Time Bomb

by Penelope Wright

  They’re hovering and just beginning their descent when David hears the crackle of the comm. It’s nearly drowned out by the whump of the rotors and further muffled by his protective sheeting.

  “Be advised, Chopper B, food riot in progress, level thirty-five. Stairwells compromised on thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, and thirty-seven.”

  The heaviest soldier immediately addresses the pilot. “Abort landing.”

  David throws off his protective sheeting and exhales in a burst of words. “Put this bird down right now.”

  “Sir, there’s a food riot in progress. Four compromised stairwells.”

  “I heard. I am the leader of this Tower and I will not hide in the airspace above it. I’m going in.”

  The pilot nods and speaks into her comm. “I have David Columbia aboard. We are putting down and joining the quell.”

  “Roger that, Chopper B.”

  The helicopter makes a hurried descent and bumps hard against the helipad. David doesn’t waste time packing his lungs with air and covering his body with the plastic sheeting. He grabs a rifle and slings it over his shoulder so that it rests across his back. “We’ll rappel in through the straws.” He points at one soldier. “Roman, you’re shaft A.” He points to the other soldier. “Victor, you’re shaft B. I’ll take shaft C.”

  The pilot takes off her helmet and grabs a fourth gun from the rack. “I’ll go first down C. Follow me in thirty seconds.”

  David holds his hand out in front of himself to stop her. “No. You’re the best pilot I’ve got. I’m not going to risk losing you.”

  “But, sir, we can’t risk you, either.”

  “I wasn’t always the leader of this tower. Before we lost my mother, I was a soldier. You’re to shield this copter and then shelter in place in the safe room on the seventy-second floor until you receive further instructions. That is an order.”

  The pilot dips her head. “Yes, sir.”

  David turns to Roman and big Victor. “Remember, do not use lethal force unless it’s absolutely necessary. Shoot to stun only.”

  Roman and Victor exchange puzzled glances. Roman speaks for both of them. “I’m sorry, sir, but what?”

  “I said non-lethal force only. If you must shoot, aim for the extremities. Stop and drop, but do not kill.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, these are insurgents. You’ve always said we’re not going to waste any resources patching up wounded terrorists.”

  David glares at Roman, irritated. “I would never say that. You heard my orders. You know the plan. We go on my mark. Three, two, one, now!”

  The men drop out the helicopter’s side door and sprint for their respective shafts. David dashes from shaft to shaft, pressing his thumb for several seconds against different lockpads, which cause them to spring open and reveal giant coils of sturdy nylon rope. At shaft C, he jumps lightly into a body harness and fastens it around his hips. He pops open another lockpad with his thumb and grabs the lightweight nylon cord coiled at his feet, then hurls it down the elevator shaft. It falls for a few seconds, then hangs taut against the heavy metal rings that secure it to the roof’s surface. David clips a specialized carabiner from his harness to the cord, climbs to the top of the elevator shaft, and then jumps straight down the center. Air rushes past him as he freefalls for several moments. He yanks on the carabiner and his descent slows. Glowing numbers on the nylon cord come into focus. Sixty-seven, sixty-six, sixty-five. David increases his speed again for a moment. Forty-one, forty, thirty-nine. David lowers himself until he reaches the glowing number thirty-five. He cinches the carabiner and comes to a stop.

  Thirty-five is a closed-door floor, as nearly all of them are, but David has done this maneuver a thousand times. He swings his arms and legs in opposite directions until he’s swaying from side to side. Three more pendulum swings back and forth, and his feet touch one of the walls. Straightening his knees he shoves himself away from the wall and over to the opposite side, where he lands and perches on the inches-wide interior ledge of the elevator doors. He slips his fingers in the crack between the metal doors, forces them open, and swiftly leaps through, lithe and catlike, despite his age.

