Devon Ford - The Fall

“Jake,” Cal said, making the young cop turn back to face him, “be careful.”

“Don’t you worry about me, sir,” he said with a smile which he hoped made him seem confident.

Picking up his bag, he slung it on his back using the side straps like a backpack and nodded to the guard. The bolts shot back and Jake jogged out into the failing sunlight, turned left, and went to run the fifteen blocks to his station house. Cal’s memory kicked him square in the chest then, and he turned back to Sebastian, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“My, er, guest who stayed last night,” he said awkwardly. “Did she make it back?”

“Cal,” Sebastian replied seriously, “I haven’t let her back in since we locked the building down. We’ve turned away a few people who wanted to get inside but I swear to you I haven’t seen her.”

Cal limped toward the elevators as quickly as he could, cursing the slow speed as he went up. He pushed out of the sliding doors before they were fully open, stomped to his door, and let himself in with the key card.

Inside, the bed had been made but Louise wasn’t there. His heart dropped in his chest, making him feel cold and weak. The thought of her still out there, with the sun sinking and people already starting to commit crime at higher rates than normal, crushed him. He sank to the floor, too exhausted to cry, and his eyes rested on something by the bed. It wasn’t his, and it wasn’t there when he left. It was a large, battered backpack.

The bathroom door opened and she walked out, dropping the towel she was using to dry her hair the second she saw him.

“Oh my god, Cal, what the hell y’all been doing to yourself?” she said desperately, dropping to her knees and taking his face in her hands.

“Got blown up,” Cal said, “then I got knocked down by a cab, and then a helicopter crashed on me.” His rehearsed version of simplified events rolled off his tongue easily, like he knew he’d be retelling that story many times over in his life.

Louise wrapped him up in a tight hug, feeling the spasmodic convulsions of a grown man crying into her shoulder.

“Colonel Butler, sir?” said an aide, sporting acne-scarred cheeks and a confused but expectant look on his face.

“What is it, son?” Butler said, the evident success of the New York phase making him feel more inclined to talk.

“Sir,” stammered the boy, pointing at one of the screens, “did we do that?”

Butler’s eyes followed the outstretched digit, resting on one of the silent televisions which now showed mostly darkness. Fumbling for the remotes he tried to turn the sound on, growling at Suzanne who tried to step forward and take it from his hand to make it work. He finally found the sound controls and cranked it up.

“…can see here, whole city blocks are in darkness as the power is shutting down. Still no word on who was responsible for the attacks, but so far we know that six” —she put a finger to hear earpiece and paused momentarily as she glanced down— “no, seven explosions have occurred in the city, five of which have been confirmed as having been at subway entrances—”

The reporter stumbled as three or four people barged through their street-side film setup, jostling the cameraman who managed to regain himself and point the lens back at the anchor.

“You good? We still on?” she asked the man behind the camera, evidently getting the correct answer as she switched her gaze back down the lens and resumed her report.

“As I said, five confirmed explosions happened in subway tunnels and some mixed reports have come in saying that the stock exchange itself was the target. In fact, all attacks have been in and around the financial district of the city. Nobody has taken responsibility for the truck fires which blocked the bridges and tunnels, and NYPD press officers have not yet made any arrests in connection with the events earlier today. We have had confirmation that the NYPD’s air support has come under attacks and is unable to fly, with two helicopters having crashed in the city with the tragic loss of all lives onboard…”

The news anchor trailed off as the lights of every shop in the street failed, flickering into darkness. Despite the sun not having set, the sudden absence of artificial lighting inside the city’s man-made valleys between the high buildings made everything so much more sinister. The background noise of car horns tripled in intensity as every traffic light in the city died.

The reporter regained herself, flicking her hair out of her eyes and fixing her best ‘brave woman on the ground in a crisis’ face toward the camera lens. “ As far as we know, no organization or person has yet to take credit for the attacks, and—”

She never got to finish her sentence.

Behind her, even before the shockwave and the flying debris and shattered glass had a chance to fly across the road to her, the blossoming fire of an explosion grew from inside the plate glass of a department store. Before the feed was cut, the final recorded frame was frozen on the screen, still bearing the banner ‘LIVE’ as the reporter’s hair had caught fire and the flesh was burned from her cheek. That gruesome, grotesque, and horrifying freeze-frame was suspended for a few seconds, showing the world an uncomfortably close-up view of a woman being blown to pieces. The screen went black.

Butler carefully put down the TV remote he had been clutching, lining it up at perfect angles with the others, and stood tall.

“To answer your first question, son: No. The power outages aren’t us,” he said, straightening the uniformed shirt he wore.

“And to answer the second question you haven’t yet asked: No. That bomb wasn’t us either. We had five backpack devices for the subways, one small IED, and one RPG for the diversion. So no, son, we did not knock out the power and we did not blow up that reporter.” He walked away, head high but mind on fire.

Sitting at his desk to try and find some space for his brain to react to what he had just witnessed, he clenched the fingers of his left hand into a fist to stop it shaking.

“Unexpected bonus?” Suzanne’s voice asked carefully, interrupting his moment of internal concern.

“What?” Butler asked her, almost angry that she would feel the loss of an innocent life was anything but a tragic necessity in the fight for their freedom.

“I mean the power outages,” she said, her face showing an equal distain that he might think she enjoyed watching the reporter get killed. “Won’t a blackout accelerate the timeline? Create chaos in the city quicker?”

“Yes,” Butler replied, leaning back and backing down, “it certainly will do that.”

“So, this is a good thing?” Suzanne offered carefully, trying to massage Butler’s ego into accepting her way of thinking. “Better than expected?”

“Suzanne,” Butler said seriously, “I expect nothing— nothing —but that my men do the things asked of them. If the plan fails and men have done their duty, then the fault lies with command.” With that, Butler had evidently ended the conversation.

Suzanne walked away, angry at pompous military men with their fatalistic views on actionable problems. Maybe they didn’t make all the mess in the city right now, but the plan was to shut down the money, close off the island as much as possible and let it tear itself apart for a night. After that the president and his senior staff, all of whom were under the strict protection of Major Taylor’s unit in Washington, would issue instruction for the military to reestablish order.