by Ryan Schow
“Yeah, but you’ll probably need stitches,” Bailey says to Marcus, who responds with a subtle frown.
“Seriously,” she adds.
Marcus peels his eyes off the destruction and looks himself over. The nicks and cuts mar his body everywhere. Below his hands—which are trailed red, his fingers dripping—blood is collecting on the carpet.
A knock on the door startles us.
“I got it,” I say.
I open the door to one of the Hilton’s employees. He’s a bearded man, not quite a Millennial, but young looking for his age. He’s looking scared but vigilant.
“Hi,” he says.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
He bobs his head slowly, like he can see that whatever it is he has to say, he knows I want him to get on with it already. That or he’s seeing how filthy I am and is wanting to ask me what happened, but has too much to do for him to stop and hear my story.
“We’re not exactly sure what’s happening,” he says, “but we’re going room to room letting people know we have water, food and medical care for anyone who needs it in the downstairs lobby.”
He glances past me and sees Bailey and Marcus. In the bathroom, the water is running, and he notices that, too. His frantic eyes return to mine, which are zeroed in on his.
“Is everyone in here okay? Because you guys look like all kinds of hell right now.”
“We were in the conference center when it was hit,” I say.
The man’s dark eyes widen. “What did you…I’m hearing so many things. Like…like, were there—I mean—did you see, like…anything?”
“No,” I lie, not wanting to tell our story because I’m still processing it. “We were lucky to make it out alive. By the way, before you go, do they have someone down there with a suture kit? Maybe some antibiotics? You said you can provide medical care, but can you really do that?”
“You need stitches?” he asks, giving me the quick once over.
“Not me. My friend, he’s probably going to need it.”
“Yes,” he says, looking past me at Marcus. “I mean, I’m pretty sure we do. Plus we’re asking our guests if any of them have medical experience.”
“Okay,” I say, slowly closing the door on him, “thanks.”
“Good luck,” he says as he disappears behind the closed door.
For the next few hours, the four of us remain in the room, glued to the TV watching reports of the attack. The air outside is polluted with varying colors of airborne rubbish. Anything from light clouds (from the collapsed buildings) to gas and oil fires (gas stations, cars) to boats in the harbor struck by smaller missiles (on fire and now sinking).
The news is suddenly gone, the TV broadcasting an emergency signal.
Bailey shuts off the flat screen and says, “If anyone doesn’t know by now that there’s an emergency, then they deserve to be dead.”
“That’s a little morbid,” I say.
“She’s right, though,” Marcus adds. “I’m going to head downstairs, see about these wounds.”
“I’ll go with you,” Quentin says. “I have this bruise.” He pulls the side of his pants down and there’s a bruise the size of a basketball.
“What was that?”
“I’m pretty sure a car hit me in the parking garage. I couldn’t really see all that well, and a lot was going on. But if it’s just a bruise, and there’s nothing seriously wrong, then I’ll head back up.”
“You can walk, right?” Bailey asks. He nods. “It’s smart then, you going.”
“We’ll be back,” Marcus says. Then to Quentin: “Let’s go, Curly Sue.”
The two of them head out leaving Bailey and me to the room. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “I feel sticky and gross, and I’m pretty sure I might need to get some stitches, too.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Alright.”
She heads to the bathroom, pulling off her shirt first. I catch a glimpse of her bare back and bra strap and avert my eyes from there. The bathroom door closes and I hear the start of running water. I return to the window, watching the charcoal smeared San Diego skyline like a television show, rapt, curious, ever alert.
A few minutes later, Bailey returns in a towel, her hair wet, her body washed clean. She even smells good. Then again, most hotel soaps and shampoos smell amazing.
“Is it safe to be here, up this high?” Bailey asks me.
“Probably not,” I confess. “But they haven’t come after us yet.”
“They will, though,” she says. A statement, not a question.