  “Intruder!” David’s head snaps to the left and he absorbs a punch from his blind side. He flips his rifle from his back into his hands, twirls it around, and rams the butt end into the face of a man trying to wrap his hands around David’s waist in a tackle. The man falls like a ragdoll, several of his teeth littering the carpet when his head makes rough contact with the ground.

  Save for the now-unconscious man, the hallway is deserted. David advances to the right, his gun held ready in front of him. He knows this building inside and out. It’s been his home for his whole life. He kicks the door of the storeroom on his left open, rifle at the ready.

  “Don’t shoot. We’re not a part of this,” a man cries.

  David nods briskly. “Stay quiet, shelter in place. I’m locking you in for your own safety.” David closes the door, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a strip of plastape, which he affixes across the doorjamb. It hardens instantly.

  He moves to the next room, which stands empty. One more empty room, and he’s cleared the hallway. Shaft C didn’t lead him into the heart of the action, but shouts and sounds of a scuffle reach him from the other side of the building, where Roman, coming from Shaft A, should be now. David hurries across the building. He passes a couple of terrified women who flatten themselves against the wall as he rushes by, and he pays them no mind. The noises he’s been following have died down to nothing.

  Click-thunk. The unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked makes him pick up his pace. He turns the corner and stops abruptly, his jaw dropping open for half a second before he snaps it shut.

  Victor and three other guards with guns are holding a group of six men and women, bunched in a tight knot of humanity, at gunpoint. A seventh man is on his knees at Roman’s feet. Roman’s rifle is an inch from his temple. The man’s eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth clenched, with beads of sweat pouring down his face.

  Roman doesn’t take his eyes off the man when he speaks to David. “Sir, the stairwells are secure and it was a relatively small insurrection. If you’d rather not waste ammunition, we can transport these insurgents to the roof and throw them off.”

  David unclenches his jaw. “Roman, stand down.”

  Roman still doesn’t move his eyes from his prisoner. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I said stand down.”

  “We have to deal with these terrorists, Mr. President.”

  “This man is skin and bone. These are hungry people. When is the last time any of you were fed?”

  A woman in the small group of people speaks courageously, her voice squeaking from the effort. “Nine days. No one on thirty-five has received a food allotment for nine days.”

  Victor responds immediately. “Sir, she’s lying. Everyone in Columbia receives their food allotment every three days, per regulations.”

  “We haven’t,” a captive man retorts. “And we’ve pursued all the official channels with no results. We’re starving to death down here.”

  “Guards.” David Columbia’s voice is firm. “You will escort the prisoners to the west-facing conference room outside of Shaft A, where they will be held, unharmed, until I complete an investigation into this matter. In the meantime, I want you, and you” – David gestures to two of the other guards – “to get these people some fracking food. There are a number of others sheltering in place on this floor. Make sure they’re fed as well.”

  The man with the gun to his head bursts into tears. “Thank you, sir,” he sobs over and over.

  Roman lifts his gun, pointing it at the ceiling. “You can’t trust these people, sir. They’re rebels. They blocked a stairwell.”

  “You held a gun to a man’s head for blocking a stairwell? My god.”

  “No blocking of stairwells, sir. It’s the rule. It’s been a capital offense for more than fifty years.”
/>
  David holds his head and takes a deep breath. “I’m aware of the rule, but in this case I’m making an exception. This isn’t a riot. It’s a demonstration.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, a riot and a demonstration are the same thing. You know that.”

  David shakes his head. “The prisoners will be escorted to the west-facing conference room outside Shaft A and fed – now. That’s an order.”

  Roman knits his eyebrows together. “Yes, sir.”

  David climbs the south stairwell, sorting through his list of follow-up tasks to the rhythm of his steady footfalls. His first stop will be floor seventy-two to release his pilot from the safe room. He’ll task her with retracting the nylon cords from the shafts; right now they’re an open invitation. But when he reaches the landing on the fortieth floor, he pauses. Instead of continuing up, he pushes the heavy fire door open to the main floor and makes his way to the mural of old Seattle.

