Max and Steve ducked into the alcove of the shop two doors down, with Steve taking a kneeling position and Max standing over him, both with their carbines up.
He was in his mid-twenties, maybe five foot eight, white, short blond hair, clean shaven, wearing a loose fitting, long-sleeve white shirt out at the waist, and khaki pants; just a normal looking guy. He was holding a thirtyish, white female by the back of her neck, with the barrel of his AK resting on her shoulder and pointed at the base of her skull.
“Not so arrogant now, are you!” he shouted.
He then moved the barrel of the rifle slightly and fired two rounds at the officers in Macy’s. The muzzle blast caused the woman to scream, duck, and put her hand to the gun side of her face. But he held on to her, making her stand back up again. She was crying.
Max didn’t think about it. Into his shoulder mic he said, “Flash-bang on the way,” and then to Steve, “You copy?”
“Do it,” Steve replied.
Max dropped his carbine to the end of its single point sling, yanked a flash-bang grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it at the terrorist.
A flash-bang is a baseball-sized, short-fused explosive device that doesn’t project any shrapnel but is extremely loud and bright upon detonation, yet at the same time is nearly smokeless. It’s intended to stun hostage-takers with its concussion, sound, and flash, allowing the cops to rescue their victims unharmed …and kill the hostage-taker.
As soon as Max tossed it, both he and Steve slid to their right and turned away from the blond man and his hostage, so the bright light from the grenade’s explosion wouldn’t blind them, too. The detonation was almost instantaneous, and they felt the concussion. Two beats of a heart later, they heard “Allah Akbar!” followed by a heat so intense it felt as though they had stepped under one of those big propane patio heaters turned up full blast, light so bright it was like staring into the sun, noise so loud it shut down their hearing as if a circuit breaker had been triggered, and then dead, silent, blackness.
CHAPTER TWO
Sound pushed through the fog and registered like whispers in the back of a church. First, it was a siren. Then it was voices. “ETA seven, unconscious, respirations 22, pulse 96, BP 130 over 80, pupils equal and reactive, pulse ox 93%, multiple shrapnel wounds to the left side, slightly diminished breath sounds lift lung. Non-rebreather at 15 liters. Starting IV.” More voices, this time indiscernible, distant. Something familiar there …a radio. Finally, “Ten four.”
Movement — rocking. Something, someone pushing on me, holding my arm, pinning me down.
Pain — hot — searing. Everywhere. Oh the pain. It’s all wrong. Too much. Something new. Something happening to my arm. A pinching sensation.
No, no, he thought. Stop it. It hurts. Everything hurts. Fight. Don’t give up. You’re better than them.
Max’s eyes fluttered, letting in the light. A blurred image of someone leaning over him registered. His breathing increased. His chest rose. He started to struggle, pushing a hand away, but he felt resistance. The hand took hold of his arm, firmer now, pinning it.
He struggled harder, pushing out with his free hand and groaning.
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” a voice said. “Relax, you’re going to be all right …that is as long as you get your hand off my boob. Calm down now or we’ll have to restrain you. Can you hear me? Hey, can you hear me? You’ve been hurt, but you’re going to be okay. You’re safe now. You’re in an ambulance. We’re almost to the ER.”
He felt someone grab the wrist of his free hand and push it down. Safe. Blackness again.
The cold half woke him and only then did he become aware of his thirst. Where am I, he thought? He heard a television; a male voice saying something about thirty-three dead. Did I fall asleep watching TV? And why is it so cold?
Max opened his eyes, closed them, blinked them open again, and squinted into the light. Turning his head to the right and slightly raising it, he saw someone sitting in a chair near the foot of his bed, facing a wall mounted TV with both the picture and volume on.
“The President to address the nation at 6 PM Pacific Standard Time …”
Short, collar-length, dark hair, swept back around the ears, navy blue tee-shirt, dark cargo pants. He raised his head up another inch and thought he saw black six-inch lace-up boots like a cop would wear.
