by S. L. Dunn
…
“Yes, ma’am, I completely understand, and we are doing all we can to make your switch over to our service as pleasant as possible.”
Alyssa Ware sat at her office desk—though it was little more than a booth—and spoke into the mouthpiece of a headset while she drew doodles on the back of a weekly memo. She was an entry-level customer service rep for a cell phone provider with a bachelor’s degree in Sociology. Alyssa graduated last spring from the University of Illinois, Chicago, with honors. But times were tough, and this position was the only employment she could find. It was her second week on the job, and Alyssa already hated it.
“No! The salesman at the store told me my monthly bill would be seventy dollars. Now I’m sitting here looking at a bill for . . .” the shrill woman on the other line scoffed, “ninety dollars! I knew y’all would pull some sort of trick like this!”
Alyssa closed her eyes. “Yes, ma’am, the first month’s bill includes a sign up fee. It’s a one time payment that—”
“No! This is unacceptable, missy. I want to talk to your supervisor right now!”
Alyssa wearily opened her eyes and looked out the window with a sigh. Her company leased the fortieth floor of the building, and despite the innumerable negatives of her job, she did have a desk facing the window. The lofty view of the other skyscrapers in the financial district of Chicago provided a nice distraction during monotonous afternoons.
The weather outside the rain-streaked glass that hour was unusually bleak and dismal, even by Chicago standards. A misty fog draped among the tall skyscrapers outside, and the street level far below was lost in the gloom. Alyssa’s desk, often saturated in bright sunlight, was today only illuminated by the faintly humming fluorescent bulbs overhead. Her workspace was cast in a greenish artificial hue.
“Ma’am,” Alyssa said as brightly as she could. “The sign up fee isn’t negotiable. But again, it’s only a one-time payment. Your next bill will be for the amount you had signed up for. I can put you through to my manager, but he will tell you the same thing.”
“Pfft! Put me through to someone that can do something! I’m getting nowhere with you. Y’all are useless.”
“Certainly,” Alyssa said. She took her time finishing the final touch on a drawing she had been working on: a surprisingly good cartoon of a girl playing an electric guitar in front of a microphone. One hand of the cartoon rocker was raised above her head making a fist. With a satisfied nod, Alyssa hit the button to talk to her section manager Stan Reed.
“What’s up, Alyssa?” she heard his voice through the speaker in her ear, and from his desk a few seats over.
“I have a present for you.” Alyssa chuckled humorlessly. “Another sign up fee complaint that wants to talk to a supervisor.”
Stan groaned. “Put it through.”
Alyssa allowed her shoulders to droop back into her chair and gazed pensively out into the lofty gray mists, moving her hand to hit the transfer call button.
Her hand halted abruptly.
Something caught her eye outside the window. Alyssa narrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. Impossible. Impossible. She rubbed her eyes forcefully and rose from her seat; she had to be hallucinating. Taking a few dazed steps toward the window, Alyssa moved her face to within mere inches from the pane of glass. The cord connecting her headset with the telephone on her desk pulled taut and disconnected. Rivulets of rain ran down the other side of the thick window. Her breath fogged the glass. She squinted into the distance, her face locked in an expression of disbelief.
“Alyssa? Put the call through.” Stan’s voice came from a thousand miles away.
“W-wh . . .” Alyssa could not seem to find her voice. She had to be dreaming. For the first time in her life, Alyssa Ware began to shake uncontrollably. It started in her jaw, her chin quivering and her teeth chattering audibly. Then her entire body succumbed to the trembling. What she saw outside the window filled her with a shock she had never known.
She was staring at a man.
Above a high-rise a man was floating. Floating. She could see him as clearly as she could see a coworker at the other end of her office. The man was suspended in space about fifty feet over the rooftop, his head turning from building to building. She could not quite tell from the distance, but he looked impossibly enormous. Alyssa stared in bewilderment. Someone was flying outside her office. In an absolutely certain yet indescribable sense, she could tell it was not some sort of optical illusion. It was real. His—its—movements were otherworldly.
“Alyssa?” Stan leaned his chair back and saw she had left her desk. Alyssa was standing against the window with her back to him, her yellow blouse contrasting against the darkly threatening panoramic view of the skyline. He shook his head in annoyance. “Alyssa you forgot to put the call through. And if you want to go on break, you have to wait until—”
The rumbling began.
The office began to shake from the tremors. A fluttery feeling rose in Alyssa’s stomach as she stood by the window; she now was acutely aware that her office was hundreds of feet off of the ground. Along with everyone in the office, the realization of their lofty height seeped into their minds. The floor began to shake. They were on the fortieth floor of a sixty-story building.
Unlike the rest of the office, Alyssa was too preoccupied staring at the floating man to worry about the earthquake. As her coworkers grabbed solid objects for support, she simply stood by the window. The man was now moving through the air above all the buildings. Was he a man? The proportions of the body looked somehow inhuman, far too tall and wide. He was so huge. Alyssa tried to speak but found herself still unable to find words.