  He stands in front of it and reaches inside the flap of his jacket to pat the magazines that have been tucked into his inside pocket since he left Safeco Tower. He still doesn’t know what caused Rosie’s delay, but at least he knows she’s safe. He stares at the mural for another minute. He has important, time-sensitive work to do, and he knows he has to get on it, but he can’t seem to drag himself away. He’s stood before this mural a thousand times. He knows every loop, every contour, every tiny pixelated dot in the entire installation. And something is wrong. He can’t put his finger on it, but something is off. Something is different about the mural this time. He steps back several paces until his shoulder blades are pressed against the opposite wall to get the best view possible. He lets his eyes go slightly unfocused. The images jumble and waver in front of him, and the discrepancy pops out. David advances to the mural, drops to his knees, and with a trembling finger, he traces the words scrawled in black ink in the lower right corner of the mural.

  Help me Daddy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  July 1, 2018

  Four blocks later, Carlos is still holding my hand, and I’m letting him. The walk light is on, but it changes to a blinking red hand just as I step off the curb. A car rushes around the corner, heedless of my presence in the street. Carlos yanks me backward and swears softly. “We gotta hunker down for the night. I’m going to introduce you to some friends of mine; there’s safety in numbers. You might remember one of my friends. You’ve met him before.”

  “Dez?”

  Carlos shakes his head. “No. Dez is gone. But I’m glad you remember him. It shows that you don’t have short-term memory issues, so that’s great.”

  “Optimist.”

  “Always.”

  I feel a glow in the center of my body. I might not remember much of anything from before I met Carlos, but at least I’m making and storing new memories, and so far, a lot of them are pretty good.

  I wrinkle my brow. “I was really out of it at first, so maybe I’m wrong, but I kind of remember Dez not liking me very much.”

  “To be fair, you did collapse a tent on top of him while he was sleeping.”

  My heart thuds, shoving pulses of blood so hard through my body that I can literally feel my veins expanding and contracting. “Collapse?”

  Carlos laughs, not noticing my panic, or how gray my skin must have turned with all the blood rapidly pooling in my organs. “It’s okay. He’s had worse. We might see him again someday once he cools off. No, tonight we’re going to stay where my friend Kevin does.”

  The sign switches from a glowing red hand to a white ‘WALK’ and I try to make my legs work to ferry me across the street with Carlos, but my knees won’t bend. Carlos tugs at my inert body. “We got the walk.”

  I stare at him and will myself to go, but all I’m able to do is shake my head in a tiny movement from side to side.

  He keeps hold of my hand but no longer tries to drag me across the street. “It’s okay. Kevin’s a good guy. You met him at Goodwill.”

  I blink my eyes rapidly. Slowly, my body is coming out of paralysis, and finally I’m able to choke out a few words. “It’s not that.”

  Carlos strokes my hand gently. “Then what is it?”

  I stutter. “I…I…I don’t know. Something you said scared me.”

  Carlos wrinkles his brow, trying to remember his words. “About you falling on the tent?”

  I grit my teeth and force a nod, but it’s easier to move now. My fear is receding, the panic ebbing away from the surface of my skin, and I breathe and feel my extremities begin to come back to life. “Yeah, but it wasn’t exactly that. Something about it, though. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “We still don’t know how you ended up on my tent. Maybe you’re starting to remember a little bit about that night and how you got there?”

  I search my brain, grasping for any threads of memory that would explain my out-of-nowhere panic attack, and I slowly shake my head. “No, I still have no idea. Something you said just froze me, and I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Boo. We don’t know what you went through, but it had to be bad. Maybe we should find someplace to bed down for the night, just us.”

  “No, you said there’s safety in numbers, and I believe you. I’m better now.”

  “You sure?”

  I flex my fingers and shake my wrists. “Yeah.” I cock my head at him. “Did you just call me ‘Boo’?”

