The 15:17 to Paris

by Anthony Sadler

  But it was bad, worse than Anthony understood right away. Spencer was in critical condition, so Anthony couldn’t even see him. Not for two days, while Spencer went in and out of surgery.

  And still, Anthony didn’t grasp how serious it was until he went to the hospital, into Spencer’s room, and Spencer pulled down the gown so Anthony could see the stitches crawling up his chest.

  “What happened?”

  “Open-heart surgery. They got everything. They nicked my heart.”

  Spencer seemed to be appraising Anthony, seeing how fully he was grasping this. “Anthony, they called the homicide unit out.”

  It took a moment for that to register. Homicide. You don’t call homicide when someone’s hurt. You call homicide when someone’s been killed.

  “They thought I was dead.” Spencer was quiet for a moment. “But the other thing is . . .” he paused again. “I did too. I thought I was dying. I sat down on the sidewalk after they stabbed me and closed my eyes, and I thought I was closing my eyes for the last time.”

  Anthony couldn’t think of what to say. “So what happened?”

  “I woke up on the sidewalk, a paramedic was giving me a sternum rub, telling me, ‘Wake up, wake up!’ I was like, ‘I guess I’m still alive.’ Then I just remember being on a gurney here at the hospital, everybody standing over me working, you know, but this homicide detective keeps trying to squeeze in and ask me questions, just trying to get information like he didn’t think I’d ever be able to.” Spencer paused. “To give him information again.”

  Anthony was overwhelmed. His best friend, with whom he’d already been through one life-threatening situation, who’d really, as far as Anthony was concerned, saved Anthony’s life, and who was now lying there, having only barely survived, cut and torn up and stitched back together.

  Anthony wasn’t so worried about him physically, since by now it was clear that as bad as it was and as close as Spencer had been to dying—again—he was going to make it. Anthony was more worried about what Spencer was feeling. He worried about his friend’s mind. Was Spencer feeling the same pressure Anthony did? People called Spencer “Captain America,” and they meant it to celebrate him, but it was also pressure. It meant that if you got hurt, you failed. If other people around you did, you were a failure. Anthony felt for him. He just couldn’t think of what to say, which was a brand new problem he’d been having since the train. Finally he just sighed and said, “You motherfucker. You just won’t die, will you? You just won’t fucking die.”

  Spencer closed his eyes. Anthony felt emotion welling up inside him, but still couldn’t think of anything to say, not even to his closest friend, that would fit the gravity of the situation. “I’ll see you when you get out, man. You’ll be all right, okay? You’ll be all right.” And he left.

  35.

  THAT WASN’T THE END. The shooter at Alek’s college, the terrorist reprisal attack on Spencer that turned out to not be a terrorist attack, but just a street fight, but then turned out to be almost fatal . . . it was happening; the boys were paying back for the luck they’d had.

  Anthony was in biomechanics class early on a Friday afternoon when his phone started buzzing with messages coming from numbers he didn’t recognize. THEY COULD’VE REALLY USED YOU IN PARIS.

  On the drive back to his apartment, more came in: Y AREN’T U SAVING PARIS RIGHT NOW?

  Then another, and another; he parked in the driveway and pulled up the news on his phone, and his heart sank. He went inside, sat on the couch and turned on the TV. The same images scrolled again and again; nighttime in Paris, with a local time stamp, excited anchors talking over each other, but the banner across the bottom of the screen said it all: 18 KILLED IN PARIS SHOOTINGS.

  This has to do with us.

  The banner changed. AT LEAST 30 DEAD IN PARIS ATTACKS.

  Then it changed again. FRENCH PRESIDENT DECLARES EMERGENCY, CLOSES BORDERS. And again: AT LEAST 60 DEAD IN PARIS TERROR ATTACKS.

  He felt weary. He was, in an instant, exhausted with violence, and he couldn’t watch anymore. He still had a hard time trusting the news, so he turned off the TV and hoped they’d screwed up again, somehow got the details confused and drastically overestimated the death toll, or maybe even got the whole thing totally wrong, maybe a hoax, but already something heavy had fallen in his stomach and he thought, We did this to Paris.

