were no longer missing. Many were unrecognizable by nationality, ethnicity, or even gender. The one thing not in question, though, was two of them were children: one barely out of diapers.
We all knew, going in, we would be finding bodies and pieces of bodies. We were even given a crash course, on the ride over, on how to cope. After that first cluster – and the kids – many in our group said they should have given us a little more training in that regard. Let me tell you, I’ve been in a few skirmishes and other situations where I had to deal with the dead, both individually and en masse. It wouldn’t have mattered if that had been your core curriculum, K-12. There is no way to prepare. You can harden yourself over time, it’s true. If you’re someone who can stare the dead in the eye without flinching, then you are no friend of Caduceus, no sir.
The dead were sealed in bags; if they had ID, they were labeled and laid out to the right. Those without ID and any severed pieces were put in the rows to the left for further study. By the time the task was complete, everyone was spent. We decided to take a couple of hours and come back refreshed to help the second shift. A small group stayed behind, but the majority of our shift went back to camp, and gladly. I was one of the few who decided to keep going.
In the transition, we were left unsupervised, as the section chief for our area was busy escorting our group back to the ferry and meeting up with the second wave of volunteers. We voted to take a short break before everyone else got there. We went our separate ways, but before long, I circled back to the site. With no one around, it was finally time to do what I had come to do.
10
Now pay attention, lest ye think ol’ Caduceus a liar.
With a wave of my left hand, I summon my staff. It had been waiting patiently all this time. It’s a little upset when I have to keep it hidden, don’t you know? Within a flash, my tat is no longer 2D. It is as substantial as you or I. I brought her ‘fore me, and concentrated. I had never teleported as much before. Usually, I just use my portin’ on small things, like moving a ladder from one side o’ the house to the other, when I’m painting, or fixing the roof, or such. Why, prior to that day, the most I had ever
moved at once was a woman’s car that had turned over in a ravine, trapping her and her sons in three foot of water.
I’m a regular jack-of-all-trades when it comes to using my powers, but for some reason, porting is one of the trickier ones to pull off. I knew I could do it, though, if I put my will to it and trusted in my abilities and myself. I had to have my entire mind trained on the task. I tuned out the world and envisioned the path cleared of all debris. I, then, pictured its new destination and layout by the rest of the pieces we had already sorted. Nothing happened. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists until blood trickled around my fingernails. Focused like that, I almost missed the first, faint rumbling, coming from the fallen materials. I sojourned on, intent on getting the job done before the others returned. This was why I had come, after all. There would be no turning back.
I was really pouring it on, when I felt it. It starts as a little bit of tension on the back of my neck, like it needs popped. Then, it moves down my left arm and out to the rod I carried. Once, while building my cabin here, I didn’t quite get my wiring grounded properly. The resulting shock was a mere fraction of what I felt trying that bit of magic at the statue. Nevertheless, when the pieces began to flicker and then disappear altogether, it was well worth the effort. As the debris started to vanish, I turned my body, and with it my focus, toward the sorting area. With a blink and a pop – one far louder than I would have liked – everything was back from the in-between spaces, wherever it goes, and lay before me in nice, neat piles.
The dead, however, gave me pause. I had never used my powers as a means to teleport a person before. I hadn’t even tried it out on myself, though with the gas prices these past few years, I’d certainly been tempted to risk it. Finally, what got me going were two thoughts. The first was they were dead, and would undoubtedly forgive any bit of discomfort they wouldn’t feel. The second was the thought of all those brave souls who had come from near and far to give aid, unprepared emotionally for the sorting and cataloguing of dead children. With my decision made, I disappeared the bodies, mentally preparing for the scramble of arms, legs, and torsos that would result from my tampering with an actual human being. Thank the Lord my fears were never realized.
By the time our supervisor returned with the new crew, I had finished and made myself scarce. My staff was safely put away, once again, in its two-dimensional ‘sheath’ above my thumb. From my perch upon a nearby bench, I watched the fellow, as confusion crossed his blunt features. Perhaps he noticed the extra work put in since his departure. He, almost surely, had to; for in his absence – a space of perhaps thirty minutes – the rubble had been cut in half, almost to our side’s entrance.
11
Back at on the mainland, I was both dismayed, and a little proud, to find myself as the source, however indirectly, of our dinner topic. Workers from my group, who had stayed to help, witnessed to those assembled of how miraculously their morning’s work had been doubled.
“Perhaps it was the work of the angel.” Josh again. Teasing. One day, he was going to go a tad too far with someone, and I would be the one laughing.
“Perhaps it was the work of the angel.” Richard Van Parson says, sitting with a tray of his own.
“The spirits had done it all in one night,” I offer in an attempt to be flippant.
“Indeed.” Answered Van Parson, and threw me a conspirator’s wink.
