“I don’t know anyone else who would risk their life for me the way you have. That means something, Greg. It has to mean something.”
“It does. It means that you’re worth it.”
Veronica looked up at him and smiled. “I want to be with you, Greg. I can’t handle all of this disease and death everywhere without you.”
She leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. “And I know that you want to be with me, too.”
Greg wasn’t sure what to say. She was right. He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “You do have very pretty eyes.”
Veronica laughed as the helicopters blew another cloud of dust in their direction. The crowd swarmed around the helicopters like prisoners of war being rescued.
Greg stood up and held his hand out and helped her up. “Let’s get out of here.”
They walked off, away from the crowd, the noise, and the helicopters and toward the ravine where the jeep was parked. No one took notice of their leave, and they announced it to no one. They were simply two people walking hand-in-hand along the desert under an overcast blue sky. The epidemic could be raging across half the country for all they knew, but something told Greg that it had subsided. But if it hadn’t, they would go find a safe place, if such a place existed within their travels.
Their story would continue and the world would face other disasters, epidemics, and pandemics years down the road. They continued their walk, happy to be alive and happy to have each other. They left Base 42 without a second thought. Sometimes it was better to not look back.
The adventure ends…for now.
The Decay
Chapter One
Attack on Wall Street
The blank walls of the interrogation room stared back at Sacha with cold indifference. He repositioned himself within the uncomfortable steel chair he had been instructed to sit on for the past hour. The room was empty as Sacha waited patiently for the two detectives to return. Across from him were two empty chairs. A crumpled Styrofoam cup with the residue of black coffee rested on the metal table. Sacha didn’t care for coffee. In fact, he had never had a cup his entire life. Maybe he was missing out. He probably could have used one but had declined. He’d seen enough American detective shows to know that the two men were trying to determine whether or not he could be implicated in some kind of terrorist plot. The techniques they used to press him seemed as if they’d already come to the conclusion that he was guilty of something.
“This is not good,” Sacha thought sardonically. “They could kick me out of the country for this.”
He knew that he was being watched. He could feel it. There was a hidden camera somewhere within the confines of the miserable room. Sacha scanned the walls and ceiling, and at first, saw nothing. White walls. Gray carpet. One of those paneled ceilings with overhead lights. His eye caught a slight flicker adjacent to the incessantly buzzing fluorescent bulbs. He looked up again and saw a small white plastic bubble at the corner of the ceiling tile.
“Yes,” he surmised, “There it is.”
He was all too familiar with Soviet surveillance, at least in his native Poland. In the last century alone, Poland had survived Nazi invasion and over 30 years of Communist control. He was a small child when the big bear relinquished its hold on Poland and gave sovereignty back to her people. It was a significant moment in his life. Then, he’d always dreamed of coming to America, especially during those pre-democracy days. New York City was the ultimate vision. But now he was being held as a suspect in a terrorist act of a magnitude he could only imagine.
Suddenly, the door opened and the two detectives reentered, appearing as clueless as before. Their crestfallen faces could only mean one of two things. They either had no further reason to hold him or expected him to capitulate in some unexpected fashion. The older of the two approached him first. His towering height, mammoth frame, and crew cut made him a daunting figure as he tossed a stack of files onto the table. Both men smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Sacha wondered if their recent absence had been little more than a cigarette break. The other man, shorter and stockier with a red, puffy face, spoke with a heavy New York accent. But Crew Cut’s monotone droll sounded like it could have come from anywhere but the city.
“Mr. Kaminski, Lieutenant Harris and I appreciate your patience,” Crew Cut said while pulling Sacha’s passport out of the file and waving it in the air. “Everything you’ve said so far checks out, and we have found nothing in your history to indicate suspicious activity of any kind.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Sacha said in a feeble attempt to sound casual and relaxed.
“But we’re not entirely done here,” Lieutenant Harris, Red Face, quipped, as he took a seat across from Sacha. “The only thing we do know is that we can’t be certain about anything.”
As if on cue, Captain Banks took a seat next to Red Face, carefully opened the file, and leisurely thumbed through its pages. Sacha’s anxiety and frustration grew with each passing second as he countered.
“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to release me. Why was I picked up in the first place?”
Lieutenant Harris held up his hand for silence. “That will do, Mr. Kaminski. For the record, yes, you haven’t been charged with anything, but you must understand, your proximity to an attack of this magnitude is cause for immediate concern. Standard protocol states, and by that we mean federal protocol, in the event of a catastrophic event, those taken into custody are detained indefinitely or until federal officials complete a thorough investigation.”
“Yes, but—” responded Sacha.
“Look, there’s nothing we can do but follow protocol,” Banks replied. “We have our rules, and they have theirs. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Kaminski, and tell us what you know, what you saw, and why you happened to be in close proximity of the attack.”
“Tell you what?” Sacha asked in exasperation.
“We need to know what you saw, what you heard, and who you spoke to before you are free to go,” Harris said. He pulled out a mini tape-recorder and carefully placed it on the table.
