SALVATION
chapter 15
Los Angeles, California
"Are you gonna' be my new daddy?"
"Quentin De La Cruz!"...Samantha's face flushed.
She shook her head wiping dry a dinner plate and
adding it to the others neatly arranged within
pine cabinets behind frosty etched glass doors.
Hal bent before a white double sink donning thick
Rubber Maid gloves up to his elbows.
They had a system..Hal washed the dishes then
gave them to Quentin who stood on a two rung
step stool submerging them in rinse water then
passing to his Mother who dried and put them
away..To their left a rustic oak dinning table,
and four matching high back chairs were framed
by an L shaped wall of 10 panel french doors and
windows leading to a small back yard patio that
viewed city lights through a arched trelis crowned
with bougainvillea.
Sensing he was in trouble five year old Quentin's
mop of dark brown hair dropped toward the rinse
water. His small hands stirring a coffee cup that
was no longer a simple cup but had become an
underwater spaceship with friendly aliens inside
living under the ocean making lots of new friends
with the sharks and other stuff that lived there..
Hal pulled the bright yellow gloves out of soapy
water wiping them on Samantha's checkered cooking
apron. The one with the frilly lace on the border..He got
big laughs and claps of approval when he nonchalantly
put the neck loop over his head and tied the strings
around his waist..
Seeing Quentin's involvement with the cup he asked.
"What's that you got there Quent?"
Quentin didn't look up but answered as if he should
make the mistake of averting his eyes from the
spaceship even for a split second it might go out of
control and plummet to the deep dark depths of the
ocean floor never to be found.
"Spaceship." He murmured.
"An underwater spaceship?" Hal sounded genuinely impressed.
"Yeah!"..Quentin's big brown eyes flashed up at Hal. His face
lit up from ear to ear..The fact a grown up 'got it' made the
pretend spaceship that much more real, an emotional
bonding for him.
"How'd you know Mister Hal?"..He was in awe of Hal's
apparent super human power..The ability to read minds.
Up to this point in his young life he thought only his Mother
had the unique gift.
"What, you didn't see me down there?"..Hal questioned
pointing to the deep.
Quentin giggled when he spoke sensing another funny
joke was about to erupt..
"No.." He chuckled waiting for the punch line.
Hal had been keeping Quentin in stitches since he arrived
over two hours ago and Quentin didn't want it to end even
though he knew it was way, way, passed his bedtime and
his Mommy was going to make him go to bed as soon as
the dishes were done..
Hal plopped the big yellow dish glove on top of the rinse
water and slowly pushed it under.."We all live in a yellow
submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine."
Quentin screamed in delight as Hal sang and maneuver
the dish glove around the bottom of the rinse water
stopping in front of the 'spaceship' and waving..
"We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine!"
All three of them singing along with Quentin's little body
swaying back and forth to music his legs marching in
stationary time on the top of the stool.
Hal piped in making his voice sound like an echo..
"And our friends are all aboard!"...He forgot the next
line looking to Samantha for help.
"Many more of them.." She started and they both chipped in.
"Live next door!..And the band begins to play!"
Hal did the trumpet sounds and the room filled with the
chorus.
After, she slipped between them kissing her son on the
top of his head, her left arm slid up and gently
scratched Hal's back between his shoulder blades..
She stretched up on her tip toes whispering in his right ear.
"What a ham you are."
Quentin insisted Hal be the one that put him to bed cause
he wanted to show Hal all the neat stuff he had in his
very own room..
Legos invaded the carpet. A poster depicting every known
breed of dog hung surrounded by framed crayola art work
of landscapes, jet airplanes, police cars, motorcycles,
firetrucks, and little stick boys holding of the hands of
little stick Moms with oversized heads and smiles.
"You gonna' be home when I wake up?"
Hal sat on the edge of Quentin's bed pulling the covers
over him up to his neck.
"Oh,.. When you wake up I will be waking up too over at
my house."
"Your gonna' come back though, right?"
Quentin squealed as Hal's head bumped into one of the
Model airplanes hanging from the ceiling attached by
fishing line..
"I think I just got bombed!"
"Yeah." Quentin giggled.
"I'd like to come over and see you again Buddy.
Have to go to work though. You know, just like
your Mom."
"Yeah." Quentin yawned.
Hal placed his two index fingers on top of each other
making a finger line between his palms.
"Cut the pickle."
Quentin made a fist with his right hand and pushed
down on Hal's finger bridge forcing them apart.
Hal's right hand squeezed the blanket over Quentin's
tummy.
"Here's a tickle!"
He left the nightlight on and the bedroom door
agar as instructed before descending the stair
way to the living room below.
The banister wall was covered in 8x10 wood
framed family photos mixed with metal framed
awards and accommodations earned by Samantha
over her years of service.
The condo's walls were airy, light with a hint
of peach. Cream colored carpet broken up sections
of wood flooring in the kitchen, and dinning room.
The living room decor was a promotion of the south
west with a dark brown sectional placed in the center
of the room. Large black lacquered frames complimented
still life paintings of earthy pottery bowls and
vases against stratified yellow backgrounds.
The gated key complex located on Culver Boulevard
in Mar Vista was a favorite residence of police
department employees out of the Pacific Division
station a block away. The division Samantha was
formally attached before her promotion to Metropolitan
Division's special teams three years ago.
Ten to fifteen squad cars graced the numbered
parking stalls at any given time of the day.
The independent security company was a good
one, and many of the guards stationed here had
aspirations in law enforcement careers.
She was curled up on the sofa smiling at him.
"Thanks for doing that."
"My pleasure...He's a great kid."
She unfolded from the couch walking to him.
Hal was amazed at her natural grace and
relaxed demeanor..She reached up hooking
her hands around his neck..
"I have to confess something Hal."
It felt wonderful having her so close to him.
He slipped his hands around her waist.
They spoke low and soft.
"Let me guess, the dishes were still dirty."
She shook her head slow.
"I really like you Hal."
"I really like you too Sam."
She let her hands unlock and slip to his upper arms.
"But,..I am concerned."
"You are?"
She nodded.."I am just not sure my son has really
taken to you."
"You think he hates me?"
She put her nose in his chest and nodded smiling.
"Maybe if I can figure out how to keep you around
awhile, he'll warm up."
"Never know, it could work."
Atlanta, Georgia
Thursday, 1:AM
Sal Fox sat back like an astronaut in stocking feet
reclined in his slick black leather Lazy Boy.
A bottle of scotch perched next to him on thick
belved glass a top a jet black side table to his left.
Usually kept at the side bar a steps away, tonight
the bottle was required within easy reach.
A fifty inch high definition plasma screen flashed
through the late night news.
His laptop droned on a matching coffee table
in front of him updating music industry insider's
information through a wireless modem connection.
He was lucky to be alive, he knew that.
Lucky to be sitting here getting shit faced and he
appreciated it..On the other hand, like the
half empty glass of scotch in his right hand, half
thankful was as much as he was currently willing
to comply..
He checked his watch. He had to fly to Denver
in the morning. Meet with other executives from Universal,
EMI and Sony International.
This years December 10th Battle of the Bands event was
coming up fast and the time had come to hammer out
coordination between corporations, companies, sponsors,
legal details, the whole shooting match..
Usually the event landmarked Sal's favorite time of year.
Lots of glitz,perks and special attention..The big three
corporations threw tons of money at this thing like a
macrocosmic neighborhood Christmas Tree Candy
Cane Lane competition. The winner bloating in 'spiritual
pride' secretly gloating behind the envious backs of the
defeated during Midnight Mass and subsequent Sunday's
there after for months to come.
And if you had a niche, like the kind of niche Sal's latest
promotion could have placed him right in the thick of..