I turned to my meal, rattled. I felt as though I had been doused by oil; my skin threatened to slip right off these old bones. He was very charismatic, and seemed genuine when addressing the crowd earlier. Anytime newscasts tried to paint him in a bad light, he – or more often than not, one of his legal eagles – would always spin it to make the journalists seem the bad guys. Despite his affluence and influence, he still gave the air of someone who cared. Why, then, had that wink affected me so?
12
The rest of that night and the days ahead, Van Parson made a point to mingle heavily with the other volunteers and personnel at the camp. He seemed very eager to keep people talking as a therapeutic way to help them unwind from the week’s work. He would especially take notice when someone would mention another of the sightings. Helpful as ever, he would remind that worker of the stress we had all faced during these tragic days. My unexplainable feelings of mistrust and dislike for the man still lingered, but apparently they were baseless. That’s what I thought then. Looking back on it, though, I’m not so sure. Especially considering what came next.
More likely than not, his therapist’s approach served as a means to an end. His agenda: coaxing every bit of sighting information he could from anyone who had received a close encounter. There were a few stories out there, too. There was this young Hispanic mother, for one. In broken English, she told of how God had sent her a burning angel to help rescue her Carolina who had been lost beneath the rubble. She said this being had told her all would be well, and then easily hefted up a sedan-sized portion of wall that had been blasted loose from the pedestal. After tossing it to the side, he squatted, reaching into the cavity beneath. When he stood, he held her daughter. Baby Carolina was unhurt, despite the apparent flames of light emanating from the man. When she turned to thank him for this miracle, he was already gone.
On the eve of the seventh night, my old friend Josh gained the ear of a couple of Van Parson’s men: one was Don Bishop, the lawyer, and the other was one of VP’s bodyguards named Talmage. I didn’t like Josh at all, and right or not, I just didn’t trust Van Parson. The two, together, was a certain recipe for trouble. I made like I was settling in for the night to read one of my books, but in reality, I was paying way more attention to their meeting. It was brief, actually. There was a quick exchange of words and then Josh placed something in the breast pocket of Bishop’s tailored suit. As he did so, Talmage rushed forward with cat-like timing, placing a vice grip on the kid’s wrist. He held it for perhaps a moment too long, playing stare-down with Josh. Talmage was quite a bit bigger (about the size of yours truly), and before their exchange was over, I was fairly certain I was going to get to see Josh shat himself. With a grimace, Josh massaged his emancipated wrist. Nodding toward whatever he had slipped into the pocket, he said a final word and walked away. Somewhere over the years, I had picked up a splash of lip-reading. As with my French, it was spotty. I was able to pick out two words of significance, however; one was meeting, the other was angel. Like I said: trouble. For now, I made a mental note to pay closer attention to them and rolled over to catch some shut-eye.
13
All of the debris had been cleared from outside the base by the end of the third day. By day five, we were able to cautiously address the inside. Some of the government and park guys had the forethought to attach cranes and winches at strategic places, to keep her head and such from toppling over on someone. It was on day five we finally found out the whereabouts of the Lady’s torch. We had just cleared the lobby museum’s entranceway when someone crowed out in laughter. We all turned to look, and the irony of what we saw gave us a well-needed moment of levity. In the early 1900’s, the statue had been renovated and the original torch was replaced by a new one that was gold plated for the flame effect. The original torch had been made into an exhibit in the statue’s museum where it resides still. Don’t be expecting to get a look at it, now, though, because when the attack hit, the present torch came crashing down, down, down through the museum’s rooftop shattering the glassed original.
It was our eighth day, I believe, and we were ahead of schedule, moving along at a rapid clip – especially when I was able to get in there alone. That morning seemed no different than any before. A large breakfast was served. Hot showers, and coffee, were had. Our various crews headed to ground zero at our customary time. Wasn’t until we were exiting the ferry that we noticed the changes.
The most noticeable change was with security. Since the attack, the security had been heavy. Not just on island, but all over the shorelines of both New York and New Jersey. There were armored
guards, police escorts and barricades, search dogs, the works. On this day, it was still like that, but dialed to eleven. There were at least double the guards at the ferry station. Police escorts were less frequent, but they were limiting the number of visitors to the area. Barriers were more fortified and pushed to a wider perimeter. Some days, there had been a helicopter presence over both the mainland and the statue, while others we wouldn’t see a chopper all day. This morning, though, there were at least three of them, two were coastguard, and a third was an obsidian-colored, unmarked number that looked like something out of a Tom Clancy wet dream.
Then, there was the press. There had certainly been no shortage of reporters on scene to catch any tragic, and thus ratings-making, photo-op and/or sound bite. Today, however, the place was teeming with them. Several new foreign newscasters were represented.
“What’s with all the extra security and spin doctors,” I asked one of the guards once onboard. He looked all of twelve years old under his uniform.
“Not my place to say,” he replied without breaking rank, then added, “um, sir.” A good kid and a good soldier. I wouldn’t be getting any information there.
I met up with Meow Fang, Julinn, and a couple of others I had made friends with. “What’s going on do you think?”
Forging Truth (The Truth Saga) Page 3
