by James Hunt
"This is unbelievable. I mean, I heard what the Captain said, it's just not registering. It's impossible," Lieutenant Harris said as their heels clicked against the tile floor.
"Did you call your wife?" Captain Banks asked.
"Of course I did, how about you?" Harris replied.
"You know it."
"How did she take it?"
"How do you think she took it?"
Lieutenant Harris didn't answer. They came to the interrogation room where Sacha was being held, but stopped before entering.
"I nearly forgot about this guy," Harris said.
"Don't beat yourself up over it. We've got a lot on our minds," Banks said.
"So what are we going to do with him?" Harris asked.
"He's a suspect in a terrorist attack. We have to follow federal protocol," Banks answered. Lieutenant Harris breathed in heavily.
"Well, let's do it, then," he said.
They walked into the room. Sacha jerked his head up from its resting spot on the table. "Rise and shine, Mr. Kaminski," Harris said.
Sacha raised his head from the desk and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Again, he wasn't sure how much time had passed since he last woke. "How long have I been here?" he asked the detectives.
They looked at each other, then back to Sacha.
"I apologize for the wait, there have been some recent developments, which we will explain to you in a moment," Banks said.
Harris pulled a chair from under the table and sat. Sacha looked at both detectives again noticing their lack of eye contact or specifics. He wasn't getting a good vibe from either of them.
"Do I need to get a lawyer? Have I been charged with anything?" Sacha rested both his arms down on the table in frustration. "I just want to know what's going on."
Banks took a seat next to Harris. Harris looked up from his notebook to address their suspect. "Mr. Kaminski, to answer your question, no, you have not been charged with anything. But you haven't been cleared either. You are being detained on suspicion of aiding or abetting a terrorist attack--"
"That's ridiculous," Sacha interrupted.
"Those are the facts, as we know them, that's all. Once we get into the matter of terrorism, it becomes a federal law enforcement issue, literally out of our hands."
"Yes, Lieutenant Harris is correct. Earlier today we were supposed to get a visit from an agent from the Department of Homeland Security. That is why you were being held, but now everything has changed and we're currently under a national crisis."
Sacha leaned in closer, trying to see what the men were getting at. "What do you mean, everything has changed?"
"We don't have a lot of time here," Harris said after looking at his watch.
"There are many things we're not at liberty to discuss, given your status, but what you need to know is that an official city-wide evacuation has been mandated," Banks said.
"What are you taking about?" Sacha asked. "Why?"
"There have been several unverified reports of further attacks that could inflict harm to the entire city," Banks responded.
"Attacks from where? How could that be possible?" Sacha asked with an exasperated tone.
"Maybe you could answer some of those questions for us," Banks said, leaning in closer.
Sacha face shifted to a deep grimace. "I have told you gentlemen time and time again that I had nothing to do with the bombing on Wall Street. Nothing! Now if something else is going on, I can assure you that I have nothing to do with that as well. And if my life is in some kind of danger, then I would implore you to tell me what's going on."
"We're talking about nuclear attacks here, Mr. Kaminski. “Dozens throughout the United States," Banks hollered into the air. "And you want to tell me that you know nothing about it? The time for games is over. Tell us what we want to know before these attacks catapult us into the next World War!"
Banks pushed himself close to Sacha's face, then slowly backed away while taking a deep breath. Harris looked at his partner with a perplexed expression. He didn't want to correct a superior in front of a suspect, so he chose his words carefully.
"I think we've asked all we can ask, Sir. We're going to have to let Homeland take it from here."
Sacha couldn't believe what he was hearing. They still believed him to be capable of the atrocities described. He placed both palms calmly on the table before him and spoke.
"I am not a terrorist. I do not know any terrorists. I have no clue what you're talking about. I'm a tourist visiting legally on a visa. If this city is in danger, I should be allowed to return home as I have no information or knowledge to provide."
"Not a chance," Banks said.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Kaminski, all flights have been grounded, indefinitely," Harris added.
Sacha moved uncomfortably in his seat. He scratched his head through his thick black hair in frustration.
"I want to go home. I do not want to be here in custody any longer. Please, gentlemen, I am innocent of any wrong doing. Perhaps I can be relinquished to the nearest Embassy and sent home. I have a family."
"I thought you said you were single?" Lieutenant Harris asked.
"I'm not talking about a wife and kids. I have parents, brothers, sisters. Everyone I know is back home in Poland. You have to let me see them," Sacha pleaded
"We're not going to bullshit you," Harris said. "We have no idea how a city-wide evacuation of over eight million people could possibly work out. I will tell you this, it's not pretty out there."
"Yes, but where is everyone going to go? Where am I going to go?"
"You'll be transported on a bus under close security to a temporary holding center," Captain Harris said.
Only half of what the detectives said had made any sense to Sacha. He could understand the words, obviously, but none of it sounded real, or even remotely possible. He wondered if perhaps it was an interrogation tactic. Maybe the more desperate they made him, the more, they felt, he would talk. Could he believe a word they said? What was their game here? He was even more confused than when they first brought him in.
"The city is being evacuated. That much we know," Harris said.
"All of the Big Apple, if you can believe it," Banks added.