The red carpet rolled and the wine, women and song flowed.
Now it looked like his red carpet was being replaced
by a bed of hot coals.
He could feel the burning eyes on him already..
The judges.
Eyes that spoke of earnings loss, plummeting stocks,
class action suits, corporate reputation's smeared.
The list was spreading like wild fire.
As in a premonition he saw himself being pulled from
conference rooms under the watchful glare of professional
peers. Quietly relocated to small cramped quarters containing
voice recorders and nervous brass all beginning their
interrogations with the same opening line..
"What happened?"
After the SWAT teams, investigators, Atlanta Police,
FBI, Coroner's office,forensics, and throngs of emergency
personnel had finished he was finally allowed to leave the
building at 10:45 PM.
Between police interrogations he was constantly re-interrogated
by Corporate personnel calling from New York, Detroit, Miami,
St.Paul, Austin, and Seattle.
There was much explaining to do and for the first time in
his career Sal didn't have the answers..
It all made him look bad..
He'd been in touch through out the day with Ed Hoffman
out in San Diego, the original affiliate who'd signed
Herman Gilespie's band..Sal was beginning to feel
a certain parallel destiny with Mister Hoffman.
He could see Universal giving him a stiff boot and landing
some where on skid row in a shabby little office with
ACME MUSIC posted over the door.
'Affiliate of Universal Music Corporation.'
Riches to rags, Porsche to VW, Main Street to Hobo Street, flyin'
high in April shot down in May compressed into a matter of hours.
What really bothered Fox was how he'd managed to get
into his current predicament in the first place..
Or rather, how out-foxed he'd been by whom ever was responsible
for putting him in this position.
Who pushed Ken Anderson's buttons?
Why did Ken Anderson commit suicide?
Who was really behind the Corporate decision to promote a relative
unknown band like MENACE with a single release starting at the top
of a popular top 40 air play station?
Did the responsible party know in advance the subliminal effects the
song would have on listeners?..
Why would anybody knowing do that?...What could possibly
be the point?
"Maybe it's 'try outs' for some type of secret military industrial
complex experimental psychological warfare program."
His head was spinning..
It's origination white washed from detection through a skillfully
concocted scheme activating trial phases through the
unexpecting escape goat of an art form.
In his gut he didn't believe it..Not originating from our
government anyway..
It was more the style of a Saddam hussein to go after his
own people, but this was even more nuts..This didn't even
bother to segregate.
Like germ warfare only less traceable. "Something Bin Laden
would cook up safe, comfy, untouchable over there in
fuck wad Pakistan."
Playing the part of evil godhead with too much time on his hands.
His mind raced..He felt trapped and used..
Did Ken Anderson learn of the scheme and balk?
Maybe Anderson hadn't been suicidal after all..
That fellah out in San Diego knew Anderson and he was defiantly
not buying the suicide story..
And the note he'd found taped to the top of the desk drawer.
The warning..
Why wasn't the top brass at Universal making any noise about the
"King of the World" fiasco?
Sal hadn't received a single phone call from any of the Corporation's
Executive heads, much less Terry Washburn the current CEO..
He glanced at the late night movie now playing on the
T.V. screen and sighed..'No Exit' starring Kevin Costner..
There was something else though..Something other than
the obvious parallels of desperation shared by the character
in the movie and Sal's current situation that caused his
fatigue swollen eye balls to narrow and focus on the
images bouncing off the thread bare nerves of his over
stressed mind.
A kind of ebullience that steadily gnawed it's way through his
current state of inebriation finding a common denominator
between himself and the star of the movie.
"Oh, yeah."..He remembered..The site being considered
for this years Battle of the Bands event..
It wasn't a lock by any means but there was a lot
of interest due to the number of high profile entertainment
names living in Aspen Colorado..Names like Kevin
Costner, Jack Nicholson, Michael Douglas, John Oats,
Antonio Banderas, Melanie Griffith, Mariah Carey, Michelle
Pfeiffer, Goldie Hawn, Kurt Russell.
Big heady cross platform drawing power from both silver
screen and music industries that Universal found to be
a very appetizing advertisement aspect of the coming
event.
The place was perfect. All decked out in holiday decor.
Red, green, blue, and white lighting reflected off
snow plowed streets. Dormant Aspen trees done up
in white twinkle lights up and down Galena Street.
Back drop of the Rockie Mountains with a five foot pristine
snow base..
"Wish I'd thought of it." he said..
"Whole town is going to look like an entrance
to the pearly gates."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
SALVATION chapter 14
Salvation
chapter 14
The California desert
6:PM
Michelle parked at the far end of a rest stop some
fifteen miles east of Desert Center along the I-10.
She pulled off the helmet, glasses and spandex face
protection breathing deep the fresh desert air.
She had to pee, bad.
Five and a half hours after leaving Long Beach
she'd covered two hundred and twenty miles..
Made a quick fuel stop outside the town of Indio
using a credit card at the pump avoiding confronting
anyone inside the convenience store itself..
Slamming bottled water from of a vending machine
as she filled the gas tank..
She had to go then, but didn't dare risk the challenge
of communicating a bathroom key, or where that encounter
might lead.
Indio was an hour ago and she couldn't wait any longer.
The rest stop appeared quiet, deserted..
She pulled the cotton from her ears dancing foot to foot
as bladder pressure and the anticipation of it's release
lay fifty feet away at the public restroom.
A clear rush of fresh air filled her ear canals giving a
pleasant distraction from her immediate stress affording
some added precious seconds.
Approaching the restroom she heard a low banging noise
from inside..The unmistakable sound of a stall door locking
device striking metal against metal.
Michelle waited outside the restroom certain someone
was inside..She strained but heard no other sound..
No slight shuffling of feet, or clearing of a throat.
No flushing, no water running, or toilet tissue
spinning off a roll..She listened intently but now the
interior of the restroom was as quiet as a tomb..
Her bladder begged..She slipped up to the entrance
and peered into the room.
Ambient lighting only..
The dimly lit four stall facility housed permanent
moving shadows as sunlight swept across fine meshed
vent screen near the roof line..
The closest stall appeared empty the door hanging
agar...She bent her knees, her bladder screamed as
she tried looking beneath the bottom of the stalls for
any evidence of an occupant..
The little light surrounding the room was sucked
completely away in the lower corners.
Darker still in Michelle's vision due to contracted
pupils accustomed to direct sunlight.
She blinked then blinked again trying to force her
eyes to adjust..
"Hello?...Is anyone in here?"..
Her own voice answered an echo bouncing off the concrete
floor..
Vague outlines of individual doors began forming distinction as
her pupils adjust..Gray stalls against flat brown cinder
making up the walls. Bolted on her right, stainless steel
sinks hung like gargoyles of symbolic protection.
She took a step toward the nearest stall then stopped as
a shadow moved against the farthest stall..
Her eyes opened wide as the stall door swung inward
a third then swiftly slammed shut duplicating the sound
she'd heard outside.
Michelle froze in mid step unable to move..
Her heart lodged..Her brain worked over time frantically
deciphering information as her eyes continued adjusting
to their surroundings..
A spit second passed..Only a moment before pissing
her pants while tearing from the fear, her brain shouted
"The wind!..The wind!..The fucking wind."..The Santa
Anna wind was forcing the stall door open and
sucking it shut like a vacuum..She breathed and bolted
claiming the nearest stall..
The floor was wet and the smell of urine stung her
nose leaving sticky imprints on the bottom of her boots.
She rolled her eyes and squatted over the filthy toilet
taking care to hover there never touching the seat..
"Ok, ok you can go now!" She hissed at her self and the
hesitant inbred response of a body forced to relieve
it's self subject unnatural position in an unclean
environment. Her thighs trembled realizing how tolling
the day had become.
