The Aftermath

by Patrick Higgins

  Hopefully, they’d be brought to justice.

  Would there even be a justice system in place once the smoke finally cleared?

  Time would tell…

  6

  AFTER CHECKING THREE POSSIBLE locations that her mother could have taken Jamal and Dante—the apartment, the library up the street and the local playground—Tamika Moseley grew more panic-stricken.

  “Where are you?” she cried, desperation dripping from her words. “Where’d you take my boys, Momma?”

  Charles Calloway wanted to sit up front to console her, but he barely knew the woman. He didn’t want her to suddenly take out her frustration on his face. His head was already throbbing. Dried blood stained the right side of his face and was matted in his short tightly-coiled hair. He couldn’t afford to lose much more of the precious life-sustaining liquid.

  Even if he wanted to sit up front, he couldn’t. The front passenger door was completely smashed-in, due to the accident with the driverless vehicle. A gaping hole the size of a basketball provided a sprawling view of the street below if he cared to look. There was no way that door would open again.

  With the Plexiglas protective barrier gone, Calloway could have climbed over the front seat, but thought better of it. He had too many nightmarish scenarios of his own to deal with to give much thought to her problems.

  Seeing Richard Figueroa’s remains in the seat next to his caused nausea to swim through him. Though he’d just met his colleague a few hours ago, before boarding his plane in Florida, seeing his business colleague vanish into thin air as they were in mid-conversation was enough to stop his heart from beating.

  Calloway needed a diversion. He looked outside the window. All that did was further reinforce his own anguish. He couldn’t believe what his eyes kept seeing. Death and destruction were everywhere!

  Though dozens of blocks away, the Empire State Building appeared to be on fire. Then again, with so much blood loss, perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. He was too dizzy to differentiate between rhyme or reason at this point.

  “How in the world will they put that out?” he said, pulling at his chin.

  Tamika Moseley didn’t respond. She was too focused on the road in front of her to give it much thought.

  With so many fires blazing throughout the city, there weren’t enough firefighters to put them out. As it was, only a fraction of New York City’s finest were still on duty. Most who weren’t killed or among the missing abandoned their posts after the disappearances and went home to check on their families, leaving the many fires to burn themselves out.

  Calloway looked at his watch: 5:18 p.m. He would never make it to the hotel in time for the opening session at 7 p.m. The seminar was probably canceled anyway. How could it not be?

  One thing was certain: Charles Calloway wouldn’t be speaking, no matter what. He had more important things to focus his attention on than some stupid business seminar. What had totally consumed him just a few short moments ago was suddenly the least of his worries.

  Calloway wondered if the Waldorf-Astoria would still be standing if, and when, he arrived there. Desperate to talk to his wife, Monique, every minute or so, he pushed the redial button on his phone, but kept getting a busy signal. He even tried calling the Waldorf-Astoria, but to no avail.

  The world was going mad and he was stuck in the middle of it all, with no way of communicating with anyone other than his distraught taxicab driver.

  Outwardly, Calloway kept his emotions in check. But inside, he wanted to scream.

  7

  THE SLOW RIDE HOME for Brian Mulrooney and Jacquelyn Swindell was spent mostly in silence. Neither had a clue what lay ahead.

  The pain in Jacquelyn’s leg was infinitely more excruciating; it penetrated her consciousness like a swarm of bees invading a honeycomb. Had it been her right leg, she would be unable to drive. But what she felt in her leg paled in comparison to the realization that her world was forever changed.

  Swindell frantically changed the channels on her car radio hoping that someone could enlighten them on what was going on.

  Tuning into an All News station, they listened over the static as the reporter spoke: “…is a worldwide epidemic...I repeat, what happened in Michigan today is a worldwide epidemic…”

  Brian and Jacquelyn made brief eye contact with one another. They weren’t overly surprised to hear this. They were becoming more and more desensitized as the minutes passed. They listened.

  “…Initial reports are that millions of people have vanished worldwide without a trace...No one seems to know how or why this happened, but one thing is certain: today’s tragedy has had a catastrophic effect on all aspects of life...

  “...Though still sketchy, we’re being advised that millions are also feared dead, and rescuers haven’t even scratched the surface yet...Casualties could reach one-hundred million by day’s end, perhaps even higher than that...

  “...Power is out in many locations...Cell and satellite transmissions have been seriously disrupted or completely halted altogether...Authorities are advising everyone at home to remain there until they can pinpoint what caused the Phenomenon…

  “...This just in…So far, not a single small child has been accounted for...Though unconfirmed, it is feared that every young child on the planet has apparently vanished…”

  After a few moments of silence, the broadcaster screamed into the microphone, “Oh no, not my girls! Not my three little girls!”

  The station went silent.

  Jacquelyn Swindell burst out in tears again, “What about my baby?”

  Baby? “What baby?”

  “I’m pregnant,” she exclaimed.

  “How many months?”

  “Two.”

  Mulrooney was confused, “Why would there be a problem with your baby?”

