Devon Ford - The Fall

“How long have I been out?” Cal asked, tenderly feeling the sore swelling on the back of his head. Nothing broken, he reassured himself as he tested the movement of his neck, I don’t think so anyway. Checking himself out from head to toe, Cal decided that he was pretty beaten up but still functional. Patting his pockets to make sure he still had everything, Cal glanced up at the man to prompt an answer.

“I don’t know. A couple minutes, tops?” said the man who was watching the inferno in the street through his shop window.

Shit, Cal thought, I need to get the hell out of here.

Rising slowly, he found that his feet still worked, just about, and he walked carefully to the front door.

“Whoa, Jesus, you can’t go out there! I can’t even get through on 911 but you need a doctor or something,” said the man holding up both hands.

“I have to get back to the hotel,” Cal said, entertaining no further delays. “North on 3 rd, left onto 23 rdfor two blocks and right onto Park?” he said.

The man hesitated, but shrugged. “Yeah, but you need to be careful. It’s nuts out there, I mean real pandemonium.”

“I’ll be careful,” Cal said, reaching for the door. He paused, turned his stiff neck to the man who watched his neighborhood with concern out the window. “Thank you,” he said.

The man shrugged again. “Forget about it. Welcome to New York, huh?”

Cal staggered around the corner, glanced up at the four-way signpost to confirm he was on the right street, and shuffled his feet west. He had wandered in a daze through the city, screams and sirens echoing on every street. Everywhere he looked he saw emergency first responders rushing around, and it seemed impossible to Cal that there were even more people in the streets than there were before. If his brain had registered the facts, if he wasn’t suffering with back-to-back concussions both sustained inside an hour of each other, then he might have realized that it was because nobody was using the subway.

He didn’t know that the subway was shut down. That the entire city limits and beyond were a no-fly zone for any aircraft under threat of being shot down by the US Naval aviators screaming high above in a figure-eight holding pattern. He didn’t know that every bridge and tunnel was on lockdown not only because of a suspicious number of simultaneous fires but also by the authorities. Only the Brooklyn Bridge remained undamaged, and the NYPD hadn’t got there in time to close it, so people streamed off the island as fast as they could on foot over the bridge and in the south by every available ferry.

Those that remained on the island, those who weren’t trying to escape, were shutting up their homes and businesses as an air of fear and foreboding descended over the city.

The NYPD, an almost forty-thousand strong army of law enforcement, expertly trained in anti-terror drills and well equipped, worked tirelessly. Those who weren’t actively involved in the cleanup operation or securing the scenes of the bombings, were either patrolling the streets to keep the peace or else preparing for the night. Experience dictated that public disorder, looting and mayhem, would likely take over during the darkness. Every man and woman of the department, unless already committed, was making their way to their station houses to protect their city.

Cal, despite his obviously battered appearance having been blown up, run down, and narrowly avoided having a helicopter land on his head, wandered the streets without anyone giving him a second glance for whole blocks at a time. Now, reaching the end of the second block he had walked on 23 rdas he called them aloud to himself, he was approached by someone in jeans and a dark bomber jacket.

“Sir, are you okay? Are you hurt?” the young man said in a voice of clear professional intensity. His left hand was held out toward Cal with the palm outwards and his right hand was worryingly out of sight inside his jacket.

“Sir, can you tell me what happened?” he said again.

Cal faced him, holding up both hands as though his exhaustion had overtaken him and he was surrendering. “I’m just trying to get to my hotel,” he told the man who, now that he looked at him closely, seemed more of a boy than a man. Cal guessed he was in his early twenties at best, and guessed from his speech and body language that he was a cop. The young man had dropped a black bag at his feet to allow him effective use of both hands, and Cal guessed that he wasn’t expecting to get home for a shower and a change of clothes any time soon.

“Sir,” said the man again, “what happened to you?”

Cal sighed, knowing that he wasn’t going to be allowed to go until he had satisfied the evident rookie’s curiosity. “I was on Wall Street earlier,” he told him, “and there was a bomb in the subway. Then I got hit by a cab and then a helicopter crashed next to me. I just need to get to my hotel.”

“Sir, you need medical attention and then I need to interview you as a witness.” He produced a badge from a pocket with his left hand, bearing the shield logo of the NYPD.

“I don’t need medical attention,” Cal told him, “I need to go.”

“Sir!” the cop said, shuffling one pace backwards quickly as Cal had closed the gap by taking one step forwards. “Keep your hands where they are and stay back!”

“Oh, for fuck sake!” Cal snapped, regretting raising his voice as his head throbbed again. “Look, I’m not a threat, I’m not a terrorist and I need to get to my hotel.”

The young police officer was clearly torn between getting to his duty station and dealing with the situation he had caused. “Okay, sir. I’m going to need you to tell me your name and give me the details of your hotel so someone can ask you a few questions.”

“Fine,” Cal answered, “Owen Calhoun, and I’m staying at the Waldorf.”

“ The Waldorf?” the cop answered, his surprise evident.

“Yes,” Cal said, tired and dizzy again now that his momentum had been lost.

“I’m Officer Peters from the One-Three,” he told Cal, as though the information would mean anything to him.

“Okay, Officer Peters. Can I go now?” he asked.

Peters hesitated, trying to figure out if keeping hold of this potential witness was his duty or whether he should wait for orders. He weighed up the pros and cons of the decision; if he let the guy go and he disappeared, then he would’ve walked away from a witness or maybe even a suspect. If he didn’t get to the station house four blocks away on 21 stStreet, then he would never live it down.

He wasn’t due on duty until the following Monday, but there was an unwritten rule that when something big happens, you got your ass to the house and rolled out. Eventually deciding that he could spare a couple hours at least before he walked into the precinct to report for extra duty, he stood and relaxed his stance.

“Yeah, but I’m going to see that you get back to your hotel first,” he told Cal as he stooped to pick up the heavy bag and loop it over his shoulder. “We’re about twenty blocks away. Reckon you can make a couple miles?” he asked Cal, who nodded and limped next to him as fast as was sustainable.

The panic in the streets was sometimes obvious, sometimes less so. All around people were crying and trying to make phone calls, and the steady flow of first responders heading south with lights and sirens blazing had a clear effect on Officer Peters, who seemed to want to leap into action like a superhero and save the world. Other people wandered almost nonchalantly, as though panicking was beneath them.