And then the noise came...The noise from outside.
The sound of rolling tires crushing over loose gravel..
The sound of them out there and me in here with no exit.
Nearer and nearer locking like radar low idle pushing
closer and closer.
She jumped up pulling at her jeans as if by God I am not
going to die with my pants down..
"Too late" she thought..The crumbling sound of tires
came to a silent stop just outside the restroom..
Michelle stood facing the doorless entry and realized she
was in the exact same spot she froze earlier only facing
out instead of in..
"Beep...Beep"...It was a horn..But not the deep baritone
blast of a truck horn..."Beep"...Not even the obnoxious
blare of a passenger vehicle...
She took two steps forward and peeked at the rim of the
doorway..Nick Flannery was pushing down his kick
stand and smiling in her direction..
She almost knocked him down..He'd just dismounted the
bike and was working on his chin strap when she flew
into him..Grabbing at him and throwing her arms around
his neck..
His helmet fell on the ground as he hugged her waist lifting
her feet off the floor of the parking lot.
He'd taped his cell phone to the helmet next to the left
ear flap...It fell on the ground too.
"How did you find me?"
He breathed deep inhaling the sent of her hair and she
felt him shaking..
They spoke as one holding on to each other afraid to
let go.
"This is my second time on this loop..From Blythe to Desert
Center and back...I was so worried about you!"
She released him unzipping his jacket sliding her arms
around his waist.
"Well,...The traffic was just horrible."
Blythe, California
Dusk settled by the time Nick lead Michelle off the main road
onto a winding dirt drive ending at a modest two bedroom cabin located
in a remote area outside the town of Blythe..
Nick's Uncle owned the vacation home set on ten quiet acres fronting
the Colorado River..
Uncle Jimmy was a water sport enthusiast and the place was his
idea of Shangrila.
He'd bought it over twenty years ago and used it from June through August
every year without fail planning to make it his permanent location once retired from the Buena Park Fire Department in Los Angeles.
Nick held a standing invitation to use the cabin any time he desired..
It was the place of safety that sprung to mind when Nick suggested
Michelle and he meet in the desert.
"Does this place have a shower?" Michelle had asked him back at
the rest stop..
"Yep."..
"And, does this place have a bed?"
"Yep."
"What are we going to do about food?"
"The place is stocked."
"Can we be there in five minutes?"
"More like thirty five minutes."
"Let's roll."
An hour later the smell of baking pizza filled the cabin.
Hot steam escaped the bathroom door mixed with Michelle's
sweet singing voice as she luxured in a claw foot bath..
Nick leaned on the front door jam nursing a bottle of cold
Miller Highlife.
A back drop of purple mountains clutched at the endless sky.
Streaking flames of cirrus clouds, against dark blue hues of space.
Reflecting smooth wide flows of the Colorado River, a stones
toss from the door..
Crickets agreeing with his Uncle..This Shangrila.
chapter 14
The California desert
6:PM
Michelle parked at the far end of a rest stop some
fifteen miles east of Desert Center along the I-10.
She pulled off the helmet, glasses and spandex face
protection breathing deep the fresh desert air.
She had to pee, bad.
Five and a half hours after leaving Long Beach
she'd covered two hundred and twenty miles..
Made a quick fuel stop outside the town of Indio
using a credit card at the pump avoiding confronting
anyone inside the convenience store itself..
Slamming bottled water from of a vending machine
as she filled the gas tank..
She had to go then, but didn't dare risk the challenge
of communicating a bathroom key, or where that encounter
might lead.
Indio was an hour ago and she couldn't wait any longer.
The rest stop appeared quiet, deserted..
She pulled the cotton from her ears dancing foot to foot
as bladder pressure and the anticipation of it's release
lay fifty feet away at the public restroom.
A clear rush of fresh air filled her ear canals giving a
pleasant distraction from her immediate stress affording
some added precious seconds.
Approaching the restroom she heard a low banging noise
from inside..The unmistakable sound of a stall door locking
device striking metal against metal.
Michelle waited outside the restroom certain someone
was inside..She strained but heard no other sound..
No slight shuffling of feet, or clearing of a throat.
No flushing, no water running, or toilet tissue
spinning off a roll..She listened intently but now the
interior of the restroom was as quiet as a tomb..
Her bladder begged..She slipped up to the entrance
and peered into the room.
Ambient lighting only..
The dimly lit four stall facility housed permanent
moving shadows as sunlight swept across fine meshed
vent screen near the roof line..
The closest stall appeared empty the door hanging
agar...She bent her knees, her bladder screamed as
she tried looking beneath the bottom of the stalls for
any evidence of an occupant..
The little light surrounding the room was sucked
completely away in the lower corners.
Darker still in Michelle's vision due to contracted
pupils accustomed to direct sunlight.
She blinked then blinked again trying to force her
eyes to adjust..
"Hello?...Is anyone in here?"..
Her own voice answered an echo bouncing off the concrete
floor..
Vague outlines of individual doors began forming distinction as
her pupils adjust..Gray stalls against flat brown cinder
making up the walls. Bolted on her right, stainless steel
sinks hung like gargoyles of symbolic protection.
She took a step toward the nearest stall then stopped as
a shadow moved against the farthest stall..
Her eyes opened wide as the stall door swung inward
a third then swiftly slammed shut duplicating the sound
she'd heard outside.
Michelle froze in mid step unable to move..
Her heart lodged..Her brain worked over time frantically
deciphering information as her eyes continued adjusting
to their surroundings..
A spit second passed..Only a moment before pissing
her pants while tearing from the fear, her brain shouted
"The wind!..The wind!..The fucking wind."..The Santa
Anna wind was forcing the stall door open and
sucking it shut like a vacuum..She breathed and bolted
claiming the nearest stall..
The floor was wet and the smell of urine stung her
nose leaving sticky imprints on the bottom of her boots.
She rolled her eyes and squatted over the filthy toilet
taking care to hover there never touching the seat..
"Ok, ok you can go now!" She hissed at her self and the
hesitant inbred response of a body forced to relieve
it's self subject unnatural position in an unclean
environment. Her thighs trembled realizing how tolling
the day had become.
And then the noise came...The noise from outside.
The sound of rolling tires crushing over loose gravel..
The sound of them out there and me in here with no exit.
Nearer and nearer locking like radar low idle pushing
closer and closer.
She jumped up pulling at her jeans as if by God I am not
going to die with my pants down..
"Too late" she thought..The crumbling sound of tires
came to a silent stop just outside the restroom..
Michelle stood facing the doorless entry and realized she
was in the exact same spot she froze earlier only facing
out instead of in..
"Beep...Beep"...It was a horn..But not the deep baritone
blast of a truck horn..."Beep"...Not even the obnoxious
blare of a passenger vehicle...
She took two steps forward and peeked at the rim of the
doorway..Nick Flannery was pushing down his kick
stand and smiling in her direction..
She almost knocked him down..He'd just dismounted the
bike and was working on his chin strap when she flew
into him..Grabbing at him and throwing her arms around
his neck..
His helmet fell on the ground as he hugged her waist lifting
her feet off the floor of the parking lot.
He'd taped his cell phone to the helmet next to the left
ear flap...It fell on the ground too.
"How did you find me?"
He breathed deep inhaling the sent of her hair and she
felt him shaking..
They spoke as one holding on to each other afraid to
let go.
"This is my second time on this loop..From Blythe to Desert
Center and back...I was so worried about you!"
She released him unzipping his jacket sliding her arms
around his waist.
"Well,...The traffic was just horrible."
Blythe, California
Dusk settled by the time Nick lead Michelle off the main road
onto a winding dirt drive ending at a modest two bedroom cabin located
in a remote area outside the town of Blythe..
