Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  She spent the last of her fear energy weaving purple-black webs of darkness through the aisles to catch debris and keep people in their seats. Finally, she fell to one knee, exhausted.

  “OK, A,” she said. “It’s on you, now.”

  * *** *

  A loud groan caught Angel’s attention, and she saw the remaining wing waving up and down in a slow, sickening vibration. “No, no, no!” she shouted, but sure enough, the wind tore off the wing. It vanished into the night with one last roar. Instantly, the falling plane became heavier, but at least now it was easier to balance.

  “Come on, you bastard!” she shouted. “Move!”

  She strained, every sinew standing out on her neck and arms, and the nose of the plane stopped its descent. They were still plummeting, but less like a missile toward the ground and more like a broken glider. The plane strained at her hands, trying to pitch or roll or spin and it was everything she could do to try to hold it steady.

  Angel saw the ground approaching with remarkable speed. She and the plane were headed for a cluster of buildings, something Angel couldn’t let happen. She needed a long, hopefully uninhabited stretch to put it down. The San Francisco airport was way behind her, so that was no good. Perhaps the deserted, under-construction Bay Bridge? It wasn't a great idea, but hey, teenagers carrying jetliners couldn’t be picky.

  She tried to push the plane, to slow it and hold it up, but, super-strength or no, it was just too heavy. She was slowing the fall, but not enough, and she certainly couldn’t direct it. Her hands glowed with the heat of holding it up. Her whole body was glowing. “Wait…”

  The glow wasn’t friction, it was that photographer’s light blast that she’d absorbed. Always before, energy attacks just dissipated harmlessly into her, and they had never done anything for her aside from a buzz akin to drinking an energy drink. But she’d never before absorbed so much that it threatened to boil out of her. She focused on keeping the light under control, and what happened stunned her: the glow dimmed and she got a rush of energy.

  She sucked in a breath and pushed. The plane was still damned heavy, but now she could move it just slightly. Inch by inch, she redirected it in alignment with the bridge. Sure enough, there were only a few construction trucks parked along the bridge, along with a whole horde of drivers at either end who apparently hadn’t got the message and were honking for the bridge to open.

  Man, were they going to be disappointed.

  Angel and the plane were low enough now that she could smell the salt of the seawater below. The road was only fifty feet down, and closing fast. Car alarms started blaring as they passed over. Glass shattered in nearby buildings. She reached for the last of her absorbed energy and found her reserve empty. She’d burned through it all.

  “Oh crap—”

  The plane hit.

  * *** *

  As she had started to see buildings out the windows, Vivienne realized that in her rush to protect the passengers, she hadn’t saved any fear energy to re-armor herself. Oops.

  The plane hit with a horrendous shriek of metal and stone, an impossible sound like nothing a sane person could have imagined. For Vivienne, who had fought snarling gods from beyond space and time and heard the thunder rage beyond its limit, this roar was on par.

  The impact sent her flying forward, launching her body through the crafted fear armor, tearing shards from it as she slammed into the locked cockpit door with enough force to put a sizable dent in it but not break it open. Well, at least the anti-terrorist door was tough.

  Her last spindly bit of fear armor broke, and she collapsed to the ground.

  Darkness.

  * *** *

  The wingless plane crashed into the bridge, threading the needle between its two nets of suspension cables. Construction workers dived aside and the plane smashed their vehicles off the bridge like a toddler carelessly discarding toy cars.

  At impact, the plane shed the pink-glowing A-Girl, who bounced crazily along the cracking stone, then vanished under the grinding fuselage.

  The lower fuselage scraped apart like it was made of tissue paper. The landing gear screamed and snapped off, sending a wheel sailing off into the bay. The shredded remains of its wing pylons leaked fluid and ash like puss. The plane turned as it crashed, and rolled most of the way over, putting the open hatch against the ground. It grated along the bridge like a rock across pavement. Its wake left a trail of broken stone, twisted metal, and fire.