Sacha grew frustrated to the point of tears. "What does any of this matter if what you're saying is true? If someone is at war with America, that has nothing to do with me. It seems that you have much more to worry about than what I know, which is nothing. I want to speak to a lawyer, someone who can get me out of this and back home."
Harris rose from his seat and walked over to Sacha. "As Captain Banks said, we don't have much time. We need to get you on a bus, quickly."
Sacha stood up and slammed his fist on the table. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded.
"On a bus," Lieutenant Harris answered.
"Yes, I know that. I mean where am I going? Where is the bus going?"
"We can't divulge any more information," Banks said.
"I'm sorry, I think we've said enough as it is," Harris chimed in.
"You've told me nothing but a bunch of wild claims and excuses," Sacha said.
"We should really get moving," Harris said after placing a hand on Sacha's shoulder.
The uncertainty of his next location made him feel worse. He hoped that everything was an elaborate joke, but it seemed less likely with every new discovery. Maybe they were trying to break him with some type of psychological tactic. Sacha could remember in the American detective shows that sometimes they would release a suspect just to see where he went. Instead, they were taking him somewhere new without a single charge. Sacha wanted to fight, he wanted to scream of his innocence and the injustice being lodged against him, but, instead, he said nothing. Captain Harris walked to the door and opened it. A dark hallway awaited them. "After you," Harris said, gently pushing Sacha ahead.
As they led him out, Sacha could hear growing commotion beyond the hallway. It seemed as if every phone in the building was ringing. The pr
ecinct was in an uproar, people ran back-and-forth. Swat teams geared. There was an endless array of conversation, shouting, and instruction. Sacha could barely keep up with it. Lieutenant Harris kept his hand on Sacha's shoulder and pushed him forward, through the crowd. The precinct captain walked out of his office. "Banks, Harris, in my office now!" he shouted. Captain Harris turned to address him. "One minute, sir. We just have to get this suspect on the bus." "Well, make it snappy, that bus is about to leave."
Police officers swiftly moved past Sacha, gearing up for war, it seemed. He did his best to move throughout the chaotic atmosphere without running directly into anyone, but had no clue which direction to go. Bank's back was his main view.
"Almost there," Harris said, from behind Sacha. They past a large reception desk and walked towards exit doors of the station. Officers ran past them in both directions, not paying them any mind. The cool outside air hit Sacha, causing him to feel alive and free. Though there was nothing to celebrate. Things were even worse outside. Hundreds of people, it seemed, clogged the streets. Vehicles were bumper to bumper, as far as the eye could see. It was mass pandemonium.
Banks pushed his way through the crowd as Sacha followed. Harris pushed his hand against Sacha's back urging him to keep up with them. A large bus with bars on the windows was parked in front of the station. Sacha observed a long line of persons being led to the bus by several armed officers. He looked up into the darkened sky. The stars were out in full force, littered across the sky like blinking bulbs. It was comforting to see a world beyond the congested density on the ground. The darkness above was short-lived as several flares ignited into the air, illuminating the sky in a bright red hue. Several helicopters whirled above, growing louder as they flew closer. An officer holding a bullhorn gave instructions for the prisoners to get on the buses in an orderly fashion. His barely-audible amplified voice had to compete with car horns, helicopters, and the loud rumble of large military trucks barreling through the traffic.
"My God," Banks said with his head slightly turned back. "Looks like they've deployed the National Guard."
Sacha wasn't sure if the comment was meant for him, or Lieutenant Harris. They soon reached the bus and Sacha found himself in line with the other men. He assumed that several of the men were terrorism suspects like him. In actuality, they were being held for a variety of reasons. Some for drunk driving, assault and battery, check fraud, and others, like Sacha, that had been apprehended following the Wall Street Bombing. Only a few of the men were actually handcuffed.
Their expedited movement to the bus had been in haste, and it showed. One of the prisoners, looking weary and defeated, suddenly had a burst of energy, as he pushed his way out of line trying to escape. An officer holding a shotgun quickly chased him and struck him in the back with the butt. The man fell to the ground immediately, clenching his teeth in pain. Other officers ran towards him, placed him in handcuffs, and pulled him back to the bus.
"Don't do anything stupid like that and you'll be fine," Harris said into Sacha's ear. They were almost to the entrance of the bus. An officer with a clipboard stood at the entrance. Harris spoke with him briefly, providing Sacha's information. The officer nodded and made check marks on his board. Harris turned around to face Sacha.
"You're good to go, Mr. Kaminski, just do what they say, and they'll have you someplace safe soon enough."
"Yes, but where?" Sacha shouted, trying to be heard over all the noise.
"I don't know the exact location. Hopefully as far away from the East Coast as you can get. You'll be okay," he said.
"How do you know?" Sacha asked.
"Listen," Lieutenant Harris shouted as he approached. "We're a country at war now. All bets are off."
With that said, the detectives handed Sacha their cards and soon disappeared among the crowd flowing back into the police station. Sacha looked up to the clipboard officer standing in front of him.
"Mr. Kaminski, have a seat," he said. Sacha did as he was told and climbed the steps up into the bus. Inside, the bus was crowded. He wasn't keen on moving too far towards the back, due to some of the unsavory faces watching him.