Stan was holding onto his desk as if it would provide him with protection against the shaking of the building. “Alyssa!” he called to her. “Get away from the goddamn window, are you nuts?”
At last Alyssa’s voice returned to her and she gasped loudly. The floating man had suddenly flown straight toward the top of their own building. She caught a clear glimpse of him as he flew skyward past the window. He was a giant, and he was flying.
“It isn’t a man . . .” Alyssa stammered weakly, almost whining. Her eyes were wide with fear. Alyssa, a fervent agnostic, suddenly conjured up images of soaring gods and angels, devils and demons. The blood rushed from her head, and she swayed woozily on her feet.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Stan shouted. “It’s an earthquake! Get away from the window!”
A sharp bang from a floor far above caused everyone to jerk up their heads in concern, all eyes staring intensely at the ceiling tiles and now flickering lights. A twanging sound emanated from behind the elevator doors by the receptionist’s desk, followed by a deep whooshing from behind the closed steel doors.
The elevators had fallen loose.
A cacophony of terrified voices broke out among the call center desks. There was panicked talk of evacuating through the stairwells. The building was in structural danger—everyone had to get out right away. Another harsh bang sounded from above the ceiling. The optimistic and courageous part of Alyssa’s core tried hopelessly to pull her mind out of the well of dread into which it now sunk. She tried to blink back tears, but they rolled uncontrollably down her face and dripped off her quaking chin.
A jolt came from above, and the entire office swayed as though it was a carnival ride. People ran to the emergency stairwell doors, bottlenecking at the narrow frame. The stairway visible beyond the doors was at a standstill, already clogged with hundreds of hysterical office workers from the other floors. Alyssa felt the rising of a dreamlike helplessness. She unconsciously let out a guttural moaning scream. Perhaps simply out of reflex she pulled her cell phone from her pocket, opened the contact list, and called Home.
The lights flickered and went out, and a ceiling tile dislodged and broke against her desk. The phone rang twice.
“Hello?” it was her Mom, and her voice was tender and familiar. She was probably folding laundry in the fam
ily room with Barkley, the family’s youngest member, a particularly rambunctious Corgi.
Alyssa shut her eyes as plump teardrops rolled down her already streaked face. “M-m-mom.”
“Alyssa?” her mother nearly screamed, immediately recognizing the genuine panic in her daughter’s voice.
The building jerked and roared above her. Alyssa sobbed, for a moment thinking it was collapsing. She moved away from the window and sat down heavily next to her desk, folding her arms around her numb, shaking legs and burying her face into the knees of her new khakis.
“Alyssa what is going on? Are you at work?”
“Mom, I d-d-don’t—” Alyssa sobbed like her mother had not heard since her daughter was three years old. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Alyssa are you all right?” her mother screamed.
BOOM-BOOM-BOO-BOO-BOO-BO-BO-BO-B-B-B.
Although she had no idea how it had come to this, Alyssa knew what the sounds were. It was the thundering of the floors above her collapsing on each other. By the stairwell people clawed and screamed to get through the doors, but they were on the fortieth floor. There would be no escape.
“Alyssa! Talk to me!” her mother shrieked.
Alyssa sniffed noisily. “I—”
For a split second, Alyssa peered over her knees as a wide section of the ceiling in the center of the office imploded. The carpeted floor at her feet disintegrated. For a brief moment her nervous system recognized the unmistakable sensation of free falling. None of her senses registered anything individually, just the distinct feeling in her stomach of plunging through space.
Then, within the same instant, there was nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ryan
Ryan held on to a steel handrail in the lightly bucking and squealing subway car. The train barreled through the dark tunnel as strangers invaded his personal space, but he took no notice of them as he stared vacantly out the grimy window and into the flashing darkness. He was lost in thought. The night’s sleep in Kristen’s bed had been the most restful he had known in as long as he could remember. To think that such a warm experience had happened only one night after his nightmare returned was hard to grasp.
For the past year he had been naive enough to think he had at last escaped the torments of his past. But the nightmare—the memory—of that snowy forest had returned to him once more. In his mind, he could still smell the fires of the village burning, could still hear the shrill screams of children and parents parted.
Ryan could still see the look of fear and hatred in the eyes of those people, sentenced to die.
Yet it was only his familiar sharp gaze that stared back at him from the dirty Plexiglas. Ryan shook away the wintry chill of his memories as the subway brakes released a high-pitched scream, and an automated voice announced his stop. With hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, he pushed the past from his mind and paced through a station of fluorescent lights and grungy tile. He ascended a narrow stairway to the street, taking the steps two at a time, and emerged from the station into sunlight and chilly fresh air.
Manhattan’s architectural exhibitionism bloomed overhead, and Ryan oriented himself by the towering buildings. Beyond the mirrored facades of skyscrapers, the day could not have been more clear, only a few sparse clouds nestled between the reflective high-rises. Ryan willfully focused on minutiae as he trod through Midtown in the direction of Times Square and the Marriot Marquis. The workload in his classes had reached a lull, and his weekend schedule at the library along with few assignments due early the following week hardly seemed daunting. Aside from Professor Hilton’s class, his semester was humming along at nearly a 4.0 pace, more than high enough to allow some self-satisfaction.
