“They’re sporadic in location, but planned in action. This was planned. It was planned. How did we not see this coming?” We did. My God, we did. We had so much warning, but how could this possibly be stopped? Our enemy has no rules of war. They don’t fight fair. They’re organized, and yet they aren’t.
The tragedy in this room is deafening.
Guns. Suicide bombers. IEDs. Bombs in suitcases. Cars turned into bombs. Every imaginable and unimaginable way to create mass death is reflecting on every surface in the room. Airports, sports venues, parking garages, the Statue of Liberty, the Eiffel Tower, Times Square, Plaza Mayor, trains, Tower Bridge, subways, the Chunnel, grocery stores, hospitals, Musée D’Orsay, cruise ships, theme parks, nothing, nowhere is unscathed. The terrorists have stolen freedom and lives in every corner of our world.
The attacks are happening quicker and more frequently than anyone knows. The ones we aren’t hearing about are probably the worst. No survivors to report anything.
I hear someone throwing up in the corner. Others have tossed their tablets aside in favor of calling their loved ones. I can’t stop watching the tablet, the live video feeds of terror happening and destroying. How many lives are gone right now? Morbid curiosity rears its ugly head. How long was this planned? Not long. To have such a stronghold and so much power to be capable of this is terrifying.
“San Diego,” someone shouts. “San Diego has four right now.” That draws my gaze away from death. That makes my heart kick into a gear I didn’t know existed. It steals my breath.
“Where?” I ask.
“World War Three, men. This is it. Grab your ready bags. We are shipping out. Orders are in directly from the President,” the officer says. He’s a tall guy with always perfectly manicured hair. He’s stoic and no-nonsense. I trust him. “Our priority will be the home front. We will go to the major cities and locate leaders, financiers, anyone who is remotely connected will hear from us.” A couple of excited shouts echo. “This will be different from anything we’ve ever dealt with. Be ready to improvise.”
I hear orders, and I understand them, but I can’t go there yet. “Where in San Diego?” I ask louder. Someone must know. We are in San Diego.
Zane clears his throat. “Balboa Park. The museums, Gaslamp, and a mall.” This is where my world comes apart at the seams.
“Which mall?” I fall back into my chair, the weight of today adding a hundred pounds. How was everything fine ten minutes ago? I drove to work. The air was nice. The traffic wasn’t bad. Life was beautiful. This can’t be reality. It can’t. I’m trained in death and destruction and I can’t grasp this. “Which fucking mall?”
I put my head into my hands to cover my face. I already know what he’s going to say. This is how it ends. It’s how it has to end. Carina is at the mall with Megan. Today was their meeting. It’s impossible to push everything else aside to think about my own interests completely. “This can’t be fucking happening.” It’s an odd combination of terrified honor. The large picture and what this truly means for the world takes a backseat to the fear I feel for Carina.
“Everything tech is pushing through is shaky cell phone video feed and Twitter updates,” Zane says, lowering his voice. Men funnel out of the door quickly. Others linger on phone calls. Some, like me, are glued to the spot. “But it’s Fashion Valley, the food court at the very least. Possibly another IED in the west parking garage.” With wide terrified eyes I turn to Moose. He’s already busy trying to get an outside line out, a strained look on his face.
I glance at my watch. She’s there. They’re there. The tables in this brief room are structured in a big square wrapping around the room. I hop into the middle pocket to reach the closest free phone and dial. The infrastructure outside of base has to be in complete disarray. Cell towers will be down and flooded with unanswered calls. Cable and electric companies inundated, if they even have the capacity to be inundated, that is. Several attacks were on or around power plants.
Memorizing phone numbers isn’t something I’ve ever done, but I know hers. I call her even though I know I won’t get a response. I dial her to comfort myself—calling my girlfriend is a normal, everyday thing to do. Calling Carina means she has to be okay—her cell phone ringing in her oversized bag right next to her notebook full of words. I get her voicemail. “It’s Carina. I can’t reach my phone. You know what to do after the beep!”