Sacha took the third seat to his right, and found himself next to a large and quiet bearded man. He wasn't Polish, which Sacha knew. He almost looked Romanian, but Sacha couldn't tell for sure. The bus was oddly and tensely quiet. After the last prisoner entered and sat, the clipboard officer shut and locked the gate that separated the prisoners from him and the driver.
The clipboard officer, Sergeant Davis, was a clean-shaven young man who had an air of politeness to him. He was also heavily armed. In addition to the shotgun slung around his shoulder, his pistol belt was equipped with a Taser, a 9mm Beretta, and several cans of pepper spray. The civilian driver, a stocky man with a recently trimmed crew-cut, climbed into the bus and took a seat. His name was Mel. He wore a T-shirt that read: Mel's Dinner, either in jest or seriousness.
"You know where we're going right?" Sergeant Davis asked.
Mel nodded. The bus roared to life as the prisoners stared out their windows trying to make sense of what was going on.
"Doesn't look like we'll be going anywhere for a while though," Mel said to Sergeant Davis.
"Just do what you have to do to push us through," Davis replied.
Mel laughed. "Okay. We'll see."
The bus moved forward a couple of feet--then stopped. A line of traffic blocked its movement in all directions. A large cloud of exhaust filled the air for miles ahead. "This is going to be interesting," Mel added with another chuckle.
Chapter Two
Colorado at Last
The Chevy Malibu's engine hummed as Paul attempted to keep his eyes open and on the road. Julie slept soundly in the passenger seat. The car was nearly nine years old with over 150,000 miles on it. It wasn’t bad for a car of its age. There had been no major problems with it and it ran pretty well on gas. The lack of fuel was literally grinding the country to a halt, though Paul didn't know what was going on beyond his immediate surroundings. He knew that if they had just enough gas to get to Denver, then he would be happy. If he could just make it within the city he would find Samantha on foot if he had to.
It was night and they had left a rural town outside of Kansas City, Missouri, only six hours prior. They took Interstate 70 through Kansas and met little resistance. For the most part, things looked ordinary, though most shops and gas stations were closed. Military and police vehicles often passed them by without care or notice, clearly more focused on other pressing matters at hand.
Paul didn't want to stop, he had waited long enough. In all his certainty he had yet to verify if his wife, Samantha, was still alive. He hadn't heard from her in the weeks following the nuclear attack that struck key areas of Pennsylvania, wiping out the population and sending survivors scrambling. The attacks were later coined as the start of “Day One.”
Day One began with a single act of terrorism against the New York Stock Exchange. Now it was Day Nineteen, nearly Day Twenty, and Paul was no closer to finding the truth about anything than when he and Julie first fled their hometown in a mad dash west. He knew that Samantha had been attending an expo-conference at the Denver Convention Center on Day One. He had received an intermittent text from her later that day stating that she was scared, but okay. All attempts at communications following her text were futile. Everyone was cut off, and without the means to talk long-distance with each other as conveniently as they had been accustomed to, things quickly grew chaotic. Paul had heard the reports that many states in their journey had not been hit, including Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado. One problem that persisted throughout all areas, however, was the loss of power. It was rumored that electrical grids across the country had been dismantled, but how, or why, Paul did not know.
The only verification for Samantha that he needed was what he felt. He believed Samantha to be alive because he could feel her. It was a matter of faith. When he tried to explain this to his step-daughter, Julie
, he received only a strange expression in return. In the backseat of the Malibu were their backpacks, food, water, and some choice weapons for defense. The trunk was filled with several 5-gallon jugs of unleaded fuel. Most of what was in their possession had been graciously donated by the people of New Haven, a small tight-knit community who took Paul and Julie in for close to two weeks.
In that brief time at New Haven, they faced more challenges than they had ever been prepared for. The vivid memory of the town and its people faded in Paul's mind the closer they got to Colorado. He didn't think he could ever forget them. How would he, even if he wanted to? He hoped that they could return to New Haven after finding Samantha. He fantasized several different outcomes where he and Samantha were happy and living life to its fullest. They could escape from the horrors taking place around them and be happy. It was an idealized fantasy, of course, but something Paul depended on to keep him going. At the wheel, his mind drifted with the possibilities of a future where everything had went back to normal. Samantha would give him all the direction and answers he needed to survive. That's how she was, and that's perhaps what Paul missed most in the new and frightening world that surrounded him.
"Julie, wake up," Paul said, perking up.
The Colorado border was less than two miles ahead. Julie shifted in her seat and snapped awake in a panic of heavy breathing.
"Everything is fine," Paul said with a hand on her shoulder. "We're still on the road."
They were both on-edge. It had been an exhausting past couple of days, but Paul knew that their journey was far from over. If he could keep Julie calm up until they found her mother, he would consider his job done.
"Where are we?" Julie asked, rubbing her eyes. She could see little beyond the limited range of the headlights before her.
"We're almost to Colorado," Paul said.
"We are?" Julie replied in an excited tone.
"It shouldn't be much longer before we're in Denver," he said with a smile.