  “I felt this strange sensation inside my tummy when all those people disappeared, like my baby was no longer there. Then my husband was killed, and I forgot all about it.” Jacquelyn’s sobbing intensified. “No, not my baby. Please God, no!”

  Mulrooney didn’t know what to say to possibly console Jacquelyn. “Would you like me to drive?”

  Jacquelyn nodded yes and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. As Brian drove, she stared out the passenger side window dabbing at moist eyes with a Kleenex, a distant gaze in her eyes. She was deep in thought about her deceased husband, the unborn baby, and her family and friends.

  Brian’s mind raced with similar thoughts. He wondered if Renate had survived the mayhem? Was his family safe in New York? According to the woman on the radio, everyone was affected by it. The not-knowing filled him with a deep sense of dread.

  Two hours later, Mulrooney pulled up to his apartment complex, to find the small building across the street doused in flames. Thankfully, it had been vacant for many months.

  Brian ignored it. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. “This is usually a ten-minute drive, with traffic.”

  Jacquelyn simply nodded.

  “Why don’t we exchange phone numbers?”

  Jacquelyn reached for her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “What’s your number?” Her hands trembled as she programmed his number into her phone.

  “Please call me the moment you get home. If you need me to answer any questions regarding your husband’s…” Mulrooney froze. Seeing so much sadness on her face, he could no longer hold her gaze. He broke eye contact with her and surveyed his apartment building, to make sure it wasn’t on fire or being looted.

  Finally, he said, “Something tells me we met for a reason. I don’t know what that reason is, and I don’t know what to expect when I go upstairs, but it’ll be nice knowing I have someone to talk to if I ever need it. I couldn’t imagine going throu
gh this alone.”

  “I’ll call when I can,” Jacquelyn said flatly. She was too numb to think ahead.

  “Promise you’ll get that leg looked at.” It looked even worse now.

  Swindell nodded yes.

  “In fact, why don’t you have a doctor examine you concerning your baby too? If you like, I can go with you.”

  “No, it’s okay. You need to check on your family and your girlfriend. Take care of them. I’ll manage on my own.”

  “Will you at least call me when you leave the hospital?” he asked.

  “Okay, I will,” she answered.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Good luck with your family.”

  “Same to you, Jacquelyn. Thanks for the ride home.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Brian exited the SUV. Jacquelyn scooted back to the driver’s side and drove off.

  With as much strength as Mulrooney could muster, he climbed the three flights of steps leading to his apartment. Not knowing what to expect, he was overcome by fear again...

  8

  BRENT JOHANNSEN AND CHAD Palmer, the two broadcasters selected to call the Michigan-Ohio State football game, were stranded at the stadium for more than two hours before finally being taken back to their hotel.

  After everyone was evacuated from the stadium, the media were ushered to a nearby building, along with players and coaches from both teams.

  When Bob Matthewson and Reggie Slater from ESPN explained to Brent and Chad how their colleague, Jared Williams, vanished along with everyone else, it was the last straw for Chad Palmer. Upon arriving at the hotel, he went straight to his room without saying a word to anyone.

  Back at the hotel for nearly an hour, Johannsen couldn’t take being alone anymore. Already on complete overload, he was too petrified to turn on the television for fear of seeing something that would push him straight over the edge. He was dangerously close to that point now.

  Except for the faint sounds of sirens outside and his pulse racing in his ears, the silence was deafening. Fear snaked through him. He felt like a scared little boy who needed his mommy.

  Johannsen needed a diversion and decided to check on his colleague. After 15 minutes of persistent knocking on Chad Palmer’s hotel room door, and a very bad gut feeling, he went down to the front desk and asked that someone open the door to Palmer’s room.

  No one seemed the slightest bit concerned with his emotional plea. Famous or not, everyone was in their own state of panic.

  To avoid a shouting match, Johannsen was finally handed a key to Palmer’s room. Under normal circumstances, this would never happen. But this day was anything but normal. And besides, the man at the front desk knew Johannsen and Palmer were colleagues, from seeing their faces on so many times on television.

  Johannsen rode the elevator up to the concierge floor, unlocked the door to Palmer’s suite and went inside. Nothing. He opened the bathroom door and saw Palmer in his boxers and T-shirt dead on the floor, necktie tightly drawn around his neck, shower curtain pulled down on top of him. He had fresh bruises on his knees, forehead and left cheek.

  Apparently, he’d jimmied the tie around the shower curtain rod before his own weight snapped the rod in half. But not before his last breath was sucked out of him. There was no need to check his pulse. His skin tone was blue. And the smell of released bowels confirmed his death.

  Johannsen stood motionless. He was too numb to properly mourn his friend’s suicide. After everything he’d witnessed the past few hours, he wasn’t overly shocked.

  On the drive back to the hotel, Palmer stared out the limousine window, shivering uncontrollably, with the blankest of looks on his face. Once in a while a teardrop fell from his eyes. He obviously used the time in the limousine to think of the best way to end his existence.