Nick's Uncle owned the vacation home set on ten quiet acres fronting
the Colorado River..
Uncle Jimmy was a water sport enthusiast and the place was his
idea of Shangrila.
He'd bought it over twenty years ago and used it from June through August
every year without fail planning to make it his permanent location once retired from the Buena Park Fire Department in Los Angeles.
Nick held a standing invitation to use the cabin any time he desired..
It was the place of safety that sprung to mind when Nick suggested
Michelle and he meet in the desert.
"Does this place have a shower?" Michelle had asked him back at
the rest stop..
"Yep."..
"And, does this place have a bed?"
"Yep."
"What are we going to do about food?"
"The place is stocked."
"Can we be there in five minutes?"
"More like thirty five minutes."
"Let's roll."
An hour later the smell of baking pizza filled the cabin.
Hot steam escaped the bathroom door mixed with Michelle's
sweet singing voice as she luxured in a claw foot bath..
Nick leaned on the front door jam nursing a bottle of cold
Miller Highlife.
A back drop of purple mountains clutched at the endless sky.
Streaking flames of cirrus clouds, against dark blue hues of space.
Reflecting smooth wide flows of the Colorado River, a stones
toss from the door..
Crickets agreeing with his Uncle..This Shangrila.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
SALVATION chapter 13
Salvation
chapter 13
Desert Center, California
Herman Gilespie was not a happy camper.
Things had not exactly gone the way he'd imagined
things were going to go..
Big deal, the zoot man proved he could make a
hit record.
Herman had kind of prepared himself expecting
some kind of bull shit hidden agenda..Some trickery..
After all it came with the territory..
You can't expect to deal with the dark side
and not get hosed in the end.
He just figured the end would come sometime
later. Sometime like years from now after his
end of the deal had been realized and he'd been living
high on the hog, up to his ears in tits and ass.
After the penthouses, Ferraris, vacation homes in
the Caribbean, cover of Rolling Stone magazine,
flings with Hollywood's hottest actresses, all the coke
he could snort and stock in a walk in closet.
You know,..just the basics..
Not this carrot on a string routine..
This was more like dealing with the mafia..
Little Birdie merrily chirping on and on about how fucking
lucky he was getting his foot in the door..This was closer
to stepping in the door, slipping, sliding, and landing face
first on the shit filled newspaper floor at the bottom
of Little Birdie's cage.
So far all he'd got out this fiasco was his apartment
thrashed, his band members killed, ten minutes
of fame, and eight hours on the ten most wanted list.
Add fall out over the burn down that was L. A. and he's
public enemy number one by dark.
Forcing his heel against the two foot chrome kick stand
he rest the chopper behind B&D Auto Repair's combination
gas station and two stall general repair facility on the west
end of Desert Center..An intersection of highways that linked
with Interstate 10 at the eastern floor of San Gorgonio gorge.
A strategic fueling spot for weekend warriors, river rats, and
fun seekers in route to Las Vegas, Laughlin, Colorado river,and
south east off road parks such as Glamus, or Ociotillo Wells.
Little Birdie told him it was time to ditch the bike for a
new set of wheels..
The same Little Birdie that told him to get the band together
at the ungodly hour of nine this morning..
An hour later Little Birdie told him he was borrowing Jason's
bike and making a beer run over at the Iranian liquor store
three blocks away.
Should have guessed then something was up.."Ain't no where
on this piece of shit to carry a twelve pack."
He'd just stuck the bulky cardboard box between his legs, fired the
thing back up when Little Birdie echoed in his head again saying
he wasn't going back to the apartment after all...
"What the fuck?..What the fuck I buy this for then?"
Little Birdie just laughed..
"Fuck you!..What the fuck am I doing here?..When am I going
back almighty fucking Little Birdie fuck?"
Quote Little Birdie.."Nevermore."
Little Birdie didn't even sound ominous..At least Poe's
Raven had some bass tone..Little Birdie's voice was more
like Tweedy's..But not the innocent Tweedy who's
thoughts and actions are based on self defense..More
like a giddy Tweedy with itchy feet in possession of
an H bomb.
"You don't want to fuck with me." Little Birdie would say
when Herman started to get the way he got right now.
From the little blips of vision that danced before his eyes
on the ride out to Desert Center Herman knew Little Birdie
wasn't joking..
Movie trailers of shit gone down back at the
apartment would flash in his head like day dreams while
he forced his way through the fuckfest of L. A. freeways
and frontage roads just as Little Birdie dictated..
"Da shit'da just hit da fan'ah!"..Little Birdie squealed
shortly after 10:30 AM while he was heading east. Why
was he heading east? Cause Little Birdie said so..
Herman freaked when flashes of the apartment shot through
his eyes blinding him from the road..."What the fuck is that?..
Fuck me!"
"Music video!" Little Birdie chirped..
He pulled off the road into a parking lot. It was a county
park with swings some picnic tables and a tan stuccoed block
restroom with men's on one side and woman's on the other.
No way he could maintain on the road with this shit bouncing
of his retinas..Little Birdie didn't bitch..Herman was sure Little
Birdie was still here though..He smelt the distinctive aroma of
popcorn..Extra butter...And the periodic crunch crunch of Little
Birdie's beak enjoying.
Blip..There was Jason Blackwell grinning away, standing over
the toilet beatin' off while soaking up the bass lines of "King
of the World" through the headset of his Ipod..
Blip..And fuck head Leroy zoned out on the couch plugged in
sucking down Herman's last can of suds...
"Ass hole"..Herman commented falling down on the grass
next to a big Eucalyptus tree.."Fat fuck,"...he remarked as
Winston Mckeen helped himself to the last of Herman's box
of Wheaties..
Little Birdie chimed in with a happy little tune from that
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs movie then shut up cause
the best part of this movie was coming up and Little Birdie
didn't want to miss a second of it..
Behind cabinet doors, under the kitchen sink, inside a
bulging trash bin, compact discard ripened.
Composting solids to paste, and paste to liquid pools
that churned and squirmed with black fly larvae
snuggle and warmed by the stratified heat of melting waste..
Little Birdie, being a little birdie, found fly larvae especially
delicious, and Herman could hear a frenzy of peck, peck,
pecks as Little Birdie crunched on popcorn pretending it
was the hundreds of plump white roly-poly morsels at
the bottom of the trash bin....Little Birdie was really getting
into the movie..
Little Birdie's bright yellow head twitched and focused on one
special tar colored larvae that split slurping thick black runny
goo multiplying on itself quickly filling the bottom of the
trash bin drowning out the others as it rose.
"The star of the show!..The star of the show!"...Little Birdie
could hardly constrain the excitement of it's fluttering heart.
Over spilling the top of the trash bin slurping and gurgling
weird science seeped through the cracks of the cabinet
pooling and solidifying on the filthy kitchen linoleum floor.
Two separate streams leaked the outer seams of the cabinet
doors and built upon themselves forming twelve inch diameter
stubby hooves of wobbling jello quickly hardened to support
the flabby up growth of ankles and shins..
Black elixir soaked through the footing pads absorbing and
flowing upward. Metabolizing into building blocks of thick
knobbed knees, short squat thigh quarters, a narrow hip line,
undefined genitalia and a thick stump of bobbed tail.
The body evolved shifting color. Dark molasses to reddish
brown, hairless and slick, covered in a membrane that
glistened against the light.
The trunk grew thick and short giving away prematurely
to a huge barrel chest the diameter liken of a refrigerator.
Shoulders round and slump rolled toward a meaty extension
of arms so long the clawed four fingered appendages
scraped at the kitchen floor.
It had no neck. A massive oblong pulsating skull of boneless
mass perched squarely on the shoulder line..Deep folds
of lateral brow waved up and over an extensive forehead
rippling the crown sweeping to a fibrous bag of timorous
flesh mottled and hanging off the back of the head.