  Carlos looks flustered. “Um, yeah. I guess I did.” He rushes on defensively. “There was this movie I saw when I was a kid where this girl with brown hair accidentally winds up living in a monster world, but there’s this good monster who takes her under his wing, and he calls her ‘Boo.’ I guess it’s been bumping around in my head that you’re kind of like that girl. Tiny, cute, and lost. It slipped out.”

  I squeeze Carlos’s hand. “I like it a lot better than ‘Lita.’”

  At first, when Carlos brings me over to his campfire under the University Street overpass, Kevin doesn’t believe I’m the same person he met at Goodwill. I guess my look has changed now that I’m not sick. The red dress fits me differently, that’s for sure, and I remember Doctor Blank told me I grew significantly taller just in the one week that I was in the hospital.

  People come and go, warming themselves by the flames of Kevin’s fire, then drifting off. It takes Kevin nearly an hour to eat a sandwich. He tucks his food away protectively whenever anyone new approaches. While he has a joke and a smile for everyone, it’s obvious that he has trust issues.

  When the fire dies down to coals, Kevin nods at us. “G’night, you two.”

  I stare at Carlos. I haven’t thought about the sleeping situation until now. Am I supposed to go find my own place to curl up, like some of the others beneath the overpass, tucked into niches in the concrete with newspapers pulled over their heads to keep them warm, or are Carlos and I supposed to keep each other warm? I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. I don’t know how things work in this city, but I instinctively know that sleeping next to Carlos would mean something more than just two people who haven’t found enough newspaper.

  Carlos clears his throat. “Um, I usually sleep over there,” he says, pointing at a scraggly bush growing defiantly out of a large crack in the concrete. “There’s room enough for two, but I can help you find your own spot if you want.”

  “I feel like I’d be safer with you.”

  Carlos nods. “You would.”

  “Let’s do that then.”

  “No funny business,” Carlos says solemnly. “I promise.”

  And he’s true to his word. Carlos and I crawl under the bush, he lies down first, and I stretch out beside him. He rolls onto his side, wraps his arms around me, and I nestle my head on his bicep. I whisper a goodnight, and I count the whooshing sounds of cars rushing past us overhead. I don’t even make it to ten before I’m fast asleep.

  It’s still full dark when I pop awake. Carlos told me that the sounds of cars would pick up as dawn appr
oached to the point that I wouldn’t be able to hear them individually – it would just be a loud thrum of constant noise. I know that it must not be close to dawn yet because I count a rushing sound about once every fifteen to twenty seconds.

  Carlos shifts in his sleep and I twist around to peer intently into his face. In sleep, he looks younger, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I stare at him for a few moments longer, wondering what his story is. I’ve been so focused on my memory issues, I realize I know very little about him.

  He sighs in his sleep and a wrinkle appears between his eyes. I want to rub it until he’s at peace again, but I don’t want to wake him. Afraid I won’t be able to resist the temptation to smooth the wrinkle, I slither out of his arms, which is pretty easy to do because I’m much smaller than he is and I’m still wearing the slippery red dress. I crawl out from under the bush and shiver with a sudden chill.

  I realize I need to find another bush, one that I can use discreetly, so I tiptoe away from Carlos in search of a little more privacy.

  There are people everywhere under the overpass, not all of whom are sleeping, and I give them a wide berth. I finally find a spot where I feel comfortable, away from people, and I take care of business.

  I want to see the cars that make the thrumming noise above me, so when I’m done, I don’t return immediately to Carlos’s scrappy bush. Instead I strike out in a different direction until I’m clear of the overpass. I look up, and I sink to my knees. My mouth drops open and I wipe at my eyes. My fists come away damp. I’m utterly dazzled by the night sky. Stars. These must be stars.

  “Boo?”

  Carlos’s voice snatches me back to where I am.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” I breathe.

  Carlos’s voice is tight. “I watched you walk away. I thought you weren’t coming back…and I was just going to let you go. But then I saw you stop, like you couldn’t decide. And I came out to get you. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I don’t want you to leave.”