"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I

by Andrew Draper

  Chapter Twelve

  As he moves down the crowded sidewalk, the piercing squeal of spinning tires assaults his ears. Only then does the car speeding toward the end of the block enter his perception. He shakes his head in disgust.

  Idiot! You’re going to kill someone that way!

  A sudden sense of familiarity burns in his thoughts, overwhelming him. He has been here before, but he doesn’t remember when or why. It’s just a feeling, simmering on the back-burner of his consciousness, leaving clear memories struggling to bubble to the surface.

  He watches in horror as the light blue sedan races around the corner, sliding on the icy pavement. He sees the out of control car is headed for a small black convertible waiting at the intersection. He frantically waves his arms and yells a warning, but no one seems to hear him. He tries to signal the people inside the sports car, but they don’t see him.

  Time and space stretch and warp as he continues his attempts to attract the attention of the people in the waiting convertible. Pedestrians rush past him on the sidewalk, looking right through him, giving him an unnerving feeling of invisibility.

  Adrenalin rushing through his veins, he bolts from his spot at the curb and darts into the street. His legs pump as he runs through the heavy, viscous air, but he never seems to get any closer to the other side. Finally reaching the center divider, he jumps over the bushes and screams yet another warning, still unheard. His entire body burns with the effort of the run, but the other side still seems miles away.

  At the last second, the sedan swerves to avoid the little convertible, but the driver’s wild gyrations are woefully inadequate.

  He watches in horror as the out of control sedan careens off a light pole before smashing into the defenseless sports car. His stomach drops as glass and plastic fragments spray outward in a rainbow colored arc.

  Plunging into the convertible’s door, the heavy sedan folds the steel like paper, the sudden, earsplitting crash nearly knocking him off his feet.

  After what seems like an eternity, he finally reaches the wreckage, spotting a small trail of white smoke curling up from beneath the sedan’s folded hood. A short bolt of red-hot panic rips across his mind like a bullet train, causing his body to flare with additional adrenalin. Quickly forcing his mind back under control, he begins to allow his years of training to take over.

  Objectively assessing the scene, he sees no movement in either of the stricken vehicles. He tries to open the still-smoking sedan, but the distorted door is jammed tight. Using all of his adrenaline-fired strength to overcome the resistance, he forces the broken door back against the fender with a groan of tortured metal. Looking inside, he sees the battered form of the driver slumped behind the wheel.

  The young man is unconscious and a wet, crimson ribbon runs from a jagged gash in his forehead. Checking his neck for a pulse, he barely feels the weak beats. He struggles to pull him from behind the distorted steering wheel as he looks through a spider crack in the smashed windshield at the mortally wounded convertible beyond.

  Dragging the unconscious man toward the curb, he steals a glance in the convertible’s window and sees a face he recognizes. In a rolling landslide of shock and fear, he realizes the other driver is Heather. She is conscious, the pain clearly etched in the pleading look on her face.

  His mind reels as he struggles with the inhuman choice; stop and attempt to rescue her, or take the injured victim he already has to safety. He doesn’t hesitate for more than an instant and with a Herculean effort he sprints to the curb, depositing the young man on the sidewalk, out of harm’s way.

  His first victim safe, he turns in a mad dash for the other. His muscles scream with the effort of the run. Half way back to the wreckage, he can almost see Heather’s face. He finally closes to within a few dozen feet, reaching out to the injured woman.

  He never saw the spark, nor did he feel the flame race across the gasoline pool insidiously creeping to ensnare both vehicles. The searing heat envelops him as the liquid ignites.

  A brilliant red and yellow fireball of artificial sunshine lights up the dark street while the explosion’s shockwave hits him in the chest with a sledgehammer blow. The force of the blast knocking him backwards, he lands on the cold hard floor of his bedroom with a dull thud.

  Coming fully awake, Aaron lay on the floor struggling to rebuild reality as the dream slowly faded away.

  He wiped the beads of rapidly cooling sweat from his forehead and stood up. The clock on the nightstand told him it was a little after one o’clock in the morning. Christ, not again.

  His nerves still jangled, he headed to the kitchen to get a drink, thinking that it might help erase, or at least ease, the memory of the dream still running roughshod over his subconscious. He listened to the ice crack as the rum hit it. He raised the glass, seeing the world through the amber haze. Knowing he’d never be able to go back to sleep, he downed the last of his cocktail and decided to throw on his clothes and take a walk.

  The night air’s artic cold stung his face as he made his way down the dimly lit street. Moving through the moonlit night, he continued to replay the dream in his head for the umpteenth time.

  In reality, he knew the events played out in the dream were the product of his imagination, but to him it didn’t matter. He wasn’t able to save Heather, or keep Beth from a life of blindness. His pain had slowly eaten at him for months. Like so many Piranha, the sharp bite of guilt also gnawed at his mind, never stopping, never allowing him a moment’s peace.