“They’re hammering downtown right now,” I tell her. “You can see where the smoke is the worst.” Looking over at her, I say, “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”
“Yeah. I need my suitcase, though. Then a lighter to burn my old clothes.”
We look at each other for a long second, then she turns and gets her suitcase, dragging it into the bathroom where she shuts the door and presumably gets ready.
The door opens and Quentin heads back inside. He’s got a bottle of Ibuprofen. A generic brand which will most likely work just the same as Aleve or Advil.
“You want a couple?” he asks.
I shake a few loose, dry swallow them, then thank him.
“Bailey in the shower?” he asks.
“Yeah. She was. She’s changing now.”
We both stare out the window. “You think they’ll come our way?”
“Hard to say,” I tell him. “I have no idea what this is about, so I can’t really say for sure what they’ll do.”
“It could be the Russians, the North Koreans or the Chinese,” Quentin says. “My money is on China.”
“Why is that?” I ask.
“The Russians don’t seem tech savvy, and Kim Jong-Un is a dictator of his own people, but not anyone special on the world’s stage which is why he pitched such a fit a couple of years back.”
“He was nearly a nuclear power,” I say, but I’m not up on current events when it comes to nuclear states, so really, what do I know?
“He’s like a sloppy toddler with a stupid haircut and a God complex.”
“That’s half these dictators these days, isn’t it?” I say with a hollow grin.
“Probably. But that’s why I’m thinking the Chinese.”
We stand here for a long time, just watching. The hairdryer starts up and we both look back at the bathroom. Then I ask, “Why would they hit us? There’s no reason for it. I mean, what would it even accomplish?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Marcus find someone to stitch him up?”
“Yeah. Chinese doctor.”
We both look at each other. The bathroom door opens up and Bailey comes out. Her hair is dry and pulled into a ponytail and her makeup is sparse. Still, she looks nice. Okay, maybe a little better than nice.
“You want to clean up?” she asks me.
“Yeah, I guess,” I tell her. “You all done in there?”
She nods and I take my turn, testing the hotel shower’s hot water availability. Looking down, I watch dark water circle the drain—soot and blood. I soap up, shampoo, then just stand under the hot water for days…
God this is heaven.
But hell is being unleashed outside and I can’t stay in here forever.
Fifteen minutes later I’m back out with the three of them. Marcus has bandages all over him, some of them spotted red, others just affixed almost haphazardly. He has a tube of antiseptic and when I ask him about antibiotics, he pats his pocket and says, “Hopefully they’ll be enough. What’s going on outside?”
“Last I checked,” I tell him, “they’re hitting downtown.”
“That’s where the greatest concentration of people are at,” Marcus says.
We sit in silence for a long time, me and Marcus at the window, Quentin slumped over in a chair, Bailey curled up on the bed. Marcus and I look back when she starts snoring. Not the sawing-logs type of snoring you’d expect out of old fat dudes, just the soft
in-and-out of air through her nose.
It’s almost sweet. But then she jerks awake and stops.
A nightmare, most likely.
She goes back to sleep and Marcus and I turn back to the window. We see the lifted pickup truck far up E. Harbor Dr. It’s racing headlong out of the perpetual charcoal haze that’s settled over the convention center and hotel row. The truck is on big tires, smashed to all hell and roaring toward us like the Devil himself has taken chase.
A fleet of drones appear to be after it. When it looks like the truck is making a run for the Hilton’s parking garage, the drones fire off two missiles.
The truck swerves a hard left, but the missile tears through the tailgate and the corner of the truck’s bed before exploding. The explosive impact lifts the big truck’s back end, pitching it sideways and into a barrel roll. The truck rolls and rolls and rolls as the drones zip past it heading straight for us.
“Oh crap,” I hear Marcus say.
Suddenly a strafing of gunfire stitches the side of the Hilton, shattering windows all along the side of the hotel.
“Get down!” Marcus screams.
Two rounds smash through the plate glass window showering us with broken glass and the high up gusts of a constant, smoke-tinged wind.