The eyes were round and sunken surrounded by flabby
folds of loose skin making them appear as slits..There
was no protrusion of nose bone, only two three inch nasal
openings high on the face almost between the eyes.
The mouth lay open. A four foot wide gap with nine teeth
on the bottom jaw line and seven at the top.
The middle teeth short and stubbed, broken and twisted.
Bordered by four, six inch fangs of motley yellow and black.
Ear flaps resembling the tail section of large fish draped shirting
the tops of the shoulder blades.
Once complete it animated a single programmed response.
Taking a side sweeping left step while raising the right arm
the claws unfurled sinking deep into the unsuspecting throat
of Winston Mckeen..A geyser erupted drenching the monster's
face and chest as the arm lunged and lunged again pulling
the man's head straight back. The left arm hooked,
talons grasping and snagging in frustration at the slippery
blood soaked hair..Finally as if in learning, the serrated points
caught gouging their grip. The left arm slowly raised extending
and twisting before it's eyes the severed head.
No sound escaped the creature..No victory reflected it's gaze.
No satisfaction of a bloodlust fulfilled..It was dead to life.
Dead to thought..Dead to emotion..
It viewed the head through lifeless eyes and waited.
As if expecting special instruction from a glaring quizzical
expression on the dead man's face.
Seconds passed then abruptly again it animated.
Left arm swinging back, releasing to a gapping mouth,
the creature chomped twice swallowing the head
like a strawberry....
A note from the author:
...The narrator of this accounting appeals your grace in
special circumstance..
His inability to proceed further intimate details concerning
the ensuing events of apartment 12..
...Lest he fall victim to a madness..A madness contagious
of design by those whom's interest would covet the truth be kept
unknown..
A lurking disease without vaccine exists in the unfiltered tapping
grounds of good and evil..
Created by the dark and laying wait to those who's necessary
association and close proximity to detail in the pursuit of truth
make lures,... for the malevolent..
...Better the narrator appear a fool and rest the guard of those
watchful eyes that the wiser might gain an insight from these
pages of accounting..
I whisper now to you and only to you..
An accounting of what is, and what should never be...
By your nod, I therefore proceed with caution..
Apartment 12
Jason Blackwell and Leroy Shepard never stood a chance..
They were grinners..The zoot suit man had seen to it and
seen to Herman Gilespie's immunization..The zoot suit man
had plans for Herman..Big plans that required Herman's
facilities be intact.
Herman's facilities were at the moment on the razor's edge..
He had long since fallen to unconsciousness..His waking mind
unable to process the events playing out back at apartment 12.
He lay under the shade of the Eucalyptus tree.
His eyes darting in rapid movement under closed sleeping lids..
Dreaming an unforgettable dream..
Leroy Shepard lay back on the living room couch resting his eyes
as music flowed through the Ipod sucking his life away..
Somewhere behind the music he felt a presence and his eyes
opened to a an eight foot drooling troll..
Honestly..Grinners are capable of function..They just lack motivation.
Leroy didn't fear for his life..The only thought that came to mind was
this big fat fuck was here to take his Ipod away..
That would never do.
He stuck his hands over the speakers of his headset and decided it
was time to leave..He got halfway to the front door.
Details can be reviewed by the contacting the Los Angeles Police
Department and requesting a copy of the crime scene investigation
report.
The added visual effects associated with the demise of Jason Blackwell
where in fact compliments of the zoot suit man himself..He entered
the apartment a few moments after the creature had completed his
purpose and literally evaporated into a filmy haze of black smoke.
The zoot suit man's finesse with the kitchen knives retrieved from
the apartment itself was intended for the benefit of Herman Gilespie.
The scene currently playing in the dream theater of Herman's
mind. His body jerked spastics recognizing the same fate awaited
him should he dare cross the zoot suit..
And to that recognition he woke up..
chapter 13
Desert Center, California
Herman Gilespie was not a happy camper.
Things had not exactly gone the way he'd imagined
things were going to go..
Big deal, the zoot man proved he could make a
hit record.
Herman had kind of prepared himself expecting
some kind of bull shit hidden agenda..Some trickery..
After all it came with the territory..
You can't expect to deal with the dark side
and not get hosed in the end.
He just figured the end would come sometime
later. Sometime like years from now after his
end of the deal had been realized and he'd been living
high on the hog, up to his ears in tits and ass.
After the penthouses, Ferraris, vacation homes in
the Caribbean, cover of Rolling Stone magazine,
flings with Hollywood's hottest actresses, all the coke
he could snort and stock in a walk in closet.
You know,..just the basics..
Not this carrot on a string routine..
This was more like dealing with the mafia..
Little Birdie merrily chirping on and on about how fucking
lucky he was getting his foot in the door..This was closer
to stepping in the door, slipping, sliding, and landing face
first on the shit filled newspaper floor at the bottom
of Little Birdie's cage.
So far all he'd got out this fiasco was his apartment
thrashed, his band members killed, ten minutes
of fame, and eight hours on the ten most wanted list.
Add fall out over the burn down that was L. A. and he's
public enemy number one by dark.
Forcing his heel against the two foot chrome kick stand
he rest the chopper behind B&D Auto Repair's combination
gas station and two stall general repair facility on the west
end of Desert Center..An intersection of highways that linked
with Interstate 10 at the eastern floor of San Gorgonio gorge.
A strategic fueling spot for weekend warriors, river rats, and
fun seekers in route to Las Vegas, Laughlin, Colorado river,and
south east off road parks such as Glamus, or Ociotillo Wells.
Little Birdie told him it was time to ditch the bike for a
new set of wheels..
The same Little Birdie that told him to get the band together
at the ungodly hour of nine this morning..
An hour later Little Birdie told him he was borrowing Jason's
bike and making a beer run over at the Iranian liquor store
three blocks away.
Should have guessed then something was up.."Ain't no where
on this piece of shit to carry a twelve pack."
He'd just stuck the bulky cardboard box between his legs, fired the
thing back up when Little Birdie echoed in his head again saying
he wasn't going back to the apartment after all...
"What the fuck?..What the fuck I buy this for then?"
Little Birdie just laughed..
"Fuck you!..What the fuck am I doing here?..When am I going
back almighty fucking Little Birdie fuck?"
Quote Little Birdie.."Nevermore."
Little Birdie didn't even sound ominous..At least Poe's
Raven had some bass tone..Little Birdie's voice was more
like Tweedy's..But not the innocent Tweedy who's
thoughts and actions are based on self defense..More
like a giddy Tweedy with itchy feet in possession of
an H bomb.
"You don't want to fuck with me." Little Birdie would say
when Herman started to get the way he got right now.
From the little blips of vision that danced before his eyes
on the ride out to Desert Center Herman knew Little Birdie
wasn't joking..
Movie trailers of shit gone down back at the
apartment would flash in his head like day dreams while
he forced his way through the fuckfest of L. A. freeways
and frontage roads just as Little Birdie dictated..
"Da shit'da just hit da fan'ah!"..Little Birdie squealed
shortly after 10:30 AM while he was heading east. Why
was he heading east? Cause Little Birdie said so..
Herman freaked when flashes of the apartment shot through
his eyes blinding him from the road..."What the fuck is that?..
Fuck me!"
"Music video!" Little Birdie chirped..
He pulled off the road into a parking lot. It was a county
park with swings some picnic tables and a tan stuccoed block
restroom with men's on one side and woman's on the other.
No way he could maintain on the road with this shit bouncing
of his retinas..Little Birdie didn't bitch..Herman was sure Little
Birdie was still here though..He smelt the distinctive aroma of
popcorn..Extra butter...And the periodic crunch crunch of Little
Birdie's beak enjoying.