Sacha looked perplexed but suddenly turned to the men. “I will tell you everything, because I have nothing to hide. You will see. I can speak freely.”
“Nothing would please us more,” Banks said.
“As we’ve stated before, you are not charged with anything. However, we need a statement, if you don’t mind, to speed up the process,” Harris added.
Captain Banks opened Sacha’s passport and examined it. He turned to Sacha, then to his partner.
“I highly doubt you have anything to worry about, Mr. Kaminski. There aren’t too many Polish terrorists out there who blame the U.S. for their lot in life,” he said with a derisive laugh.
“What about the marathon bombing?” Harris asked.
“They were Chechen or Russian,” Banks answered.
“You sure?” Lieutenant Harris asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure. And that puts the three of us supposedly on
the same side.”
The two men abruptly turned to face Sacha.
“So, Sacha, if you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, tell us what you know,” Banks said as he pressed the record button.
Sacha took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, and leaned into the table.
“As I said before, I don’t know anything. I mean, all I was doing was walking on the sidewalk, getting my camera ready to take some pictures. I always wanted to see Wall Street, you know. It was my dream, to get a picture of the New York Stock Exchange.”
Sacha paused.
“Then I heard the explosion,” he added.
“How close would you say you were to the explosion?” Harris asked.
“Not very close. I felt it, the impact, slightly, and the intense heat. I heard screaming and saw smoke. Everyone was running in every direction and bumping into each other. I, too, began to run. That was pretty much it. Then there were police on the s
cene, fire and rescue. I was not injured, so the police took me in, and now here I sit.”
The two officers waited for him to continue but soon realized that he was finished. Harris leaned down towards Sacha, inches from his face in the manner of a confidant.
“So that’s it, nothing else?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Sacha questioned.
“I mean, that’s all you know? You didn’t see anything or anyone unusual? Someone who may have run out of the building just before the explosion?”
“I only know all that I’ve told you. I’m sorry, what else can I say?”
Harris and Banks looked at each other again. Banks nodded to Harris, who then stood up and began to pace around the room, holding the file. “Let’s go over that afternoon piece-by-piece. Maybe something will jog your memory,” he said.
Sacha’s eyes followed Harris with abject curiosity.
“What we know is that at or around 3:30 p.m. there was an explosion on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The blast was sudden and unexpected. It was also coordinated to coincide with the closing bell used to indicate the end of trading. This was the time the attackers carefully planned to ensure maximum damage, to inflict as much carnage as possible.”
“Reprehensible,” Banks added.
“Yes, yes it was,” Harris said. “But what we now know is the attack could have been worse.”
He turned to face Sacha.
“But something spooked the attackers and the bomb malfunctioned, detonating sooner than expected. I believe the attackers meant to detonate the bomb to coincide with the closing bell, but because the attack was premature, they took fifteen lives as opposed to hundreds more.”
“Don’t forget about the eighty-eight injured,” Banks added.
“Yes, thank you, Sir. This leads us to another possible strategy: the bomb was designed solely to maim. In that case, the attackers were not taken off guard, but intended to launch the attack at a specific time before the closing bell. That could mean we’re looking at multiple attacks in the manner of some post 9/11 scenario.”
“It could've been one of those Occupy Wall Street nuts, Al Qaeda, Neo Nazis, or some other extremist,” added Banks.
“Or it was a Polish tourist with an ax to grind,” retorted Harris.
Sacha cleared his throat. “I told you gentlemen all I know, what I saw, and what I did. I cannot be of any further service to you. Can’t you be satisfied with that?”
“Regardless,” Banks said, “This country is in a state of the highest terror alert since 2001. We’re either looking at a national lockdown of unprecedented levels or simply a lone terrorist attack. Until we determine that, I wouldn’t count on going anywhere for a while, Mr. Kaminski.”
“This is all we know so far,” Harris said with a confident saunter back-and-forth in the confines of the small room. “It’s roughly thirty minutes before the closing bell at The New York Stock Exchange. Brokers and traders are going at it left and right. Suddenly an electronic glitch disables the ticker boards and the means to conduct electronic transfers. The tablets go out, communication is cut, and business appears to be at a sudden halt. The glitch occurs within thirty seconds before the blast, which effectively takes down Wall Street, for good. First responders to the scene are met with a cloud of black smoke and the moans of the wounded and dying, crawling around the floor.”
“A horrific sight,” Banks said.
“Indeed. Police immediately cordoned off the area and apprehended several people in the vicinity, including you, Mr. Kaminski, and brought them in for questioning.”
Harris walked over to Sacha, tossed the file on the table, and placed his arms on the hard, cold surface.
“Now, Mr. Kaminski,” he said, “do you understand why we have to detain you indefinitely until the investigation is over?”
Sacha slowly nodded in agreement. He was finally getting the picture, loud and clear.
Chapter Two
Beech Creek, Pennsylvania
“It just won’t hold a charge. Don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it,” the elderly customer said.