She can’t reach her phone. The harmless phrase makes my head swim. I lean over the desk, placing my palms flat against the cool metal. Taking deep breaths, I hang my head. I catch sight of my trembling hands. They remind me of what can be lost.
“I couldn’t reach Megan,” Moose says.
I see his boots between my legs, standing behind me.
I can’t respond. I close my eyes as the shakes that were contained in my hands stretch up my arms and into my shoulders. I grab a forgotten tablet in front of me and find the San Diego info. I scroll through panicked social media messages and find the clearest video. Screams of terror ring out as the black smoke skews the camera’s view. In between wisps of smoke you can clearly see it is indeed the food court at the Fashion Valley Mall. I need to see it for myself. I watch it again and again, trying to discern the screams of death and terror. Is it Carina’s cry? I’ve never heard her voice in that particular pitch. It angers me I can’t decipher. I can’t confirm. Or deny.
“Goddammit, Carina. Be okay,” I whisper. A funny thing happens while I’m worrying about Carina and the state of her being. I contemplate life without her, and the sick feeling in my stomach wreaks havoc on the rest of my body. I let her die in my mind and taste that pain, let it leak out of every single pore on my body. It’s unbearable. Then it happens. The cruelness of my own reality overrides everything else.
I remember.
I remember Megan.
I remember everything.
Part Two
Chapter Nineteen
Carina
I CAN’T OPEN MY eyes, but I hear voices. More importantly, above the buzz and chaos, I hear his voice. “She’ll be okay then?” he asks. In response, I hear mumbling from someone whom I assume is the person he’s talking to. High-pitched beeping imbeds itself into my mind every several seconds. It’s an awful reminder that I’m not completely aware or in control of my own body.
“Take this and assure me she will be okay here and will continue to have a bed,” Smith snarls. What does that mean? “My number. Call me daily. Do you understand?” There is a tension in his tone I can’t comprehend. Mostly because I can’t see the face that goes along with it.
“There’s no need for this. Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” the other man replies. They speak in hushed whispers a while longer, unintelligible words my foggy mind can’t comprehend. I don’t even know what happened or where I am. I feel his warm lips against my forehead. They linger longer than I think they should for a harmless kiss. I smell him. It’s different. It’s him, but it’s also smoke, sweat, and an indescribable scent I’m not familiar with. I want to reach for him and pull him to me. I need him to tell me what’s going on and why I sense such unease. Also why I feel so much pain deep within my bones.
Somehow I know I won’t get that chance. “I love you, Care. Forever.” His presence disappears from my weak awareness. Even unable to open my eyes, I know for a fact he’s gone. My voice doesn’t work. I can’t call out for him to tell him I love him too. There’s nothing now.
The beeping continues, now at a more hurried pace. It’s incessant and skull piercing. It seems to grow louder and louder, echoing in the empty places Smith created when he left. “There, there,” a male voice soothes in my ear. It’s the wrong voice. My arms are leaden now that I feel them and try to use them. “Calm down.” I must be tied down.
A fire starts in the crook of my arm and spreads. The panic I felt seconds ago vanishes and I gladly accept the black cloud that spreads over me like a warm blanket. I don’t have to think, or try to think now. I just have to sleep.
****
There were signs—foreboding symptoms of a world infiltrated by evil. Mostly they went ignored as isolated threats and sporadic, spur of the moment decisions made by unpredictable enemies. They were unsuspecting war declarations. That’s usually the way until something so damning and heinous happens you can’t ignore it. Our generation’s Pearl Harbor massacred hundreds of thousands. It’s the beginning of WWIII.
Martial Law is a bitch. Curfew is a bitch. Guards that patrol the streets are a bitch. Well, they’re around to make sure we’re safe, but they’re still a bitch. They represent what’s been taken. Not just from me, but from everyone. The terror attacks on the 9/11 anniversary were so widespread that almost every person on the planet was affected in some way or another. Everyone knows someone who died, was injured, or was friends with someone who knew of someone who is now gone. Weeks have passed and it still feels like it happened yesterday.