Blip..There was Jason Blackwell grinning away, standing over
the toilet beatin' off while soaking up the bass lines of "King
of the World" through the headset of his Ipod..
Blip..And fuck head Leroy zoned out on the couch plugged in
sucking down Herman's last can of suds...
"Ass hole"..Herman commented falling down on the grass
next to a big Eucalyptus tree.."Fat fuck,"...he remarked as
Winston Mckeen helped himself to the last of Herman's box
of Wheaties..
Little Birdie chimed in with a happy little tune from that
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs movie then shut up cause
the best part of this movie was coming up and Little Birdie
didn't want to miss a second of it..
Behind cabinet doors, under the kitchen sink, inside a
bulging trash bin, compact discard ripened.
Composting solids to paste, and paste to liquid pools
that churned and squirmed with black fly larvae
snuggle and warmed by the stratified heat of melting waste..
Little Birdie, being a little birdie, found fly larvae especially
delicious, and Herman could hear a frenzy of peck, peck,
pecks as Little Birdie crunched on popcorn pretending it
was the hundreds of plump white roly-poly morsels at
the bottom of the trash bin....Little Birdie was really getting
into the movie..
Little Birdie's bright yellow head twitched and focused on one
special tar colored larvae that split slurping thick black runny
goo multiplying on itself quickly filling the bottom of the
trash bin drowning out the others as it rose.
"The star of the show!..The star of the show!"...Little Birdie
could hardly constrain the excitement of it's fluttering heart.
Over spilling the top of the trash bin slurping and gurgling
weird science seeped through the cracks of the cabinet
pooling and solidifying on the filthy kitchen linoleum floor.
Two separate streams leaked the outer seams of the cabinet
doors and built upon themselves forming twelve inch diameter
stubby hooves of wobbling jello quickly hardened to support
the flabby up growth of ankles and shins..
Black elixir soaked through the footing pads absorbing and
flowing upward. Metabolizing into building blocks of thick
knobbed knees, short squat thigh quarters, a narrow hip line,
undefined genitalia and a thick stump of bobbed tail.
The body evolved shifting color. Dark molasses to reddish
brown, hairless and slick, covered in a membrane that
glistened against the light.
The trunk grew thick and short giving away prematurely
to a huge barrel chest the diameter liken of a refrigerator.
Shoulders round and slump rolled toward a meaty extension
of arms so long the clawed four fingered appendages
scraped at the kitchen floor.
It had no neck. A massive oblong pulsating skull of boneless
mass perched squarely on the shoulder line..Deep folds
of lateral brow waved up and over an extensive forehead
rippling the crown sweeping to a fibrous bag of timorous
flesh mottled and hanging off the back of the head.
The eyes were round and sunken surrounded by flabby
folds of loose skin making them appear as slits..There
was no protrusion of nose bone, only two three inch nasal
openings high on the face almost between the eyes.
The mouth lay open. A four foot wide gap with nine teeth
on the bottom jaw line and seven at the top.
The middle teeth short and stubbed, broken and twisted.
Bordered by four, six inch fangs of motley yellow and black.
Ear flaps resembling the tail section of large fish draped shirting
the tops of the shoulder blades.
Once complete it animated a single programmed response.
Taking a side sweeping left step while raising the right arm
the claws unfurled sinking deep into the unsuspecting throat
of Winston Mckeen..A geyser erupted drenching the monster's
face and chest as the arm lunged and lunged again pulling
the man's head straight back. The left arm hooked,
talons grasping and snagging in frustration at the slippery
blood soaked hair..Finally as if in learning, the serrated points
caught gouging their grip. The left arm slowly raised extending
and twisting before it's eyes the severed head.
No sound escaped the creature..No victory reflected it's gaze.
No satisfaction of a bloodlust fulfilled..It was dead to life.
Dead to thought..Dead to emotion..
It viewed the head through lifeless eyes and waited.
As if expecting special instruction from a glaring quizzical
expression on the dead man's face.
Seconds passed then abruptly again it animated.
Left arm swinging back, releasing to a gapping mouth,
the creature chomped twice swallowing the head
like a strawberry....
A note from the author:
...The narrator of this accounting appeals your grace in
special circumstance..
His inability to proceed further intimate details concerning
the ensuing events of apartment 12..
...Lest he fall victim to a madness..A madness contagious
of design by those whom's interest would covet the truth be kept
unknown..
A lurking disease without vaccine exists in the unfiltered tapping
grounds of good and evil..
Created by the dark and laying wait to those who's necessary
association and close proximity to detail in the pursuit of truth
make lures,... for the malevolent..
...Better the narrator appear a fool and rest the guard of those
watchful eyes that the wiser might gain an insight from these
pages of accounting..
I whisper now to you and only to you..
An accounting of what is, and what should never be...
By your nod, I therefore proceed with caution..
Apartment 12
Jason Blackwell and Leroy Shepard never stood a chance..
They were grinners..The zoot suit man had seen to it and
seen to Herman Gilespie's immunization..The zoot suit man
had plans for Herman..Big plans that required Herman's
facilities be intact.
Herman's facilities were at the moment on the razor's edge..
He had long since fallen to unconsciousness..His waking mind
unable to process the events playing out back at apartment 12.
He lay under the shade of the Eucalyptus tree.
His eyes darting in rapid movement under closed sleeping lids..
Dreaming an unforgettable dream..
Leroy Shepard lay back on the living room couch resting his eyes
as music flowed through the Ipod sucking his life away..
Somewhere behind the music he felt a presence and his eyes
opened to a an eight foot drooling troll..
Honestly..Grinners are capable of function..They just lack motivation.
Leroy didn't fear for his life..The only thought that came to mind was
this big fat fuck was here to take his Ipod away..
That would never do.
He stuck his hands over the speakers of his headset and decided it
was time to leave..He got halfway to the front door.
Details can be reviewed by the contacting the Los Angeles Police
Department and requesting a copy of the crime scene investigation
report.
The added visual effects associated with the demise of Jason Blackwell
where in fact compliments of the zoot suit man himself..He entered
the apartment a few moments after the creature had completed his
purpose and literally evaporated into a filmy haze of black smoke.
The zoot suit man's finesse with the kitchen knives retrieved from
the apartment itself was intended for the benefit of Herman Gilespie.
The scene currently playing in the dream theater of Herman's
mind. His body jerked spastics recognizing the same fate awaited
him should he dare cross the zoot suit..
And to that recognition he woke up..
Thursday, November 20, 2008
SALVATION chapter 12
Salvation
chapter 12
Los Angeles, California
The forensic team assigned to the case were
flown in by helicopter touching down in the middle of a
high school football field a mile south west of North
Stanley Street. At the request of Lieutenant Harrington,
Officers Silversmith and Carson were dispatched to transport
the three member team from the school to the crime scene.
The arrival of a police helicopter was a grateful distraction
for the facility and staff at Union High as the teenage children
held there for their protection were bored and impatient
complaining they now felt like hostages.
Normal bus transportation had been canceled and no child
was allowed to leave the school grounds with out a parent
or guardian personally picking them up.
The school had been designated a local emergency shelter
facility. Both F.E.M.A. and the Red Cross where currently on site
busy converting the multipurpose room into a receiving center.
More persons were arriving at the school then departing.
It was just after 4:00 PM and for many in Los Angeles this
Wednesday had already become a very long day.
Forensics scowered apartment 12 taking photos, gathering
evidence, examining the bodies, and searching for identifications.
Hal had found the third victim where Lieutenant De La Cruz
indicated he would, in the kitchen.