  The dying plane screeched its way a quarter mile down the bridge before finally easing to a halt.

  * *** *

  “Ow!”

  Vivienne must have been knocked unconscious a minute, because her next sensation was of someone kicking her in the head.

  “What the hell?”

  She awoke to pandemonium inside the downed plane, as passengers fought and struggled to get out, screaming all the while. Ben was up and instructing people as best he could, though half the emergency exits were blocked as the plane was on its side. People had to climb seats to reach the exits above them. They busied themselves breaking the remaining spider-webs of fear armor, or shouting for help into phones, or generally freaking out.

  Vivienne climbed shakily to her feet, her body exhausted and beat up, but whole. It was remarkable that she hadn’t broken anything, considering. The emotions she was drawing on seemed to be more anger and confusion than anything else—people were upset about their near-death experience, and they were taking it out on the helpless flight attendant who wasn’t letting them off the plane.

  She was just starting to think about forming a plan when a bright light drew her attention to the front of the plane. Light appeared around the edges of the door, and the latch whined it burned away. The door swung open to reveal Pablo Razzi, his hands burning with sunlight, his black hair waving in the sea breeze. Emergency lights flashed behind him.

  “This way, everybody!” he called. “Follow me!”

  Then metal groaned as small hands ripped a hole in the roof of the plane. Angel strode through the gap, her torn dress and skin covered in dust and blood, her hair looking like she’d dragged it through an oil slick. Nearby passengers recoiled—some even gave her ungracious looks—and followed Pablo out of the airplane. Ignoring the beat-up women who had actually saved their lives in favor the heroic guy with the wavy hair leading them to safety. Typical.

  Angel helped Vivienne to her feet, and together they watched the passengers disembark.

  Outside, emergency responders covered them up in blankets and led them en masse from the wreckage. Applause and cheers filled the air for The Paparazzi, the hero of the moment. Pablo, for his part, was photographing everything for posterity. Vivienne wondered where he got the spare camera. Probably run home and back. Jerk.

  “I don’t get it.” Angel shook her head, causing a rain of dust. “We must have flown a couple miles. How’d that tool get here so fast?”

  “Speedster.” Vivienne felt at the pocket of her leather jacket.

  “Oh right. Lame.” Angel pulled a shard of glass out of her hair, frowned at it, and tossed it aside. Vivienne sighed. “All that power, and this is how he uses it. No imagination at all.”

  “Tomorrow morning, he’ll be on every talk show in America.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Vivienne pulled out her phone, which miraculously had only a little crack in the display. “I think his fifteen minutes of fame won’t last that long.”

  She clicked play, and watched the confrontation in the alley with Pablo spewing insults at them and ultimately shooting the plane out of the sky. An accident, sure, but not the sort of thing heroes do, and not something that would play well on the hourly 24/7 news cycle.

  “You know,” said Angel, pointing out at the gathered crowd, “My agent would probably say this is exactly the sort of publicity I need. I mean, you’re in hiding, but me? I have an image to maintain. I should go out and make a statement about truth, justice, or something like that.”

  �
�What’s stopping you?” Vivienne asked.

  “Have you seen what that plane did to my dress?” Angel pulled off a piece of fabric that had mostly melted around her super-tough skin. “Ugh. Seriously barf.”

  “I guess we can be invisible angels this time,” Vivienne said. “Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  Angel made a face. “I only drink cappuccino.”

  Vivienne smiled. “Cappuccino, it is.”

  *

  Heart’s Desire

  by C.S. Marks

  Newspaper really isn’t a very good insulator, but it’s marginally better than frozen cardboard. He had surrounded himself with as much newsprint as he could find, wadding it loosely to trap as much air as possible, because a sudden thaw had soaked his cherished cardboard carton. It softened and collapsed into a flat rectangle while he was out foraging earlier in the afternoon, and then frozen solid when the temperature had dropped from an unseasonable fifty-five degrees to an equally unseasonable fifteen. It was even colder than that now.