  Johannsen knew calling the police would be fruitless. Football star or not, the police had their work cut out for the foreseeable future to waste time investigating one man’s suicide.

  Johannsen closed the bathroom door and went back to the front desk to inform the man of his morbid discovery.

  Chad Palmer, husband and father of three, star football player at the University of Arizona, retired quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, was added to the list of millions who’d died in this unthinkable tragedy. Had it been any other day, his suicide would have been the big story on every news station.

  But not today. Today, Palmer was just a number, a statistic.

  Sadly, his wife, Alyssa, would survive the day without her husband of eight years and their three young children. Who really had it better?

  Brent Johannsen wanted out of Michigan. He wanted to be at home with his family in Louisiana. He had no way of knowing if they were even okay. He feared he wouldn’t know for quite some time.

  BRIAN MULROONEY COLLAPSED ON the couch.

  It was 5:55 p.m. Darkness had already set in. With electricity out in most places, the bright amber glow from the many still-burning fires was the main source of light in some parts of Ann Arbor.

  Alone for the first time since the tragedy, Mulrooney felt like he was about to have that nervous breakdown he’d fought so hard to prevent from happening inside Michigan Stadium.

  The little strength he’d shown in Jacquelyn’s presence, mostly fueled by adrenaline, was gone. He felt dizzy, nauseous.

  Tears streamed down his face. This time he didn’t hold back. He couldn’t. Sounds of shock and pain echoed through his tears, as he lay on the couch in total disbelief.

  “Why is this happening?” he screamed, reaching for the land line phone. There was no signal. He felt hopeless. What should I do? What can I do? I don’t even have a car! Stress wracked his entire body. The fact that he had too much alcohol to drink last night only added to it all.

  Mulrooney turned on the television. With so much static, it was difficult deciphering what he saw on the screen, twisting his insides all the more. He couldn’t concentrate. He felt like a zombie.

  Mulrooney stretched out on the couch.

  Remarkably, within minutes, he was sound asleep...

  9

  TAMIKA MOSELEY AND CHARLES Calloway spent five hours looking for Moseley’s children, with no success. They inched along in traffic at a snail’s pace. Manhattan looked like a war zone. Smashed and vacant cars littered most streets of the city.

  Tamika grew more frightened by the minute. Every time she looked in her rear-view mirror, she saw her passenger’s bloody head. His wound needed tending to. She offered to take him to the hospital, but he declined. He just wanted to get to the hotel.

  Though traffic would be nightmarish at best, Tamika had to try her best to take Charles to the Waldorf-Astoria. In a strange way, just having him in her cab the past five hours helped soothe her shell-shocked nerves, if only slightly.

  Turning left from 85th Street onto Second Avenue was a task in itself. The intersection looked like a bomb had been detonated on it. Fires were still burning. Broken glass was everywhere. Stores were being looted. Stalled and wrecked cars not yet towed or stolen, littered the streets of Manhattan, making driving all but impossible. Soon they, too, would be ransacked or stolen by criminals with absolutely no capacity for conscience.

  Tamika and Charles were stuck at the intersection, ten deep in traffic, for more than 20 minutes before finally breaking free of the flow. But in order to do so, several more dents were added to her vehicle.

  It was the least of Tamika’s worries.

  Once on Second Avenue she headed south. The plan was to take Second Avenue all the way to 49th Street, turn right on Park Avenue, and drop her customer off at the front entryway of the Waldorf, like she’d done for so many passengers in the past.

  After traveling 20 blocks mo
re, Second Avenue was becoming uninhabitable. Thick black, acrid smoke from a massive fire choked out the air, severely affecting Tamika’s view. It was far worse than any fog she’d ever encountered before, not to mention the danger they faced breathing it in.

  She wondered if the buildings above would come crumbling down upon them? The very thought sent prolonged shivers up and down her spine. Her hands trembled as she gripped the steering wheel.

  Sirens screamed in all directions from police cars, fire engines and rescue squad vehicles. Tamika heard them—they were oh so close—but she couldn’t see three feet in front of her.

  It was enough to drive anyone insane. There was no way she was proceeding on Second Avenue.

  Tamika turned right onto 65th Street and headed west. It was a good move. Though she still battled residual smoke, at least her view wasn’t as obstructed. They continued moving at an extremely slow pace, but at least they were moving.

  Tamika reached Lexington Avenue and turned left, then headed south toward the Waldorf. She was not getting off Lexington. Her passenger would just have to accept being dropped off at the rear entrance of the hotel. He probably wouldn’t mind.

  At 6:45 p.m., they arrived at the hotel. On the surface, everything appeared to be fine.

  “Thank God!” Charles exclaimed.

  Tamika wasn’t about to charge her passenger for the taxi ride. After all, he did accompany her all throughout the city, which was nice of him. Besides, what could she possibly charge the man for a front-row tour of hell?

  Before exiting the taxicab, Charles did his best to assure Tamika that everything would be okay in time. He gathered Richard Figueroa’s belongings from the backseat, then retrieved both his and Figueroa’s luggage from the trunk.