The Aftermath

by Patrick Higgins

  Closing the trunk, he nodded to Tamika and she drove off, not having the slightest clue as to where she was going...

  Calloway entered the hotel through the Lexington Street entrance. He would send Richard’s things home—wherever that was—whenever he could. He wondered if anyone would still be there to receive them. Was his family gone too? Time would tell...

  Calloway climbed the escalators, which weren’t working, up to the massive lobby and went straight to the front desk. Not even the hotel’s elegance impressed him at the moment.

  Drained of every emotion, he just wanted to get to his room, so he could tend to his head wound, and think things through without seeing mind-numbing devastation all around him.

  Will I ever think soundly again? It was a question for which Charles Calloway had no answer...

  10

  PRESIDENT DANFORTH’S CABINET KEPT growing by the hour. The U.S. military was always at their best when under the most adverse conditions. While this was clearly uncharted territory, the way they’d successfully tracked so many key people down, despite the dire conditions, was quite remarkable. But they wouldn’t rest until every-last person on the President’s list was found—dead, alive, or among the missing.

  Aaron Gillespie, the President’s Chief of Staff, kept pleading with his boss to find the necessary strength to address the American people if a satellite transmission could be secured.

  The President was reluctant. Appearing on live television was the last thing he wanted right now. He was still traumatized over the loss of his mother, daughter, son-in-law, and every one of his grandchildren, not to mention a secret service agent and his chief baker, all in the blink of an eye.

  On top of all that, he just got word that Secretary of Commerce, Gwendolyn Hairston, and Secretary of Agriculture, Lawrence Van Zandt, had both vanished. And he still hadn’t heard from Surgeon General Dr. Ethan Summers. He feared the worst for his good friend of many years.

  With his administration in total disarray, President Danforth wanted to be with his family, in mourning, like everyone else. Besides, what could he possibly say to the people he governed at a time like this?

  Sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, a moment of clarity pierced through the dense fog inside his head. He thought back to when he and Melissa first met at a fraternity party at the University of Michigan.

  When she nonchalantly asked what he was majoring in, he looked her square in the eye and said, “I’m majoring in becoming President of the United States of America!” The way he said it, with such an unmistakable seriousness and resolve, caused Melissa to believe him.

  “First Lady, huh?” Melissa Stephenson had replied, winking at him. She walked away, hoping he would follow. He did. It was love at first sight on both ends. Had she known in advance it would lead to all of this, she surely would have kept on walking without ever looking back at him.

  President Danforth snapped out of it when White House speech-writer Martin Feingold entered the Oval Office carrying a rough draft of a speech he wrote. The President took his time perusing it. Though it provided no solid answers as to what had completely blind-sided the planet humanity called home, anything at this point would be better than nothing.

  Gillespie was right. The American people needed to hear from him. The sooner the better. They needed assurance that everything would eventually be okay. And it had to come from him.

  Technology willing, President Danforth would address the nation roughly an hour from now, at 8 p.m. Hopefully Feingold’s speech would restore civility to America’s communities, if only for one night.

  From the little intelligence gathered so far, early reports were that the U.S. Military suffered many losses by way of disappearance. From high-ranking senior officials to new recruits, many were presumed among the missing.

  The President feared the depletion of his armed forces would greatly weaken America’s defenses, possibly crippling the nation. Military leaders from all branches—Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines and Coast Guard—were frenzied, working in concert with their subordinates at break-neck speed gathering intelligence, which was a miracle in itself with communications so stymied.

  The military was put on Threat Con Delta, the nation’s highest state of alert. Military officials were placed on full tactical reserve. No one could leave their posts. No exceptions!

  For those they couldn’t contact, especially overseas, the hope was that common sense would prevail and they’d place themselves on full alert, like they were trained to do, until communication could be made with their superiors.

  Command posts were being set up in America’s streets. All U.S. borders were put on full alert, along with international borders which America had safeguarded for so many years.

  Heightened security alerts were posted on all fronts. The government was put on full alert. Hospitals were on maximum alert. With so many injuries, millions of pints of blood were needed, along with millions of body bags.

  Search and Rescue Task Forces were being formulated, along with Search and Recover Task Forces, Crisis Management Task Forces, Strategic Emergency Task Forces, and a myriad of other task forces. But with so much widespread devastation, they would be handcuffed for many days, if not weeks, before any significant results could be achieved.

  Even so, the President had to appear to be in control of the situation. Otherwise chaos would ensue everywhere. Confidence was a big part of leadership. It was the fuel that had built America. It also drove the stock markets and often stopped recessions dead in their tracks.

  Without confidence, the President knew it would be next to impossible to maintain any sense of civility in the streets of America. Even a declaration of Martial Law would be ineffective. Panicked people would kill each other in the streets without warning or reason.

  Government and military intelligence gatherers would have their hands full for the foreseeable future, sorting through mountains of paperwork, exploring multitudes of possibilities. Hopefully someone would soon find a clue that would shed some light on what happened earlier.