  Deeply immersed in his dark thoughts, he trod the cold, empty streets of Boston. His logical mind knew he wasn’t to blame, but his emotional self was still too consumed by crushing grief to sort out the subtleties.

  He listened to the cadence of his own footsteps in the snow and drank deeply from a flask he pulled from his pocket. Lubricated by the alcohol, he slipped deeper into the well of pain and self-loathing he’d created.

  He still missed Heather so much. He ticked off his failures on the fingers of his guilty conscience.

  Wasn’t I the one trained to protect people?

  I’m the one who loved her. I’m the one she trusted to keep her safe…I’m the one who let her die.

  The self-recriminations flowed like water, and his grief-stricken mind laid it on thicker and heavier as his blood alcohol level climbed and the minutes melted away.

  The sudden blast of a car horn derailed his despondent train of thought, snapping him back to the present. Stepping out of the street and away from the irate driver’s middle-finger salute, he looked up and saw a lighted sign shining in the dark. He took in the words, Coffee shop, open twenty-four hours.

  After more than an hour of walking aimlessly, the cold was creeping into his bones and he decided to go inside.

  He pushed open the door and welcomed the wall of warm air that quickly surrounded him. A row of tall bistro tables stood empty. He ignored them and approached the counter. “One large coffee to go, please.”

  Taking the proffered drink from the pretty, teenaged girl behind the counter, he silently paid the bill and strode back toward the exit.

  Stepping back into the freezing night, he realized he’d been walking in circles and the new building now lay only a few blocks away. Making his way across the street, he headed over to the “Tower”. He figured he could do some paperwork while no one was around to smell the rum on his breath. He could get something accomplished and maybe get his mind off Heather, for a while at least.

  Flask again in his hand, he poured a heavy dose of rum into the fresh brew. He drank gratefully, adding some more artificial warmth to his body and propping up his self-delusions.

  Arriving at the construction entrance a few minutes later, he slid back the gate. He unlocked the freight elevator doors and began the ride up to the thirty-first floor. Turning on the lights, he thought about the men who would learn they had jobs again. He silently thanked Jimmy and went to work, grabbing a clipboard from his field des
k. He went about the routine tasks of inspecting the job and inventorying supplies as his alcohol-infused mind began to wander.

  He’d resigned his commission in the Navy with mixed emotions. He loved his career in the service, but knew his father’s death meant he must return home to assume leadership of the family business, to see to the care and comfort of his mother and sister. He inherited a legacy of integrity and craftsmanship and he swore he wouldn’t let his father down, but that was before the accident…before the fear of failure began stalking him day and night.

  Dutifully preparing notes on the tasks for the next day, he walked around a pillar and a strange noise stopped him in his tracks. He called out to the empty floor, “Is someone there?” but heard only his own voice echo in reply.

  Getting no response, he went back to his work. As he approached the ceiling-high stacks of steel studs and drywall, he heard the sound again, but the echoes were closer this time. A low-pitched groan of pain floated across the maze of building materials, reminding him of a wounded animal. He now knew it was not caused by the rum or his overactive imagination.

  The noise repeated and he began to search in earnest for its source. He followed the faint, repeating sounds to a corner of the unfinished floor and his stomach clenched into a hard knot, shocked by what he found hidden behind the trash bunker.

  He carefully turned the body over and saw the face of a woman, so badly bruised and covered with dust and blood he couldn’t tell her age. He instantly knew this was no accident. He removed his gloves and touched a finger to her cold neck, checking for pulse he really didn’t expect to find. A spike of relief flashed through him when he felt the intermittent beats. She was, unbelievably, still alive.

  The badly injured woman moaned softly, the tiny sound sending a vile chill along his spine. Opening one eye, she tried to speak. Bending over her, he put his ear to her mouth. The voice, forced and faint, pleaded. “Help me, please.”

  As he assessed her condition, he tried to reassure her. “It’s going to be all right. I’m going to help you.”

  Looking down at her, his fists clenched in anger and revulsion. His entire being screamed with inner rage and he wished he could get his hands on the monster responsible.

  The injured woman again mumbled something and he held her head while he tried to make out her words.

  “Get me… out of here…. please,” she gasped, a trail of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

  He tried to calm her as he took his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance, just hang on.”

  She hissed between clenched teeth, “No hospital, please…not safe,” then she sagged lower. Her undamaged eye, a deep blue, beckoned him before she lapsed again into unconsciousness.

  Aaron had seen enough to know this woman was beyond scared. He picked her limp body up and carried her to the elevator. He had to help or she would die. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t fail, not again.

  As the elevator descended toward the ground, he called Carlotta. He knew she had a friend who was a nurse. His housekeeper gasped in shock and horror as he explained the situation.

