Devon Ford - The Fall

As they both turned slowly, Cal’s eyes rested on a short man with smooth, rich brown skin and a jet-black beard. He wore a plain white shirt, collarless and done up to the very top, and a flash of brilliantly white teeth shone out between mustache and beard, and bright eyes shone out between mustache and the bright turban on his head. He held the gun uncertainly, like he wasn’t used to handling firearms, and Cal was sure that if he pulled the trigger the way he was holding the stock then the recoil would likely slam it into his face and remove those white teeth.

“What kind of medical attention?” he asked, not changing the aim of the shotgun.

“She’s diabetic, and she needs insulin,” Cal said. He opened his mouth to say more but the man cut him off.

“When did she last inject, and what is her blood sugar like?” he asked intensely, his accent clearly not Americanized but easily understandable.

“Yesterday, and she crashed out in the night, woke up all confused so we gave her candy and she got better for a while,” Jake told him.

The man lowered his gun slightly, as if fighting an internal battle between self-preservation and helping others. “Bring her inside,” he told them, lowering the gun and placing it on the counter like his hands had been dirtied by it. “And be quick,” he added.

Both Cal and Jake did as he asked, trusting the man instinctively given his response to the news that someone needed help. The bearded and turbaned man walked out from behind the counter and strode purposefully to the back of the store where his pharmacy was. A few people had come into the store since the previous day and the news reports. Some he had hidden from, fearing the responses of the ignorant being directed at him.

Amrick Ali, commonly called Ricky as it was probably easier to accept his presence with an American sounding name, had lived in the United States for near on twenty years. Since the terror attacks of 2001 he had noticed a marked difference in the way people perceived him and his family. For starters, he was an Indian Sikh and not an Arab or Muslim as people nearly always assumed. He enjoyed a drink, and endured the constant comments like, “Hey, I thought your kind didn’t drink,” and “Isn’t that against your religion?”

He was not a radicalized terrorist, nor did he believe in any loss of life being justified. He enjoyed his work, and he kept his head down to keep the people of the small town in check with their medication. He was accepted on the whole, but he was always wary. Now, having seen the reports of the terror attacks all over the continent, he was grateful for the first time that his wife and children had returned to his native Kashmir to visit relatives. They had been gone a little over two weeks, and he doubted he would ever see them again. His reverie was interrupted as the small bell above the door jingled again and the two men brought in a young woman who seemed lethargic and confused.

“Sit her down there,” Amrick told them, indicating a row of plastic seats. He walked into the aisles of his drug supply, snatching up things as he went from the places he knew they would be. He returned to the customer side of the counter and leaned down to put his face close to Louise’s. Gently taking her left hand, he selected the ring finger and held it up before a small snapping sound produced a dot of blood on her fingertip. Holding a device with a protruding piece of paper to the blood he waited a few seconds with a furrowed brow.

“Please,” he said to Jake over his left shoulder, “go to aisle four and bring back a bottle of Coca-Cola.” Jake left without a word. “Make sure it’s the real deal,” Amrick shouted to him, “and not that sugar-free stuff.”

“Got it,” yelled Jake over the sound of his boots on the shiny shop floor.

Cal watched as the man in the turban tore open the packaging on another box and produced what looked like a small epi-pen. As Jake returned with a warm can of soda, Amrick rolled up the sleeve of Louise’s top and jabbed the small needle into her arm.

She didn’t flinch, whether that was because she had pierced her own skin so many times or whether she was crashing again Cal had no idea. Amrick gripped the ring pull and popped open the can before turning it and encouraging Louise to sip from it.

“The sugary drink will speed up the process,” he told them. “When she is stabilized she will be able to manage it herself, at least I imagine so at her age,” he said. Leaving Louise sipping at the drink autonomously, Amrick straightened and spoke to the others.

“My name is Amrick Ali,” he said. “I am the pharmacist here.”

“Jake Peters,” Jake answered, “NYPD. This is Cal, he’s English.”

Why Jake had to add Cal’s country of origin every time he introduced him made Cal furrow his brow; it was as though the cop was apologizing in advance for anything he might say or do, like he would suddenly produce a bowler hat and an umbrella.

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Amrick answered. “Most people call me Ricky, and I suppose I have grown accustomed to being called this.”

“How come you’re still here?” Jake asked him, getting straight to the point. Now that they were deeper inside the store it was obvious that at least one group of people had raided it for supplies. He thought it strange that the pharmacist stayed behind when others had already left town.

“My wife and children have returned to India,” he told them, his eyes casting down, “and I am ashamed to admit that I have never learned to drive.” He finished lamely with his hands held open in an apologetic gesture.

That explained a lot. An awkward silence hung amongst the three men, as though Ricky’s inability to drive was a matter of collective embarrassment.

“You should come with us,” said a quiet voice from lower down. All three men turned to regard the expectant face of Louise, which now showed something resembling its true sparkle of her normal nature. Both Jake and Cal turned back to face him.

“I have no idea where you are going,” he said, “but I believe my chances of doing any good here are small.” He flashed his brilliantly white teeth at them; such an infectious smile that both men returned it through simple cognitive programming to respond that way to another person’s happiness.

“Understood,” Drew Briar said into his satellite phone and hung up without saying anything else. Madeline Tanner didn’t wait for him to relay whatever news he had just received in his own time, and stalked toward him. She was mindful not to take out her fears and frustrations on the head of her security detail, but also wasn’t of a mind to wait any longer than she had to. They were holed up in the town diner, the three blacked out SUVs with their blue and red lights having drawn some attention from the locals.

“Ma’am,” Drew said, his face a shade paler than when he had taken the call. “I’ve just spoken with what’s left of the military command. Whoever is attacking us is targeting all known military sites, and most of our communication network has been shut down along with power grids in most states.” He paused, knowing that the information he would have to give her got worse and infinitely more important. “Satellite communications are currently our only viable network, but we have no way of knowing how long that will last.”

“And?” Madeline said, knowing that there was more to come. “What else?”

“There are high-level assets in the state,” he told her, not going into any details as he had few, but he knew that the NSA communications site hidden in the mountains was most likely where that last call had originated from. “Assets have been deployed to the air force base in Charlestown, which are currently not responding to any communications, and will be en route here to extract you.”