  Theories were already surfacing. Most appeared to be spiritual in nature. But until they were either proven as truth or dismissed as hogwash, they were just theories and would be kept confidential for the time being.

  President Danforth excused himself from the Situation Room to change out of his Michigan Wolverines attire and check on his family, before addressing the nation 30 minutes from now.

  The nervous energy he was known for having before addressing the people he governed paled in comparison to now.

  Now, he was petrified.

  11

  “CAN I HELP YOU, SIR?”

  “I have a reservation,” Charles Calloway said. It looked a little strange seeing only one employee standing behind the massive check-in desk of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Then again, given what had already happened, it was par for the course this day.

  In a monotone voice, the woman politely explained that the computers were down and might not be fixed for quite some time.

  That didn’t surprise Calloway. But when she said she couldn’t offer him a room because of the malfunction, it was all he could do to keep from screaming.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the hotel employee said, giving Calloway’s battle scars a good looking over, “There’s nothing I can do for you at this time.”

  Mary Johnston knew something scarily strange had transpired outside her place of employment earlier. She did her best to ignore it for the time being, and purposely willed herself to remain busy, knowing she’d have to face the music sooner or later.

  She chose later. By temporarily blocking the tidal wave of mind-numbing thoughts from crashing upon the shores of her mind, Mary was the only one coming close to doing her job efficiently. After the
disappearances took place, most of her fellow co-workers left without even clocking out. The few remaining employees still there walked around like zombies.

  It was pure chaos at the Waldorf-Astoria, but in a calm, aristocratic, kind of way.

  Seeing her guest’s bleeding head bounced Mary back to reality, draining her of all her focus. Had this man entered the Waldorf on any other day, bloodied and bruised the way he was, he would have surely been escorted out; perhaps even taken away in handcuffs.

  What a difference a couple of hours had made in her life. When Mary Johnston arrived at work this morning, Christmas music was playing as work crews skillfully hung decorations all throughout the cavernous hotel.

  The Christmas spirit had indeed visited the Waldorf-Astoria and Mary was just as festive and jubilant as everyone else. Then came the disappearances and decorating the hotel suddenly seemed trivial. Boxes half-full of Christmas decorations now cluttered the massive lobby floor, where they would remain un-hung for who knew how long.

  “Besides, even if I could offer you a room,” Johnston went on, “with our computers still down, I don’t think the key would open the door. Though we still have electricity, thank God, everything is computerized.” She looked at her guest with sincere eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Please ma’am,” Calloway pleaded, “I need to get to my room and tend to my head wound. Isn’t there anything you can do for me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, as sincerely as she could. “You’re not the only one with a reservation that I’m unable to assist at this time. Until our computers are running again, there’s nothing I can do for you. We have a technician doing all he can to get things back online. Until then, my hands are tied. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Calloway lowered his head in defeat. It was the last thing he wanted to hear. He knew how bad it was outside the hotel. These minor problems were nothing compared to everything else going on.

  “Had you been checked in before noon, you’d probably be okay.”

  It suddenly dawned on him, “Did you say noon?”

  “Well, not exactly noon, sir, but before the time of the van…”

  Charles cut her off, “I called early this morning from the airport in Florida, authorizing an associate of mine, Santana Jiles, to check me in, in case I was late arriving. The room was pre-paid by my company. One of your colleagues confirmed to me on the phone that I was already checked in. Could you please check for me, Mary?” Charles asked, reading her name tag.

  “Sure. What’s your name?”

  “Charles Calloway.”

  Out of habit, Mary Johnston nervously tried typing something onto the keyboard in front of her, before realizing again it wasn’t working. Frowning at the monitor, she grabbed the printed guest list of those already checked in.

  “Let’s see, Charles Calloway. Charles Calloway. Charles Calloway. Yep, right here. May I please see some identification?”

  Calloway handed her his Florida driver’s license.

  She eyeballed it briefly and said, “Looks like you’re in luck, Mister Calloway. So long as the key works, that is.”

  “Thank you, Santana! And thank you too, Mary.”

  “I’m happy to help you, sir,” Mary Johnston said. “Since the key’s already been activated, it should work. If not, there will be nothing else I can do for you.” At least she was trying.

  “I understand.” What else could he say?

  “This is your room number,” she said, circling it on the room key holder, looking more at his head wound than the paper. Dried and fresh blood covered much of his forehead. It looked nasty. “Enjoy your stay with us here at the Waldorf-Astoria!”

  Mary Johnston knew how ridiculously ill-timed her comment was. But that’s what she was trained to say to all her guests. By looking into Calloways’ eyes, the hotel clerk caught another tiny glimpse of what she knew she’d soon have to face on her own. Tiny glimpse or not, it was enough to frighten her to the core of her being.