  Anthony looked back at his phone; the headline on the CNN website still saying sixty had been killed IN SHOOTINGS AND BLASTS; HOSTAGES HELD. He willed it not to be true, to be a mistake, at least for the count to start going in the opposite direction.

  The headline changed to a big black banner, with big white letters: MORE THAN 100 KILLED.1

  He couldn’t shake the notion that he was at fault. That this is because of us. We stopped an attack, and they had to come back ten times worse to let the people of France know we didn’t stop anything.

  He did not feel what all the people sending him messages felt. He didn’t wish he’d been there. Instead he felt he’d been so stupidly lucky when he was there, and he felt guilt. He and Spencer and Alek had stepped in the way of fate, and fate had come roaring back with a vengeance. Terrorists were responding to the three of them, and using hundreds of innocent people in France to make the point that you couldn’t stop history from happening; you just could maybe change when and how bad it was.

  We’ve done this to them.

  It would be months before he could fully accept that his reaction was wrong, that he hadn’t somehow inspired a reprisal attack, and that instead the mastermind planned at least four other attacks that had stalled out before, and as many as six. His name was Abdelhamid Abaoud, and though he was involved in Ayoub El-Khazzani’s plot against the train2 and might have felt pressure because of past failures, he had many wells to draw from beyond what happened aboard the 15:17 to Paris. If Anthony and Alek and Spencer, and the others there that day—“Damian A” who slowed El-Khazzani down, and Mark Moogalian who tried to grab the machine gun and got shot, all before Anthony even woke up, and Chris Norman who helped bind El-Khazzani and then spent about two straight days translating—if any of them had happened to be somewhere else, had not been there to stop the attack, there was no reason to believe it would have stopped the mastermind from planning more. It would have meant that instead of a hundred thirty people dying in one attack, four or five hundred would have died in two.

  But at that moment, it didn’t matter. No amount of reasoning would have helped him shed the awful thought that he was responsible.

  And there was another reason he felt so personally connected to the killings in Paris. It wasn’t just that he’d convinced himself he’d somehow inspired them. It was because he now felt a closeness with the city. It was funny, in a way, that this city they’d kept hearing lukewarm things about on their trip, and which they were just about to skip altogether, instead gave him his fondest memories.

  Partially, of course, because the appreciation was amazing, breathtaking, and so obviously genuine. It was not about celebrity; it was about humanity. It hadn’t felt like people in Paris wanted to be around them because they were famous—he didn’t even feel famous yet. The people there made Anthony feel like he and his friends had given a tremendous gift. People didn’t want a part of them, people wanted to make sure the boys were properly thanked. So after Anthony turned off the TV, that’s what he started thinking about.

  Paris, just after the train. The city’s people; the beginning of his fame. He sat in front of the blank TV screen, thinking about those four days they had in Paris, and everything that came after.

  36.

  THE DAY BACK IN AUGUST when Anthony and his two friends received France’s highest honor, their biggest problem was what to wear. Another funny contrast: they were surrounded by the luxuriant splendor of the ambassador’s mansion in Paris, but their clothes were mostly dirty, and anyway none of them had thought to bring formal attire on a backpacking trip across Europe. The best they had were
sports jerseys covered in blood. There’d been no time to go shopping, certainly not to get anything tailored, so they were about to receive the Legion of Honor from the president of France while wearing gym clothes.

  Chief Griffith had an idea. He disappeared, then came bursting back into the residence with a bag full of clothing. “Okay,” he said, “try these on.” A pair of khakis for each of them, borrowed shoes, belts. “But make sure I get all this back.”

  “Damn, Chief,” Anthony said, holding up a pair of slacks to eyeball the size. “Where’d you get this stuff from?”

  “I borrowed it. From the marines. From actual marines. So unless you want America’s finest coming after you, you better get it all back in good condition.” He’d run down to the embassy’s marine detachment and raided their closets, but no one had suits or blazers. Apparently marines didn’t have any more reason for three-piece suits than backpackers did. The best they had was polo shirts. So the boys headed down to get the nation’s highest award looking like frat brothers on their way to a barbeque. Later, when the news broadcast images from the award ceremony, anchors would try to explain away the visuals that rolled with the reports, saying things like “The three of them, dressed . . . casually, received France’s highest award . . .”