When we peek back up, we marvel at what just happened.
“What the hell?” Bailey asks, looking at the round buried into the wall behind her.
“This is bad,” Quentin says, a high anxiety starting to boil in his throat.
“No kidding,” I reply.
“What was that?” Bailey asks, breathless.
“Drones,” I say, my eyes on the skies outside. “They’re coming.”
On the horizon a reinforcement of black dots move like a swarm of bees, heading right for us. They roll into the filthy mist, flying over what is left of Flemings Steakhouse and Wine Bar, the Marriott Marquis, the Manchester Grand Hyatt and the Embassy Suites.
A small plane lifts out of the haze and a dozen dots drop out of its body like rabbit turds. E. Harbor is suddenly the center of a fiery, destructive hell we can’t seem to look away from.
“We have to get out of here,” Marcus says, grim. The drones head straight for us, a missile loosing off one of its wings. “We have to go right now!”
Bailey goes for her suitcase.
“Leave it!” I shout.
She drops it and scurries out of the hotel room with us. People are already in the hallway starting to freak out. Apparently we’re not the only ones seeing this. There are people waiting frantically for the elevator. One guy, he’s punching the down button like it’s a freaking video game.
We divert to the stairs, following Marcus into the stairwell.
An explosion rocks the side of the building, causing it to shift and shake. Screams erupt everywhere, echoing in the stairwell. We keep moving. The stairs are packed, the temperature rising, the crazed noise of the scared masses nearly indecipherable. It’s all yelling and crying and panicked pleas to God to the person in front of them to hurry up.
Everyone is moving quick, doing their best.
We make it down three floors when the building is hit again. The explosions rock through the stairwell, deafening but not immediately destructive. I feel the walls closing in on me. The panic is taking hold. Three more blasts shake the building, further intensifying the mood.
I can feel it. We all can. The chain reaction of panic is beginning. Down two flights, someone goes down and then—like a stack of dominoes—everyone starts to go down.
In front of me, Marcus tries to avoid the falling bodies, but he stumbles into them, his leg buckling. Quentin goes down behind me, then Bailey hits me and we all go down. Another explosion hits the building, bits of debris raining down on us.
The body heat and the earsplitting screams rise to epic proportions.
More blasts hit and chunks of the building start to drop on us. Two women beside me are smashed by falling debris. I’m not sure, but I think one of them is dead. The other looks unconscious, the side of her head gushing blood.
I get to my feet in the pile of bodies, grab Bailey who is closest to me, and we try to get moving. Behind us, more people are toppling on each other. I pull Bailey forward as a huge chunk of plaster smashes down where she was just at. We both look up at each other, and then we scamper over the piles of downed bodies in a mad scramble to get out. Marcus and Quentin are in front of us doing the same.
We manage to work our way over the masses, finding footholds here and there, ignoring the string of insults and vulgarity being slung our way. We even ignore the harsh looks and the cries for help.
I try helping people where I can, but it’s better just to get out of the way. When we get to where the first person went down—the first domino, if you will—I see an older man with his neck twisted, obviously broken.
Two more people look trampled to death as well, but explosions are still rocking the hotel. Below us, part of the stairwell has fallen onto the section below it.
On the wall, we see the number 12. Rather than descending into the pit of death and destruction below, we push with a group of other panicked people into the twelfth floor and hurry to the other side of the hall. Through the glass, we see packs of drones circling the hotel, firing at will, reinforcements joining the spasm of activity.
“We’re screwed!” Quentin screams.
In front of us, a businessman, a mother and her two children race wordlessly toward a crowd of other people heading into the opposite stairwell.
Quentin and Marcus are ahead of us and Bailey is at my side. We’re almost there when drones open fire on the hotel just outside the window. Bullets rip through the hotel glass. I pull Bailey down; Quentin and Marcus are hitting the deck as well.
The woman in front of us, the kids and the businessman all go down, but not by choice. Their faces and bodies are riddled with large blooms of weeping red.