  “You take the poor thing to your place,” she said. “I’ll call Kim and have her meet us there.”

  He hung up just as the elevator reached the ground floor. He carried the still-unconscious woman to a company truck parked at the site and gently put her in the front seat. The ride back to his apartment building took only a few minutes, but to him it seemed like a lifetime. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs as he rounded the last curve and slid to a stop. The battered woman was still out cold and he checked her pulse again before he lifted her from the seat.

  He moved quickly through the lobby and took the elevator to his floor. The minutes stretched into hours as the car crept slowly upward. The doors slid open just as Carlotta was coming down the hall and she almost burst into tears as she got her first look at the woman cradled in his arms.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she asked as they reached his apartment.

  Aaron answered her, his mind aflame with an incandescent rage he could barely contain. “I don’t know who did this, but I’m going to find out…and when I do, they won’t be able to identify him with dental records.”

  Once inside, he put the woman down on the guest room bed while Carlotta ran to the bathroom for a towel. He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the blood-soaked hair out of her face and his rage flared anew at what he saw.

  Her left eye was a blue-black mass, the distended lid swollen almost completely closed. Her cheeks and jaw were dotted with random bruises, the spots painted an angry shade of blood-filled purple. He also noticed her fine features were spoiled by a split upper lip and twin tracks of dried blood that trailed below her nose.

  The doorbell rang, its chime floating across the room. He went into the entryway while the returning Carlotta did what she could to make the injured woman comfortable.

  He opened the door and saw a young woman in green floral scrubs standing in the hall, a medical bag in her hand.

  “Hi. I’m Kim. Carlotta called me. She said someone was hurt?”

  Aaron ushered the heavy-set, dark-haired woman into the living room.

  “Thank you for getting here so fast. She’s in there.” He pointed down the short hallway.

  Aaron and Kim entered the guestroom, finding Carlotta leaning over the bed, uttering Spanish curses as tears fell from her eyes. They watched for a moment as she gently wiped blood and dirt from the woman’s face.

  “What have we got?” Kim asked, breaking the unnatural silence.

  “She’s been beat up pretty bad.” Carlotta said between strong sniffs. “I hope we’re not too late.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” Kim said, putting a stethoscope to her ears and grasping the woman’s wrist to feel her pulse. “Let me get her vitals.”

  Kim went to work with a swift precision, the skills undoubtedly born of many night shifts in the E.R.

  Aaron silently watched while he paced the room with the fearful concern of an expectant father.

  Dear God, please let her be all right. Please don’t let it be too late.

  Half an hour went by and he couldn’t stand it any longer, he went to the kitchen to get a drink and remove himself while Kim and Carlotta did what they could for his “guest”.

  Finally, after what seemed to him like days, they came into the living room to give him the report.

  “Well, I think you got to her just in time,” Kim said, putting her hands on her hips. “Here’s the deal; First of all, I don’t like this. She belongs in a hospital, but she is still refusing to go.”

  “Objection noted, go on.” he said.

  “She came around a few minutes ago and in spite of the lumps, she doesn’t show any signs of a serious head injury but she probably has a mild concussion. She also has a couple of broken ribs, along with a laundry list of cuts and bruises. I’d say this girl is lucky to be alive.”

  Aaron felt the relief wash over him like a warm bath. He shook Kim’s hand in earnest gratitude. “Thank you so much for all your help. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Kim looked at him, eyes strained with fatigue, “It’s no problem, I’m happy to help. Just let her rest now, and if her condition changes at all, call an ambulance, whether she wants one or not.”

  Carlotta said good night and Kim picked up her bag. The two ladies headed toward the door with Aaron escorting them. He stopped half way across the room and picked up his checkbook from the oak roll-top desk against the far wall. “What do I owe you, Kim?” he asked, pen poised.

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Just get her to go to a hospital if you can…and make sure she presses charges against her husband…or boyfriend…or whoever did this to her.”

  “I will.”

  The nurse shook her head, giving him a look of somber resignation. “I�
��ve seen this too many times before. If she goes back to him; the next time…and I can tell you, there will be a next time…he’ll kill her for sure.”

  He thanked both women again and closed the door behind them, listening to the murmur of their voices retreating down the corridor.

  Going back to the bedroom, he looked in on his unexpected guest, noticing she was once again asleep. She looked better then when he found her, but that wasn’t really saying much. He also noticed that all the bruises hid a stunning girl.

  “Who did this to you?” He quietly asked aloud.

  In her sleep, her silence remained unbroken. He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, his own exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He grabbed an old desk chair sitting by the window and dragged it to the bedside. He decided he would stay with her, so she wouldn’t be alone when she woke up in a strange place.

  The minutes ticked by. He kept watch over the injured woman until he sagged in the chair. He fell asleep sitting up and slipped into a deep, dreamless abyss, his chin resting on his chest.