“Locally, the police department has gone to twelve hour shifts and will be providing extra security at schools, shopping centers, and government buildings. …”
His eyes shifted to the open door when he saw someone in light-green, push a cart past. In the distance he heard a phone ring and someone laugh. He was in a hospital. He couldn’t remember what happened to him. He couldn’t remember anything.
Max tried to speak to the figure seated in the chair but found his tongue stuck to the inside of his lips. He worked it around until he had enough saliva to ask, “Who are you? Where am I?”
The figure jumped up and turned around. It was a woman, mid to late twenties, five-foot six or seven, about one hundred twenty-five to one hundred thirty pounds, good looking but not beautiful. Her eyes first centered on Max’s face and then immediately shifted to the monitors near the head of his bed.
“A makeshift memorial with thousands of flowers …”
She moved next to his bed, picked up a plastic cup with a straw in it, and guided the end to his lips. At the same time, with her other hand, she pushed the call-button for the nurse.
When she pulled the cup of water away, he asked, “How’d you know?”
She smiled and said, “Everyone is thirsty after waking up in the hospital. I think it has to do with the air conditioning.”
“What happened to me? And who are you? You’re not a nurse.”
“I’m the paramedic who brought you here. I just …well, ah, I just wanted to check up on you, you know, to see how you’re doing.” And after a short awkward pause and another smile, “Just part of the service.”
Maybe it was something she said, but he suddenly remembered being inside the mall, he remembered shooting someone, he remembered two officers being shot, but he couldn’t remember who was shot or what else happened.
She started to say more but was interrupted by the arrival of the nurse, who, like the paramedic, looked at the monitors but, unlike the paramedic, lifted up the sheet covering him, looked at his side before dropping it back down again, next examining a plastic bag hanging from the side of the bed, before putting it back in place, and finally checking his IV drip. She asked him a series of questions such as his name, if he knew where he was, what day it was, if he knew what happened to him, and finally, if he was in pain. After that, she typed something on a laptop computer mounted on a rolling cart.
“…we go to Ivan Moore at the Oakridge Mall …”
Before leaving, the nurse turned to the paramedic and asked, “Friend of yours?”
“No, had a few minutes so thought I’d just check up on him.”
The nurse gave her a strange look, started to say more, but instead left. As she passed through the door, a uniformed officer took her place. Max didn’t know the officer’s name, but recognized him as a Reserve.
Whenever a police officer was injured in the line of duty and confined to the hospital, an officer was stationed outside his or her door. When there were no full-time sworn officers available, a reserve officer was assigned. I guess the boys are busy, Max thought.
“Stay tuned for our continuing coverage of Memorial Day terror …”
The uniformed officer entered the room and, once again, the paramedic stepped back. His nametag read Cartwright. “How you feeling?” he asked.
“Like someone ran me over with,” his eyes caught the paramedic’s, he smiled, “with an ambulance.”
Cartwright snorted and said, “More like a tank from what I hear.”
The paramedic interrupted, “Hey, I better go. Glad to see you’re awake,” and turned to leave.
“Hey wait
, don’t go,” Max said.
“You’re busy, and I’ve got things to do. Maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow.” The way she said the last, he knew she was lying.
“You were going to tell me what happened.”
She nodded at Cartwright and said, “Sounds like he’s got more information than I do. I’ll catch you later.”
“Your name; what’s your name?”
“Myra. Catch you later,” and she was gone.
“She’s been hanging out for, I don’t know, three or four hours at least,” Cartwright said. “A couple times I looked in she was checking the machines, your drip, stuff like that. I thought she was a friend or something.”
“Nah, don’t know her.”
“Humm. …So how much do you remember? You want to hear what happened?”
Another memory came back to Max. “Steve; is Steve okay? He was with me. I remember an explosion.” A terrible thought crossed his mind. Maybe there was something wrong with the flash-bang he threw. Maybe this is my fault.