  A transplant from Idaho, the fact that Mary Johnston was a loner actually helped her now. Adopted and never married, New York was her fifth state of residence over the past eight years. She never got to experience life in a stable, ongoing family environment. Nor did she have any lifelong friends to cling to in difficult times, only a few mere acquaintances.

  Mary Johnston was polite by nature. But when it came to building relationships she preferred to keep her distance, choosing instead to remain alone. Fearful that someone would abandon her again, like her birth parents and only boyfriend had done, she seldom allowed others a prolonged glimpse inside.

  The downside to this was that it fueled her constant battle with loneliness and depression. Mary silently feared that her loneliness would reach new depths once she arrived home.

  She blinked these horrific thoughts away and refocused, “While we do have three separate banks of elevators, I suggest you take the stairs instead. I know it’s nine stories, but with everything that’s already happened, you can’t be too careful.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Think I’ll take you up on it.”

  “Good luck with your key, Mister Calloway.” Mary pointed him in the right direction and Charles left at once.

  Upon reaching the ninth floor, though in excellent physical condition, Calloway was exhausted, fatigued. It was difficult carrying a garment bag on each shoulder—one his, the other Richard Figueroa’s—a duffel bag full of training manuals for this evening’s now-canceled meeting, and two briefcases.

  Not only that, his head wound had weakened him substantially. Salt-filled perspiration, mixed with blood, stung his open wound as it slowly dripped from his brow.

  “So much for a first-class experience!” he said, sarcastically. This is crazy!

  Charles wasn’t in the mood for nice. He just wanted to get to his room. He walked the long corridor looking for room #917. Finding it, he dropped everything onto the floor. He pulled out the key.

  “Come on. Please work!” Calloway placed his key on the keypad. Once the magnetic strip was read and verified, a bright green light flashed, granting him access to the room.

  “Thank God!” he exclaimed.

  12

  BRIAN MULROONEY WOKE TO the sound of his front door opening. The only light inside his apartment came from the glare of the television. It was enough for him to see Renate’s face.

  At the same time, they both said, “Thank God, you’re alive!”

  Renate rushed over and threw her arms around her boyfriend’s neck. “When I didn’t see your car, I got scared.”

  “I can’t believe I actually slept. I drank way too much last night.” Brian rubbed his still-throbbing head, wondering if he’d woken from some wild and wacky nightmarish adventure. He was still wearing his coat.

  “You obviously needed it.”

  Brian ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. “Where were you when it happened?”

  “The Laurel Park Mall, using the gift card you gave me for my birthday.” The Laurel Park Mall was connected to the Marriott hotel where Brian worked. He gave Renate a $200 gift card redeemable at any store in that mall. It was the perfect gift for her.

  “Where’s Megan. Is she okay?” Brian asked of Renate’s sister.

  “She’s out in the car. As far as I know, my whole family’s safe. We checked on our parents before coming here. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes!”

  “So are you, babe.”

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  “You mean my ex-car. I’m car-less. It exploded on account of the plane crash…”

  Renate was stunned. “Plane crash?”

  “Yeah, at Michigan Stadium, soon after people vanished,” Brian said, somberly. “Out of no
where, an airplane came hurtling from the sky. Just missed hitting the top part of the stadium.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Had it struck, I’d be a goner too. Thankfully, it crashed in the stadium parking lot. Goodbye car.” Brian’s words were emotionless. He was clearly in a daze.

  “Oh my,” said Renate, holding her hands up to her mouth in disbelief. A goner too? Hmm, not good! “Where’s Justin?”

  “He’s no longer with us,” Brian said somberly.

  “Are you serious?” Renate was stunned by the tragic news. “Did he vanish or was he killed?”

  “Vanished,” came the reply, evenly, without emotion.

  “I’m so sorry, Brian. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he lied.

  “Are you sure?” Renate’s heart ached for her boyfriend.

  “Actually, no. I’m scared to death.” Brian had this distant look in his eyes.

  “I know, sweetie. How’s your family? Please tell me they’re okay.”

  “Don’t know. Can’t get through to anyone. I’m almost happy the phones aren’t working. Too afraid to find out. Don’t think I can take any more bad news right now.”

  Renate tussled with her long blonde hair. “Want me to try calling them for you?”

  “No, I’ll do it. Besides, this is nothing compared to what happened to this woman I met today.”

  “Oh, what woman? Wait, let me tell Megan you’re okay first. She’ll be relieved to hear it. Be right back.”

  When Renate returned, with a heavy heart, Brian described his frightening ordeal at Michigan Stadium, in vivid detail. His voice reflected someone who was barely hanging on.

  When Renate heard how Jacquelyn witnessed her own husband being struck in the head with something that fell out of the Goodyear blimp, the fear in her eyes was palpable.

  Renate then shared her experience at the mall with her boyfriend. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she recalled a family of five who vanished right before her very eyes. All that remained were two baby strollers and the clothing they wore.