From behind the counter, Paul held the man’s iPad and scrolled through its various settings. “This isn’t all too uncommon with these models. You might need a new battery,” he said.
“A new battery?” the old man replied. “I’ve only had the thing for two months. It was a gift. My daughter’s idea of a joke. I barely know how to use the thing.”
Paul checked the battery usage as well as the screen display options. Everything was set to its normal factory settings. However, it was low on power, just as the old man said. “I’ll need to reset the tablet first. If the problem persists, then my next suggestion would be to send it back to the manufacturer for a replacement model.”
The old man wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t want to ship it back. That’s why I came to you. Can’t you fix it? Can’t you do anything?”
Paul took a calm breath.
“Of course I can, sir. I’m going to do a system reset and then—”
“I’m a seventy-seven year old man. I don’t have time to be messing around with this nonsense.”
“I understand. It’s hard to say exactly what the problem is, but if you would like, I could order a new battery or send it back to the manufacturer for you myself.”
The old man tapped the glass counter with his index finger. “I don’t know. Seems expensive. How long would it take?”
“Two to three weeks,” Paul answered.
“I could be dead by then! Why don’t you just put a new battery in there and we’ll call it even?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. It could be a problem with the battery. Or it could be several internal issues.”
The old man leaned forward and placed his hands on the iPad. “You’re just not speaking my language, son. I’ll give it back to my daughter. Maybe she can fix it.”
He took the iPad from Paul with little resistance. It was almost time to close up shop for the day, and Paul didn’t feel like haggling. He liked to choose his battles carefully. There was no doubt in his mind that he could have convinced the old man to leave the tablet, but he wanted to close shop. He would make up for it tomorrow. It seemed that the clientele of Beech Creek were similar in both age and frustration with technology, but who could blame them?
“Tell her to bring it in to me if she needs any help,” Paul said.
“Sure, I’ll tell her,” the old man said sarcastically. “She lives in the UK so you might be waiting a while. Maybe she can have the Queen of England drop it off.”
The old man laughed.
“She moved there to be with her new husband. He’s a funny looking kid. Can’t believe she married a Brit. My daughter, marrying a Brit.”
Paul nodded politely. His customer snapped out of his thoughts for a moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Thanks for your time.”
He grabbed his green cap resting on the counter and walked away with the iPad.
“Not a problem, sir. Feel free to bring it back anytime,” Paul said.
The old man swung the glass door open, sounding a chime from a small bell dangling on its frame. He shuffled outside towards his Cadillac parked on the side of the road. Paul looked at the clock on the wall. It was five till four. He had lost track of time, which often happened at the end of the day when his mind wandered. He walked to the door and flipped the hanging sign to read “Closed.”
The “Tech Stop” was a small building tucked between other small buildings along Beech Creek’s downtown business district. The shop had two employees, Paul and the owner, Bill. Paul more or less ran the store as Bill’s presence became less frequent throughout the months. Bill’s wife was struggling with breast cancer. She needed round-the-clock care, which had gotten quite expensive. As a result, Bill became his wife’s surrogate caretaker and Paul the surrogate owner. He assured Bill that the store was in good hands, but could not--in good conscience--gu
arantee that the business would remain solvent financially. That remained to be seen. Their prospects were linked to the good people of Beech Creek and their faulty electronics.
Paul closed the blinds and turned off the lights, but not before nearly forgetting his cell phone and jacket. He was a little behind schedule and certain that Julie would be waiting for him at school, noticeably irritated. Even with the pressing time, Paul took a moment to observe the empty store. He did this usually at the end of the work week. On any given day, things were quiet. Customers would bring in their broken laptops, cell phones, tablets, or other electronics and Paul would do his best to fix them. Technology was always changing, and Paul, an educated man in his thirties, had to do his best to keep up with it.
The front counter had a glass display stocked with cell phone covers, chargers, and accessories. The corner room behind the counter was used for repairs. It was also a handy break room. To the left of the counter were a couple of waiting chairs, some magazines, and a gumball machine. Paul wasn’t sure how old the gum was, but he found himself digging for a quarter every now and then.
“And this is my life now,” Paul said, taking a final look around the shop before leaving. Saying those words had also become a weekly routine. He picked up his cell phone from its resting spot near the cash register and read the display.
1 Missed Call
Paul worried at the thought of it being Julie, but shrugged it off. “She’s just a kid,” he thought. The missed call was from his wife, Samantha, identified in his phone as “Sam.” His thumb slid across its touch screen and redialed the number. Samantha answered.
“Hey, ‘bout time you called me back,” she said.
“Sorry about that, it’s been a mad house. Fridays are no joke,” Paul said, pacing around the store in a circle.
“Oh yeah? I bet,” Samantha said with a laugh.
“So what’s up? How’s the convention?” Paul asked.
“It’s good. We’ve been here all day. I’m really tired. Can’t wait to call it a day,” Samantha said. She held the phone tightly to her ear, walking along the inside of the vast and bustling convention center. She turned from a crowd of people and entered a nearby hall to better hear Paul.
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