The third victim was not wedged behind a door, or hanging
face down from the ceiling. Victim number 3 was sitting on
a chair at the kitchen table with a half eaten bowl of
wheaties in front of him..Hal surmised the reason
the man hadn't finished his breakfast of champions wasn't
due to the fact he'd been a picky eater. His professional
opinion was the guy had been "fat dumb and happy"
moments before his demise.
Besides he still clutched a stainless steel table spoon in
his right hand..Not the little tea spoon size either..It was a
manly man's size spoon.
Nope, the guy hadn't scooped up the last few remaining bites
at the bottom of the stoneware cereal bowl simply because he
no longer had place to stick the spoon. His head was missing.
Mystery solved..
Hal looked for it though..Under the table, in the trash, behind the
couch, in the shower, generally peeking here and there. All the
while a little tune playing in the back of his mind..
"Come out, come out, where ever you are"..
Only so much he could do with no gloves, but now
that forensics had arrived even with the clear latex slapped
over his hands allowing a more thorough search without the
concern of disturbing fingerprints or evidence, the head was
not to be found.
He was in the single bedroom of the apartment now. The
only room in the place seemingly undisturbed by the violence
that had transpired.
It smelled of stale sweat and dirty laundry..Like soiled socks
left fermenting under a bed. He found personals in the dresser
and was busy categorizing evidence when something Samantha
said earlier struck him.."Like somebody painted the walls with
them."..She'd been referring to the blood stains and gore smeared
over the walls of the living room..
Hal walked back to the living room staring at the walls confirming
what had sprung aware to him while still in the bedroom..
The opposite walls of the room some twelve feet apart had
identical patterns left there etched in blood..
Hand prints..
Not the impressions of human hands as one would expect.
These were distinctively of a creature previously unknown
to Hal. Four individual three foot appendages attached to a
hand the approximate palm size of the fourteen by twenty
shattered picture frame lying on the living room carpet.
He shuttered.."Impossible..It can't be."
The ends of the appendages were what can only be described
as talons. Two inch wide sickles rugged and serrated
the inside line of which appeared would tear like a rough
cut saw blade.
Hal realized these were the weapons used on the first
two victims. Victims now identified as Leroy Shepard and
Jason Blackwell..Both members of the band 'MENACE'.
The third victim wasn't carrying any identification.
Maybe it had been taken, or maybe he just didn't carry
a wallet with him today.
It was concluded however the third victim's body was
not that of one Herman Gilespie, the man the SWAT
operation was intended to apprehend.
Photos of Herman Gilespie proved him to be of far
slighter build than the two hundred fifty pound man
(not including his head) sitting at the breakfast table.
Process of elimination suggest the victim to be
Winston Mckeen the fourth member of the band.
Previous to Hal's discovery of the strange prints left
over the living room walls, both he and Lieutenant
Harrington were leaning in the direction of a basic
prejudgment that Herman Gilespie committed the
murders in an attempt to silence loose ends.
Probably some time shortly after 10 AM when
results of the radio aired contaminated music began
hitting the news.
No murder weapons had been found however and
Lieutenant Harrington was somewhat hesitant to draw
concrete conclusions.
"It's possible Gilespie wasn't even present at the time
of the murders and his absence may have simply spared
him the same fate."..
Hal had to admit looking at the 8x10 colored glossy promotion
photo of Gilespie it seemed improbable, perhaps even impossible
for the skinny framed speed freak to do this kind of damage
all by his lonesome.
He hadn't ruled out the fact the three victims had been
converted to grinners however..Two smashed up Apple
Ipods with headphones were found and sealed in evidence
bags. The headless drummer might in fact still be wearing
his headphones with the Ipod neatly stuffed inside his mouth..
As with the kitchen butcher knives Hal kept having recurring
brain references to Thanksgiving Day turkeys.
If Gilespie had somehow managed to infect his companions
with the song and remain uninfected himself.
It could explain how he so conveniently got the drop on them.
Grinners were like cattle to the slaughter as long as pacified
by the continuous play of the music.
Hal's theory didn't explain how skinny little Herman could
have managed the enormous strength it would require to
crucify the one hundred seventy five pound Jason Blackwell
to the bathroom ceiling.
Standing in the living room trying to make some kind of
logic of his findings on the walls, he thought maybe
he was viewing evidence of what did.
Samantha De La Cruz was currently in communication with
division headquarters cooperating with the coordination
of another SWAT operation. A situation had developed
in the North Hollywood area and Lieutenant De La Cruz's
team was ordered to conduct yet another mission.
She finished with headquarters and stepped through the
doorway of apartment 12 watching Hal as he stood
perplexed before the hand prints.
Her movement caught his attention and as he turned to
face her they both switched their radios to channel 5.
"Tell me your not considering this as an art form."
She said pointing at the right wall.
He smiled.."No..But there is something here that
deserves contemplation."
She considered this and raised her perfect brown
eyebrows.
"Are you leaving?" Hal asked.
She nodded.."North Hollywood..We've got another call."
He felt a sense of panic tug at his gut and wondered if
the surface worry for her safety wasn't a emotion rooted
deeper in his own self protection. An ingrained response
warning him that he was going to hurt bad if something
happened to her..
"What was it earlier about the guy in the bathroom you
wanted me to see?"
Her words brought his thoughts back to the present.
"Oh that..It was just a tattoo on his arm that spelt
MENACE..Linking him to the band is all."
"How's the investigation coming?"
"There are APB's out on Gilespie now." He said..
Samantha nodded and spoke.
" Probably not much chance he's gotten far with the
airports closed and the freeways a mess."
Hal shook his head.."That's what worries me."
The pretty eyebrows raised again.
Hal continued." Two of the victims brought their own set
of wheels..The guy in the bathroom?..Name's Blackwell.
We were able to contact Mister Blackwell's girlfriend.
Turns out he's a diehard biker..Got a fancy custom chopper
he takes everywhere he goes.
We found Mister Shepard's keys on him and his firebird
it sitting outside on the street."
Samantha finished for him.."So, where is Blackwell's
fancy motorcycle?"
"That's what worries me." Hal nodded.."If I am Herman
Gilespie and I want to get out of town fast...
What better way through those freeways out there.."
"Then on a bike!"..She finished for him again..
Officer Silversmith appeared at the front door and Hal
held up three fingers..He and Samantha tuned to
Silversmith's frequency.
"Lieutenant their looking for you outside."
"Thanks Silversmith Samantha answered." She switch
to 5 again and Hal followed..
"Got to go..I just wanted to wish you good
luck on the case."
"Thanks, I appreciate that." Hal said..
She started to turn toward the door and Hal heard
himself speak.."Listen,..Sam...Would you do me
a favor?..I mean after the SWAT op is clear..
Could you patch over? Just let me know how
things went."
She stopped and turned back to him.
"Why detective..Are you asking me to call you
and let you know I am ok?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes I am."
She pushed the transmitter button.
"Tell you what..I'll bet you dinner at my
place we both will be just fine at the
end of the day."
Hal smiled.."That's a bet I'd love to lose."
chapter 12
Los Angeles, California
The forensic team assigned to the case were
flown in by helicopter touching down in the middle of a
high school football field a mile south west of North
Stanley Street. At the request of Lieutenant Harrington,
Officers Silversmith and Carson were dispatched to transport
the three member team from the school to the crime scene.
The arrival of a police helicopter was a grateful distraction
for the facility and staff at Union High as the teenage children
held there for their protection were bored and impatient
complaining they now felt like hostages.
Normal bus transportation had been canceled and no child
was allowed to leave the school grounds with out a parent
or guardian personally picking them up.
The school had been designated a local emergency shelter
facility. Both F.E.M.A. and the Red Cross where currently on site
busy converting the multipurpose room into a receiving center.
More persons were arriving at the school then departing.