  He huddled in the corner of the recessed doorway, hoping to catch the slightest drift of warm air from beneath the door of “Lindy’s Chocolate Emporium”. He had chosen this spot because the doorway was narrow and set back several feet from the storefront, providing a better wind-break than wider double-doorways did. He might have sought refuge in the alley—he often had before—but tonight he just didn’t feel like fighting with the other lost ones, people like him who had nothing and fought for the barest of necessities.

  Besides, he loved the smell of chocolate; it was one of the best things about being off his meds. His sense of smell came back and his stomach didn’t lurch at the thought of food. Now that the fog had lifted, he could also bask in the glorious, twinkling lights and festive sounds of the holidays. In this neighborhood the shops closed at ten, but the lights were still on, the plastic Santas still glowed, and outside speakers still sent forth all kinds of holiday music, from his favorite classics to the modern drekky stuff they made nowadays. He wasn’t a fan of anything modern, though he had to admit the tiny LED lights were beautiful. He remembered the old-style ones his father had strung around the little spruce in the front yard, together with its doomed cousin in the front room of the house. Enormous by modern standards, the bulbs would burn your fingers if you touched them once they had been on for a while.

  I could use a string of them right now, he thought, longing for their warmth. But they would probably catch his newspapers on fire. Wouldn’t that be something?

  He had always loved Christmas. He loved everything about it—the reading from the Gospel of Luke, the decorations, the treats his mother and sister made, and, of course, Santa Claus. Christmas was a time when you really didn’t feel guilty about asking for your heart’s desire, even though you knew you might not get it. A live koala bear, for example, was out of the question, though his sister asked for one every year anyway.

  Whenever reality became unbearable, he would turn to the memories of his boyhood, back before things went south. Before the deaths, the violence, the betrayals, and the catastrophes of his life had begun to turn him into what he was today. And what am I? A vagrant? A bum? A societal parasite? There wasn’t really a proper word for it.

  Christmas memories were the best, though. This was the one time of year when the hardened crust that enveloped most of the people he met began to crack a little. It was a time when love, compassion, and introspection had a chance in hell of prevailing over self-interest. Smiles came more easily, people were more generous, and even the predators seemed to ease up a little. He took fewer beatings and suffered fewer thefts…not that he had anything worth stealing, but in his world, the smallest asset could have the greatest impact. For example, discarded newspapers now kept him alive.

  One of the few unpleasant recollections of Christmas was the day he finally accepted that Santa Claus was not a real, individual human being who maintained a workshop full of elves at the North Pole. He had hung on to that notion for the first eight years of his life, unlike his sister, who wised up quickly when confronted with a Santa at every major department store.

  He had been devastated. Santa was, for him, the embodiment of generosity, kindness, comfort, and hope. Hope most of all. He had never been a particularly religious man, but he just figured that Jesus had something to do with Santa Claus. Jesus was always trying to get people to give things away, to love other people. That’s what Santa Claus did, right? The one thing he reckoned Jesus never did was keep a “naughty” list. Or at least, if he did, you could get out of it in the end. All you had to do was be nice one time—right before you died.

  Santa must have done that too, though. He knew he had escaped the consequences of the “naughty list” more than once. And he know a whole lot of other folks who seemed to do awful well at Christmas, who never had a kind thought or a generous motivation in their lives. He shivered, shaking his head, rustling amid the newspapers.

  There wasn’t any use in trying to make sense of it; Santa wasn’t real. He shook his head again as if to banish the thought, drifting off, filling his mind with thoughts of generous, smiling people, and Santa gazing into his crystal ball, or magic mirror, or whatever he used to keep tabs on everybody. The Santa in his dreams was always smiling.

  The bell in the steeple of the nearby Catholic church chimed four.