“No, no, Steve Woods is okay. From what I understand, you somehow ended up on top of him and that kind of protected him. He caught some of the nails in his left arm, but nothing major. He spent the night,” Cartwright nodded at the empty bed. “Home now. So is the detective. The female officer is still here, though. Don’t know her name. She’s pretty messed-up from what I gather. Already had surgery twice.”
“Nails? I don’t understand. What do you mean Steve caught some nails?”
“Man, you really did get your bell rung. They were from the bomb; the suspect was wearing one of those suicide vests. It was packed with roofing nails, that kind of stuff. That’s what got you. They said if you hadn’t dove into that little alcove, you’d be dead; you’d both be dead.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. They called everyone in. Thirty three dead, another twenty or so injured.” He held up a hand and started counting off on his fingers. “Same thing in Miami, L.A., New York, Dallas, Chicago,” he ran out of fingers but continued anyway, “Seattle, and Phoenix, I think.”
It was almost too much for Max to comprehend. “And you said Steve’s okay?”
“Oh yeah. He and his wife stopped by earlier, right before that Myra chick showed. Said he’d be back later.”
“How long have I been here?”
“This is your second day. They did surgery on you the day you got here. You were out of it yesterday and, well, until just now.”
“…we go to our affiliate in Dallas for coverage …”
Max looked down at his feet and was relieved to see two of them there. He wiggled them back and forth; pain, but they worked. “So, what’s wrong with me?”
“From what I hear, nothing much except one of your lungs was punctured and you had a bunch of metal in you. They were more worried about your head. I guess you were wearing a ballistic helmet and that protected you somewhat. So concussion I guess, but don’t quote me on that. You know what, you better ask the nurse. That’s only what I heard.”
“…eyewitness reports that the three gunmen moved methodically through the mall killing anyone …”
Max tried to pull the sheet off the left side of his body, but couldn’t completely manage it. “Help me out here.”
From the waist down, he was black and blue and awash in Betadine. Stitches crisscrossed his thigh. He moved his hand down to his butt and felt more there and then to his ribs. A thought suddenly occurred, and he moved his hand between his legs. It was still there although there was a tube in it. Jesus. Thank God.
He nodded at Cartwright and together they put the sheet back in place.
“…the Superintendent of Dallas Independent School District has just announced all schools will be closed through Friday so security arrangements can be finalized. …”
“What about down at the Department? What’s going on?” Max asked.
“Well, it’s twelve on, twelve off. All the Reserves have been called up. They got teams of twos patrolling areas where people congregate; shopping malls, City Hall, you know, places like that. Word has it Homeland Security is sending in some people to cover federal buildings and a few other places we can’t watch full time. To make matters worse, I guess calls for service have gone up, way up. The gun stores have been swamped and some fights have broken out. Then a bunch of idiots beat up some Sheikh guy at that stop ‘n rob on Keyes, thinking he was a Muslim. And now, because a lot of people are staying close to home, the domestic violence calls have gone up. Everyone’s pretty much just responding to in-progress stuff. Hey, people are afraid. Can’t blame ‘em either. The wife and kids are afraid to go outside. ...You know what, I better get back out there,” Cartwright said, nodding toward the door. “Can’t see anything from in here. Besides, I gotta check in with the boss-lady, if you know what I mean?” he rolled his eyes. “Want the TV on or off?”
“You can leave it on, thanks.”
CHAPTER THREE
Something metallic, a tray maybe, hit the floor causing Beth Woods, a tall, thin, brown-haired woman, to jump, turn, and at the same time put a hand on six-year old Gavin’s shoulder.
Steve spit tobacco into a styrofoam cup he was holding and said, “It’s okay, babe, somebody just dropped something.” He shot a quick look at Max and explained, “She and Gavin were at the mall only a half hour before it all went down. But everyone’s a little jumpy. It’s crazy out there.”