I can’t look.
Bailey’s emotions storm her and for a second it looks like she can’t breathe. Is she hit, too? The gunfire stops but she’s already shaking out a sob. Eyes glistening with tears, she reaches a shaky hand toward the little boy, his face slack, his eyes lifeless.
Bailey draws her hand back, her body pulled tight and nearly immovable against the horror unfolding.
From a prone position on the ground, I turn and lock eyes with Marcus.
“You guys okay?” Marcus and Quentin both nod.
Marcus looks okay, but Quentin’s face is streaked red on the side. Another explosion devastates the building. Stress fractures snake up the wall, bits of debris dusting off the weakened structure. If we don’t hurry, this thing is going to come down on us.
“What about you?” Marcus asks.
“I’m okay, I think,” I say, touching the side of my head and bringing back red fingers. Marcus sees me seeing this. “Is it bad?”
Without looking at it, Marcus says, “Head wounds bleed a lot, you’ll be fine. We need to go.”
Beside me, Bailey is trying to pull herself together. She can’t stop staring at the kids though. The boy’s sister—a little towheaded blonde—she’s sprawled out in front of us, her eyes as lifeless as her brother’s and her mother’s eyes. The businessman was hit in the chest and is now gasping for air. His eyes roll over and see us, but the empty gulping slows and slows until finally his chest sinks and his eyes lose focus.
Bailey starts crying now. I stand and grab her by the arm, haul her up and say, “We have to go!”
She shrugs off my hand, then steps over and around the dead bodies. We pull open the door to the stairwell, find it just as packed as the other side. This crowd hasn’t fallen, even though the levels of terror sound familiar.
We push into the departing crowd, move down the floors in wordless unison. Everyone is too stunned. When we get to the lobby, it’s filled with people pouring out. In front of the hotel we see our burning Charger and the overturned truck, the one that led the drones to our hotel.
<
br /> Four bodies are laid out on the asphalt in front of it, their bodies shredded by gunfire, fantails of red drying on the concrete in front of them.
“We need a car!” Quentin says, starting toward the parking garage. Marcus stops him, pulls him out of the fleeing masses.
“The drones are going after the people,” he screams. Then: “Follow me!”
The four of us run in the opposite direction, heading not for the cars or E. Harbor Dr. but toward the San Diego Bay. We trample through ground cover and landscaping. We sprint for the park in front of the Hilton and then to the Embarcadero, which is just a walking path along the waterfront.
We’re following Marcus to a line of seven or eight large yachts. On the way we pass a dead guy in fancy shorts and dock shoes and two dead women who I’m sure are either escorts or hookers. We all avert our eyes, everyone except Marcus, who pulls up short. He suddenly turns and heads back to the dead guy.
“What are you doing?” Bailey asks, out of breath.
Marcus doesn’t answer, he just rifles through the man’s pockets until he finds a set of keys. On the horizon, the drones are thinning out. The ones that are still swarming, however, are firing on the fleeing crowd.
Marcus jogs by us and we follow him to the Fifth Avenue Landing where we run down the ramps heading for the docks.
“You guys check that one,” Marcus says to me and Bailey while pointing to a beautiful yacht, “and we’ll check this one. See if it’s open at all!”
Marcus and Quentin take the larger boat, which looks like a seventy or eighty foot yacht, and Bailey and I take the one next to it, a sailing yacht that’s shorter by twenty feet easily.
Bailey and I board the boat, Bailey speaking up in protest.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
“Looking for someplace not populated to hide and ride this thing out!” I say, checking doors and windows.
“So we’re just going to break in?”
I stop, look right at her. She’s looking back at me, incredulous.
“Are you kidding me right now? Look around, Bailey! This city is under attack! It’s on fire and—”
Behind me, a fresh series of mammoth explosions blow a hole in the momentary silence. We both turn in time to see the bottom of the Hilton buckle and start to lean forward.