The television in my living room is on nonstop. In this state of emergency the news plays twenty-four hours a day. The worn out news anchors feed us information directly from the president. He himself will give news conferences from the Oval Office once a week. I think it’s supposed to boost morale, or to let us know he’s working on the problem. How are we ever supposed to feel safe again? That’s what I want to ask him. That’s the issue I want to address. I’ve never had safety until very recently. It was snatched away, in all forms, in mere seconds.
When I finally got out of the hospital, the city was complete melee. I was battered and bruised, but I would heal. The world? It will never be the same. I shuttered myself in my perfect little house after a terrified ride home from the hospital. Jasmine stayed a few days, but eventually she returned to her house. Cell phones work sporadically. I blame the fact I haven’t heard from Smith on that.
And the fact that he’s off saving the world. The note stuck to the fridge with a cat magnet said “Chicago. Then NYC. Call when I can. I love you. Be safe.” The yellow sticky note is now taped to my laptop—the only reminder I have of our relationship that is tangible at this point. It seems like a whirlwind. A dream. Something that happened to someone else. Something that ended so brutally and quickly that I’m unsure how to feel.
So I don’t feel. Anything.
We’re supposed to carry on our everyday life like nothing happened. That’s what they keep telling us, their voices monotone and robotic. Like it’s even plausible to consider that for even a second. My heart pounds out of my chest anytime I open the front door.
The sun still has a murky haze in front of it. If I were a more religious person I would think this is rapture. The apocalypse. The end of times. Earth going to hell in a hand basket, wrapped neatly for the devil himself. The image reflected on the TV presently is that of our planet from space. Earth is crying in the form of thick, black smoke.
It makes my stomach pang with unease. Turning up the volume, I retreat to the bedroom to work. Smith’s novel is finished. I haven’t given it a title, and I’m not sure about the ending I’ve written. But given the circumstances and the fact that I’m not sure where we stand in our relationship, it’s poignant at the very least. Jaz will hate it. Even though she’s asked to read it a dozen times, I’ve told her it’s not ready. I’ve edited it more times than I care to admit, and I can’t put my finger on what needs to happen for me to call it done.
Reading it is the only thing that takes my mind off reality. I lose myself in a love story so swift and so simple that it blocks everything else out entirely. Because if I remember Megan the way I portray her in my story, I can forget how the blast that gave me a scar on my right ankle disfigured most of her face and half of her body.
Tears come and the well of guilt that resides in my chest forces labored breaths. I picture her with her long, silken, blond hair and her pageant ready features. Her petite, toned body and her flawless skin. Her smile. Her laugh. Her perfection. The vomit rises when her new reality, her new, destroyed body and face comes to mind.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m happy for Smith. And you. After talking to you this morning and hanging with you one on one, I can call Smith and Megan done,” Megan said. “He was mine for so long I forgot what life was like without him. But when I stopped to think about it, after he healed from his accident, he wasn’t my Smith. I’ve been living without him for a while now, Carina. That man is so obviously yours it’s embarrassing.” She smiled at me and took my hand in hers. She swallowed and it looked like it was difficult. She had to work hard to get those words out. The emotion reflecting in her eyes was almost too much to bear, so I looked down at our joined hands.
Her long fingers folded around mine and her nails were so perfect, so goddamn perfect that I couldn’t look away. The French manicure. The perfectly filed natural nails. The moisturized skin. I was thinking, My God. What if he remembers this beautiful, kind woman? when the bomb went off. I didn’t know it was a bomb at the time because I was knocked unconscious right away. I think it was the back blow that took me out. Megan, seated mere feet from me, got the bad end of the stick.