“Crazy how?” Max asked.
“Well, it’s just that people aren’t used to all this stuff. They’ve gotten accustomed to their nice, safe, comfortable lives. The traffic lights keep them from running into one another, nobody butts in line, their neighbors cut their lawns twice a month, right on schedule, people pretty much follow the rules, so everyone feels, you know, comfortable. Then they find out their nice, secure, predictable, orderly world ain’t so safe after all, and it screws with ‘em. They jump at every loud noise, run from every shadow. To make matters worse, along come those fucking Homeland Security assholes …”
“Steve!” Beth said, turning her palms up and nodding at Gavin.
“Sorry. Anyway, they aren’t helping any. They show up with their armored vehicles, dressed out like they’re going to war, M4’s strapped across their chests, acting like king shit …sorry …on the manure pile; it’s only scaring people, making them feel anything but safe. It’s not like they’re real cops or soldiers, anyway. They’re strictly second string. They’re posers.”
“Things will settle down. It did after 911. The feds will get whoever is responsible and people will feel safe again.”
“Sure hope so, but so far the feds got nothin’ or aren’t saying nothin’. Nobody’s even stepped up and claimed responsibility, at least as far as I’ve heard anyway. Maybe they’ll figure it out when they ID the bodies. They gotta have that by now.”
Max saw Beth look at her watch. She stepped to the bed and put her hand on Max’s shoulder. “Sorry, but we have to go. We have to get home and Steve has to get to work.”
This caused Steve looked at his watch. “Oh, shit, yeah, we better get going.”
“Steve, come on,” Beth pleaded in regard to his choice of words.
“What? Okay, okay. I’m trying.”
“Well try harder. I get the calls from his teacher, not you.”
Steve rolled his eyes, which got a punch in the shoulder from his wife.
“Wait, you’re already back to work?” Max asked.
“Answering phones. Couple more days, then hopefully back in the saddle.”
“Steve,” Beth said
“Yeah, we better get going. You need anything …” he put his hand to his ear as if he had a phone in it.
After they were gone, Max laid there, mind surfing. He wasn’t thinking about anything specific, just letting the thoughts flow and with them came a general, overall feeling of helplessness. Things were happening, and he was stuck here, in the hospital. But what the hell could he do about it? Nothing. Still, he could feel
a remarkable anxiety inside him that just kept building and building and building.
They said I’m doing fine, Max told himself. Nothing vital was damaged, and my wounds are healing. They pulled my catheter, and I’m pissing on my own; everything okay there. I’ve done a few laps around the floor; no dizziness, pain bearable. So why am I still here?
This conversation with himself went on for quite some time before he reached over and picked up the phone next to his bed, got an outside line, and dialed Information. After working through the electronic phone tree, he was connected with Yellow Cab.
Max slipped on the shorts, tee-shirt, and tennis shoes Steve had delivered, before pocketing his badge and wallet from the drawer of the small rolling cabinet next to his bed. When he stepped out the door, the first person he saw was the reserve officer, not Cartwright this time, who was sitting in a chair, back against the wall, playing a game on his iPad.
“What’s up?” the officer said, turning the screen away so Max couldn’t see what he was doing.
“I’m outta here,” Max said under his breath.
“You’ve been released?”
“I’m good to go. You can go home …or wherever.”
Their conversation caught the attention of a male nurse at the station practically across from Max’s room. “Hey, whoa man, what’s going on? You haven’t been released yet. You gotta stay until you’re released.”
Max felt his face flush and his anger start to rise. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I’m checking myself out. Put down whatever you gotta put down in my chart. You’re off the hook. This is all on me.”
“Look, let me call the doctor. At least let me run it by him.”
“You can call whoever you gotta call, I’m leaving.”
“You sure about this?” the reserve asked. “Maybe you outta wait.”
“I’m sure,” Max said.
The nurse got his man up and said, “You can’t go anywhere until the doctor says so.”
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