He was worried for Kristen. There was an odd hope within him that gravitated around her. She was nothing like the brilliant minds from his home—so utterly convinced of their own brilliance and their grim practices. Young, beautiful and endearingly awkward Kristen was the hero that he could never be, and her words were more powerful than anything he could ever shoulder himself. She was a glimmer of what once was, so long ago and far away, and what its future may have been had it not been ripped away.
But in his heart, his feelings for Kristen were far simpler than that.
It was difficult to imagine how she must be feeling as she prepared to stake her future on the vicissitudes of the media’s whim. Her selflessness filled him with a hopeful feeling, as it was a characteristic he was not entirely unfamiliar with. Sacrificial altruism was a path chosen by few. Ryan only hoped it would work out better for Kristen than it had for himself.
A street corner vendor had set up shop in the shadow cast by a tall financial building, and Ryan stepped in line to buy a drink. The few waiting customers rummaged hastily in their pockets for bills and coins as they procured their hot dogs. A tiny television blared beside the disheveled cashier, and as he ordered a bottle of water Ryan noticed the news was still airing live from the plane crash in Albany.
“Some shit, huh?” the cashier grunted with an accent Ryan could not place.
Ryan opened his water bottle and passed over a dollar bill. “Do they know what happened yet?”
“Not a clue. Heads up their asses.”
Ryan looked at the man. “Maybe.”
The cashier grunted and turned back to the television, lighting a cigarette with dirty fingers. Ryan continued down the avenue looking sidelong into the storefronts and lobbies. It struck him as remarkable; the ordinary fears people were forced to cope with in everyday life. With full knowledge of that morning’s fiery crash, still travelers were boarding planes around the world.
People were more courageous than they gave themselves credit for.
Ryan took out his cell phone and saw a new message from Kristen, I’m really glad you’re coming. The text brought a smile to his face as he negotiated past scaffolding and entered Times Square. Above him, glimmering billboards and revolving advertisements beamed down from all angles. Although Ryan would never admit it, part of him felt oddly alive every time he walked among the grand blinking billboards.
Only in a time of peace, of prosperity, could such trivial notions as fashion and celebrity hold such sway over society, and in that sense he was thankful for the overhead glamour. All things considered, there were worse things to worship than pop culture.
Gawking tourists and relentless street salesmen obstructed his way as he crossed congested intersections and came before the grand entrance to the Marriott Marquis. He tossed his water bottle into a gold-embossed hotel garbage can and took a deep breath of the agreeable autumn breeze. Beyond the street-level marquee, the hotel rose far overhead, its zenith indistinguishable among so many others of Midtown. Almost at once Ryan felt out of place with his untucked plaid shirt and jeans as he entered the opulent hotel lobby. Everything was elegant, from the detailed handrails to the sumptuous carpet. Ryan took the stairs up to the second floor, and ambled into the Lutvak ballroom. Hesitating inside of the doors, he stretched to his full height and looked out over the many rows of chairs and tables lining the huge space. The displays ranged from studies on viruses in Geneva to microchips in the Silicone Valley to extensive charts on radiation research in northern Japan. Ryan noted that the podium at the head of the ballroom was unmanned; he was early. He navigated the perimeter of the room and saw the largest congregation of people amassed by the Vatruvian cell display station against the far wall. Ryan meandered toward it, peering past some shoulders and watching a Vatruvian cell rotate slowly on a large laptop screen.
“Glad to see the demographic of suits and blazers didn’t turn you away at the door,” Ryan heard Kristen say, and turned to see her sitting down, her chin resting in her hands. A few looked at her strangely due to the irreverent remark, but Kristen did not seem to care. “Have you been watching the news?”
Ryan pulled up a seat next to her. “Seems like more of the same.”
“Some hotel worker just announ
ced the government has heightened national security,” Kristen said. “Kind of freaky.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing too serious.” Ryan watched a group of people and saw the man he recognized as Nicoli Vatruvia shaking hands with some old professor types. “Are you sticking to your plan?”
“I am.” Kristen tapped the pen drive attached to the laptop nearest her. “I just put together a final slide that tells about the mice.”
Ryan drew a nervous breath.
“It’ll be fine,” Kristen said. “It’s what needs to happen. Professor Vatruvia told me we’re presenting second on the itinerary, so I don’t think I’ll start our presentation for twenty minutes or so.”
“Okay.” Ryan nodded.
The amplified voice of a man standing behind the podium abruptly rose over the hubbub of the ballroom. “Hello, researchers from around the globe, and thank you for coming to this year’s convention! We will be starting the day’s presentations momentarily, so if everyone can find a seat, we’ll get underway as soon as possible!”
Kristen sighed anxiously and clapped the laptop shut as Professor Vatruvia turned and beckoned her over. “Well, this is it,” she whispered bleakly. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Ryan said. They looked at each other for one caring moment, and then Kristen turned to follow Professor Vatruvia.