After I finish today’s crying jag, the sun is setting. U.S. residents aren’t permitted to be outside after dark. A facet of Marshal Law I find odd, because terrorists don’t require dark. They relish in the light—in taking it—in snuffing it out completely. I get out of bed when I hear a knock at the door. Sean, Jaz’s brother, is bringing me groceries. I don’t bother putting pants on underneath Smith’s oversized T-shirt. It hits right above my knee anyways. I shrug and open the door a crack to peer outside.
“No,” I say.
Roarke shuffles from one foot to the other. It’s a nervous gesture I’ve seen him do in meetings. “I want to talk. Please, Carina. I promise not to come near you. I just want five minutes of your time.”
“How did you find me?” I ask. I know damn well with today’s technology you can never disappear completely. He’s known where I’ve been since I left him. I want to watch him squirm for an answer and to see if he’ll admit to violating the restraining order.
He swallows, looks behind him at the setting sun, and blows out a breath. “I don’t have time for that. The sun will set in twenty minutes. Five. Please, babe.”
I open the door and fold my arms across my chest. Roarke isn’t the most evil villain in my world anymore. How sick and twisted is that realization? “Talk,” I command. “And never call me that again.”
He blinks several times quickly, right in a row. Another nervous twitch. I’ve never seen these habits directed at me. I’ve never made him nervous, I suppose. He hasn’t met the new Carina. “I wanted to ask how you were doing. When it happened, I was so worried for you. You have to know I still think about you every day. I still love you. That didn’t go away. I’ve had all this time to think about what a horrible person I was. What I did to you,” he says, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
I can’t even look at him without feeling ill, so I look away. Maybe it’s because I’m tired, or because I miss Smith, or perhaps it’s because I’m reflecting my anger and guilt on him, but I don’t want to sugarcoat anything anymore. “There was a time when you were the worst thing in my world. I worried about leaving the house because of you. Because of what you might do to me if I ran into you. I don’t miss you, Roarke. I definitely don’t still love you. It didn’t even go away,” I say. Looking at him seems important right now. I finish, “Because I never loved you in the first place. Not even one bit. You are a bad person. You aren’t reformed, Roarke. A bad thing happened in our world. A nasty, bad thing that makes men like you look like saints, but I’ll never forget what you did to me. The things you said when you weren’t even trying to be mean and vicious.” The lump in my throat appears and it angers me. I want to tell him everything I should have said all those years ago. The first time he said something mean or condescending, before he started beating me for invalid reasons.
I take a second to breathe. “Apologize if that’s what you came here for.
Your mom will be happy if you get that out,” I say.
He hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Carina. I’m so sorry. I hope one day you’ll forgive me. I can’t ask you to forget the things I did to you. I never would. I am a bad person, you’re right. I’ve been talking to a therapist.” Because it’s court ordered, I think. “And she says that I projected a lot of my insecurities and problems onto you. I took it out onto you. Because I loved you and trusted you.”
I roll my eyes. “Now is the part where you tell me you’ve found a new outlet for your negative energy and will never do what you did to me to another woman again. Am I getting warmer? Boxing? Running?”
He blows out a breath through his mouth. “You’re so different now.” He ignores my question because I’m right. A twinkle in his eye suggests I’m irritating him. I’m not afraid of it, though.
“How am I different? Now that I’m with someone who respects me? Wouldn’t dream of hurting me? Or am I different because I’m not a person who will take your bullshit anymore?”
“I guess,” Roarke says, shaking his head.
I start closing the door. “Sean will be here with my groceries any moment. I’m pretty sure the cops have better things to do than enforcing a restraining order.”
“You look good,” he says. “You don’t feel the same way and I understand why, but it was good to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well.” Such menial talk from a man who has the ability to break bones with his words.
“Tell your mom not to call,” I reply. Shutting the door, I lock it. When I hear his vehicle start I slide down my front door to sit.
Mentally, I pat myself on the back. Then seconds later I curse myself for all the things I should have said. It makes me so angry. My doorbell breaks me from the audible tirade I’m having with my foyer.
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