  Anthony didn’t much care what he was wearing. When he walked into the embassy lobby with the others, the whole crowd assembled there erupted in cheers. And it didn’t die down; it just kept going. Someone leaned over and said in his ear, “You stopped our 9/11.” They kept roaring, the excitement feeding on itself, the fact that they’d cheered for so long becoming itself something to laugh and cheer for, and finally Anthony decided it might go a few more seconds, so he took out his camera and began filming. Still, the crowd didn’t quiet. It was the most thunderous applause he’d ever heard, and he started to get a sense of what this meant to people.

  They got in a black SUV for the short ride to the palace. A line of reporters, a royal guard; Joyce, Heidi, and Everett arriving with them after flying through the night, landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport less than an hour before the ceremony, stepping off a plane to a waiting motorcade, and racing through the city. Anthony was happy to see more familiar faces, happy to see Heidi go up to Alek, hold his face in her hands and say, “Remember what I said to you before you deployed? This is it!” Which seemed nice, whatever it was about, and Alek smiled, but Anthony’s parents weren’t there yet.

  “Okay, sir?” A skinny Frenchman had taken him by the elbow and led them to a stage, pointing out an X where Anthony was to stand. “He’s going to come up to you,” the man said, as if “he” was a waiter or something, rather than the president of France. “He’s going to pin the medal on you, shake your hand. That’s it.”

  “That’s all?”

  Anthony’s X placed him next to Chris, while Alek and Spencer stood on the other side of the podium. The skinny man attached a radio to Anthony’s ear so he could hear a translation, but when the president addressed the crowd he spoke faster than the translator could keep up, so Anthony didn’t know whether to smile, look serious—the one thing he had never, ever doubted was his ability to act appropriately in any situation, and now he had no idea. He forced his face to neutral.

  Where’s Dad?

  The president started talking.

  “One need only know that Ayoub El-Khazzani was in possession of three hundred rounds of ammunition and firearms,” the woman in his ear said, “to understand what we narrowly avoided, a tragedy, a massacre. Your heroism must be an example for many and a source of inspiration. Faced with the evil of terrorism, there is a good, that of humanity. You are the incarnation of that.”

  Anthony scanned the crowd. Many important-looking people. His father still wasn’t there. Was there a problem with the plane? Had he not been allowed on board in Sacramento at all?

  “We’re not weak as a society faced with terrorism, we are strong when we stand together.” Anthony tried to keep his gaze forward, but noticed the president glance in his direction. More important-sounding oratory in French. “If something happens,” the voice in his ear said, “you have to respond. You have to do something.” That didn’t sound very official. It sounded like something Anthony himself would say.

  In fact it sounded like something he did say, at the press conference yesterday—a shiver ran through him. The president of France had just quoted him! Now, he could let a little smile crack on his face. And as he scanned the crowd again, out of the corner of his eye he saw a door to the left of the stage open, and his father and stepmother slip in. Anthony locked eyes with each of them, gave a nod, and they smiled back. What he saw on his father’s face was raw, unfiltered pride that his father was trying hard to contain. Anthony wanted to laugh, to let his whole face light up in a smile, Can you believe this Dad! but he tried to put his serious face back on, lest the president of France say something sad or tragic while Anthony was grinning like an idiot. A moment later, the president of France was standing in front of him, pinning the country’s highest medal just under his collar, and kissing him on both cheeks.

  * * *

  IT BEGINS SIMPLY. Anthony was asleep, now he’s not. Spencer is looking at him with strange eyes because a body has just blurred past them.

  Then Spencer is gone.