  He had stopped shivering an hour ago. He opened his eyes, seeing the blur of the red, white, and green Christmas lights through a film of tears. He hadn’t wanted to wake up…not again. There was nothing in his life but despair—no joy for him anymore. And the worst of it was that he couldn’t be generous, as he had nothing to give away. He couldn’t provide help, or comfort, or even love, because no one would look at him. No one would speak to him. He saw troubled souls walking the streets around him and he could do nothing to help them. All he could do was take—from the meals at the Mission to the nickels and dimes he begged from passers-by—and he despised himself for it. He had left his pride behind long ago, and that was fine; pride was a sin, right? But he had never had the luxury of generosity. Not since things went south.

  Last he heard, his sister was married and lived up in Poughkeepsie with some rich SOB. She had not contacted him in ten years. He wondered if she had any kids by now and, if so, whether she let them believe in Santa Claus. Her last words to him had been harsh, her expression full of disapproval for not taking his meds. Then she had closed the door and left him to his fate. He knew she wanted to be rid of him, to wash her hands of him, and who could blame her? All he did was take from her, and she would never help him again. “Tough love”, she would have called it. One mustn’t be an enabler. The last words out of her mouth: “Get help.”

  At least he wasn’t really cold any more. He closed his eyes again. It was early morning on Christmas Eve—time to make his Christmas Wish. Last year he had wished for an orange, and a kind lady had given him one. It was the best day of the whole year.

  What is it you would wish for?

  He heard the voice, but could not open his eyes to look around for the source. He felt a stab of fear. Voices after midnight, either in your head or not, weren’t good.

  Who wants to know?

  Don’t be afraid. Open your heart and tell me what you would wish for.

  A feeling of wonderful security drew around him like a soft woolen blanket. I wish it would snow…

  Open your heart and tell me your heart’s desire.

  He thought for a moment. Is this a trick question?

  He had the sensation of laughter then. He didn’t exactly hear it, but he felt it. The voice was amused. I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want for Christmas, it said patiently.

  No one cares what I want for Christmas.

  I do. Tell me.

  Am I dead, or what?

  Just tell me. I promise not to laugh again.

  He drew a small, rasping sigh. No…not dead, then. This is because I’m not on my meds, isn’t it?

  What
do you have to lose? Don’t you feel wonderful at this moment?

  I do, actually.

  Then tell me. Don’t question what you don’t understand…just open your heart. I’ll know.

  He squeezed his eyes tight, and made his Christmas wish.

  I can’t give you that. You DO know that Santa Claus isn’t a real person, don’t you?

  Well, I kept hoping, y’know? Tears of shame and disappointment welled behind his closed eyelids, but the voice came again.

  Sounds like you’ve seen that episode of “Twilight Zone” one time too many. I can’t make you Santa Claus, but I can grant you something better.

  What could be better than being Santa Claus?

  Come with me. You’ll see.

  * *** *

  Where are you taking me? What place is this?

  This is your first stop tonight. Mrs. Lopez in 3C, remember? Her mom passed away last month, and she needs you.

  Me? Who could need me? Needs me for what?

  Just go on…help her. You’ll know what to do. Go on, now.

  He found himself in the darkened kitchen of a small apartment with a middle-aged, dark-haired woman. She looked tired, even by his standards. He did remember her—she was the one who had given him the orange last year. The bedraggled string of lights dangling from the small window over a sink piled with dirty dishes made it clear that Mrs. Lopez had not really been herself this season; sorrow had shadowed every corner of her life. He knew how she felt: alone. Alone and worthless. She lowered her head to the table, burying her face in her folded arms.

  His first impulse was to go to her, to comfort her, but he hesitated. This was a private despair, and he felt awkward and slightly guilty.

  Don’t worry…she can’t see you. She won’t realize you’re here, but her spirit will hear you. Go on, now. Do what comes naturally!

  He drew near enough to reach out to her with both hands, allowing her sorrow to flood into his soul. To his amazement, he knew just what to say to her…it just came to him. Remember the Christmas when you and your mom made all those almond cookies and gave them to everyone? You were the most popular women in the neighborhood. She loved giving those cookies away—making those people happy—and she was so proud that you felt the same…remember? It’s all right. You’re not alone.