  The adrenaline hits Anthony and he thinks, We have to do something, and Alek is already out of his seat following Spencer. Anthony gets up and moves through the train car like he’s on a gas-powered dolly blasted forward and he’s next to Spencer in something like a second. Alek is leaning down, he is picking the machine gun up, light hits the metal and triggers something in Anthony. The barrel in Alek’s arms moving toward the seat where Spencer and the gunman are twisting. Sound leaves him and knowledge comes and slams into Anthony like a heavy, open hand smacking the round of his head: Alek is going to kill Spencer.

  Anthony has been injected with a drug that affects not him so much as everything around him, so limbs move like they’re moving through thick liquid, slowing them all down except his, and he can see everything happening in perfect high gloss; it is all incredibly clear, incredibly obvious, incredibly slow. Alek cocks the machine gun, moves it slowly toward the two bodies writhing on the seat. Anthony can see it clearly from this angle. The bullet will pass through the man and into Spencer.

  It feels like the whole of a minute for the trigger to move all the way back. Enough time for Anthony’s brain to cycle through a series of ideas like a jukebox, flinging and twisting discs behind the glass.

  Alek, don’t do it, you’ll kill Spencer too!

  Alek, go, do it, kill him now because this guy is a terrorist!

  Alek, don’t do it because you’re going to splatter that man’s head on all of us and you don’t want to see that and I don’t want to see that either!

  Anthony’s brain gets all twisted; thoughts begin to intersect and blend and then the current grinds to a halt and his mind is still and silent. Alek pulls the trigger.

  The gun doesn’t go off. Time speeds back up, and Alek is pounding the man so violently but the muzzle hitting flesh should make blood and make sound but it does neither; still, this makes more sense to Anthony, this is right, this man needs to be administered violence but not killed. Anthony watches the man’s forehead where blood should come and isn’t, so Anthony looks down at the man’s face. Each time a blow strikes the man, the face fizzles out of focus with the force of it, then resolves, and the man just stares at Alek.

  He is hit again, he vibrates out of focus, stares at Alek again. He is not passing out. He is superhuman. He shows no signs of pain. His skin is softening with blows from the weapon, but he stares. Spencer holds him tight; it’s seconds or minutes, Anthony can’t be sure, but Anthony is watching the terrorist closely because he is expecting him to pass out. It lasts for an hour if it lasts a second; it is the most intense thing Anthony has ever seen. It is extreme brutality being passed between two people, but the man is not even struggling. He takes the blow
s, he stares.

  It’s haunting. He has a look on his face that is hatred, but it is a different kind of hatred from any Anthony has seen. It is not anger at what is happening right now; it is a calmer, deeper anger, deep enough that what is happening now is only disturbing the surface. It will last longer than this grasp he’s in. It is deep enough that he will wait. He is saying to Alek, I’m in no rush. Eventually I will not be in this chokehold and then I will kill you and as many of your people as I can.

  And then he passes out.

  * * *

  37.

  AFTER THE CEREMONY it was time for Anthony to go home. He walked across the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle Airport toward a jet waiting just for him. Ho-ly shit.

  An idea came to him. He dismissed it for a moment, then thought, Why stop now? He took out his selfie stick, extended the telescopic handle, and recorded the last of his European trip.

  The interior was plush. Dark cherrywood paneling everywhere. Was it real wood? It didn’t matter. Cream-colored seats that swallowed you up, trays and drawers that appeared out of nowhere with food, candy, booze, whatever you wanted, secret compartments that would magically appear to offer him snacks or juice like the whole machine was designed to anticipate his needs.

  He sat back in one of the seats, the backrest collapsed and the legs extended, so that his whole six-foot-four frame was stretched out, and the seat swallowed him up. The plane was whisper quiet, the roar of the engines reduced to a soothing purr that drowned out the intensity of all that had just happened; his life arcing off in a new direction after the train, then four days during which he never came down, camera flashes and phone calls from the president, an ambassador’s assistant adopting him and Spencer and Alek like they were her own children, the presidential suite, a medal he’d never heard of given by a president whose named he still wasn’t sure how to pronounce, all of it pushed back into a distant corner of his thoughts by the thrum of the engine, and one final thought popped up, We never made it to Spain, before that too floated away and for the first time in four days, Anthony slept.