It was just after 4:00 PM and for many in Los Angeles this
Wednesday had already become a very long day.
Forensics scowered apartment 12 taking photos, gathering
evidence, examining the bodies, and searching for identifications.
Hal had found the third victim where Lieutenant De La Cruz
indicated he would, in the kitchen.
The third victim was not wedged behind a door, or hanging
face down from the ceiling. Victim number 3 was sitting on
a chair at the kitchen table with a half eaten bowl of
wheaties in front of him..Hal surmised the reason
the man hadn't finished his breakfast of champions wasn't
due to the fact he'd been a picky eater. His professional
opinion was the guy had been "fat dumb and happy"
moments before his demise.
Besides he still clutched a stainless steel table spoon in
his right hand..Not the little tea spoon size either..It was a
manly man's size spoon.
Nope, the guy hadn't scooped up the last few remaining bites
at the bottom of the stoneware cereal bowl simply because he
no longer had place to stick the spoon. His head was missing.
Mystery solved..
Hal looked for it though..Under the table, in the trash, behind the
couch, in the shower, generally peeking here and there. All the
while a little tune playing in the back of his mind..
"Come out, come out, where ever you are"..
Only so much he could do with no gloves, but now
that forensics had arrived even with the clear latex slapped
over his hands allowing a more thorough search without the
concern of disturbing fingerprints or evidence, the head was
not to be found.
He was in the single bedroom of the apartment now. The
only room in the place seemingly undisturbed by the violence
that had transpired.
It smelled of stale sweat and dirty laundry..Like soiled socks
left fermenting under a bed. He found personals in the dresser
and was busy categorizing evidence when something Samantha
said earlier struck him.."Like somebody painted the walls with
them."..She'd been referring to the blood stains and gore smeared
over the walls of the living room..
Hal walked back to the living room staring at the walls confirming
what had sprung aware to him while still in the bedroom..
The opposite walls of the room some twelve feet apart had
identical patterns left there etched in blood..
Hand prints..
Not the impressions of human hands as one would expect.
These were distinctively of a creature previously unknown
to Hal. Four individual three foot appendages attached to a
hand the approximate palm size of the fourteen by twenty
shattered picture frame lying on the living room carpet.
He shuttered.."Impossible..It can't be."
The ends of the appendages were what can only be described
as talons. Two inch wide sickles rugged and serrated
the inside line of which appeared would tear like a rough
cut saw blade.
Hal realized these were the weapons used on the first
two victims. Victims now identified as Leroy Shepard and
Jason Blackwell..Both members of the band 'MENACE'.
The third victim wasn't carrying any identification.
Maybe it had been taken, or maybe he just didn't carry
a wallet with him today.
It was concluded however the third victim's body was
not that of one Herman Gilespie, the man the SWAT
operation was intended to apprehend.
Photos of Herman Gilespie proved him to be of far
slighter build than the two hundred fifty pound man
(not including his head) sitting at the breakfast table.
Process of elimination suggest the victim to be
Winston Mckeen the fourth member of the band.
Previous to Hal's discovery of the strange prints left
over the living room walls, both he and Lieutenant
Harrington were leaning in the direction of a basic
prejudgment that Herman Gilespie committed the
murders in an attempt to silence loose ends.
Probably some time shortly after 10 AM when
results of the radio aired contaminated music began
hitting the news.
No murder weapons had been found however and
Lieutenant Harrington was somewhat hesitant to draw
concrete conclusions.
"It's possible Gilespie wasn't even present at the time
of the murders and his absence may have simply spared
him the same fate."..
Hal had to admit looking at the 8x10 colored glossy promotion
photo of Gilespie it seemed improbable, perhaps even impossible
for the skinny framed speed freak to do this kind of damage
all by his lonesome.
He hadn't ruled out the fact the three victims had been
converted to grinners however..Two smashed up Apple
Ipods with headphones were found and sealed in evidence
bags. The headless drummer might in fact still be wearing
his headphones with the Ipod neatly stuffed inside his mouth..
As with the kitchen butcher knives Hal kept having recurring
brain references to Thanksgiving Day turkeys.
If Gilespie had somehow managed to infect his companions
with the song and remain uninfected himself.
It could explain how he so conveniently got the drop on them.
Grinners were like cattle to the slaughter as long as pacified
by the continuous play of the music.
Hal's theory didn't explain how skinny little Herman could
have managed the enormous strength it would require to
crucify the one hundred seventy five pound Jason Blackwell
to the bathroom ceiling.
Standing in the living room trying to make some kind of
logic of his findings on the walls, he thought maybe
he was viewing evidence of what did.
Samantha De La Cruz was currently in communication with
division headquarters cooperating with the coordination
of another SWAT operation. A situation had developed
in the North Hollywood area and Lieutenant De La Cruz's
team was ordered to conduct yet another mission.
She finished with headquarters and stepped through the
doorway of apartment 12 watching Hal as he stood
perplexed before the hand prints.
Her movement caught his attention and as he turned to
face her they both switched their radios to channel 5.
"Tell me your not considering this as an art form."
She said pointing at the right wall.
He smiled.."No..But there is something here that
deserves contemplation."
She considered this and raised her perfect brown
eyebrows.
"Are you leaving?" Hal asked.
She nodded.."North Hollywood..We've got another call."
He felt a sense of panic tug at his gut and wondered if
the surface worry for her safety wasn't a emotion rooted
deeper in his own self protection. An ingrained response
warning him that he was going to hurt bad if something
happened to her..
"What was it earlier about the guy in the bathroom you
wanted me to see?"
Her words brought his thoughts back to the present.
"Oh that..It was just a tattoo on his arm that spelt
MENACE..Linking him to the band is all."
"How's the investigation coming?"
"There are APB's out on Gilespie now." He said..
Samantha nodded and spoke.
" Probably not much chance he's gotten far with the
airports closed and the freeways a mess."
Hal shook his head.."That's what worries me."
The pretty eyebrows raised again.
Hal continued." Two of the victims brought their own set
of wheels..The guy in the bathroom?..Name's Blackwell.
We were able to contact Mister Blackwell's girlfriend.
Turns out he's a diehard biker..Got a fancy custom chopper
he takes everywhere he goes.
We found Mister Shepard's keys on him and his firebird
it sitting outside on the street."
Samantha finished for him.."So, where is Blackwell's
fancy motorcycle?"
"That's what worries me." Hal nodded.."If I am Herman
Gilespie and I want to get out of town fast...
What better way through those freeways out there.."
"Then on a bike!"..She finished for him again..
Officer Silversmith appeared at the front door and Hal
held up three fingers..He and Samantha tuned to
Silversmith's frequency.
"Lieutenant their looking for you outside."
"Thanks Silversmith Samantha answered." She switch
to 5 again and Hal followed..
"Got to go..I just wanted to wish you good
luck on the case."
"Thanks, I appreciate that." Hal said..
She started to turn toward the door and Hal heard
himself speak.."Listen,..Sam...Would you do me
a favor?..I mean after the SWAT op is clear..
Could you patch over? Just let me know how
things went."
She stopped and turned back to him.
"Why detective..Are you asking me to call you
and let you know I am ok?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes I am."
She pushed the transmitter button.
"Tell you what..I'll bet you dinner at my
place we both will be just fine at the
end of the day."
Hal smiled.."That's a bet I'd love to lose."
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
SALVATION chapter 11
Salvation
chapter 11
Brawley, California
3:00 PM
Nick took a frontage road off the 8 freeway as he
neared the city of El Centro. A farming community
serving the produce growers of California's Imperial
Valley..He turned left and navigated a series of dirt
access roads working his way north to the cattle town
of Brawley where he'd pick up the head of highway
78 north. A two lane alternate route making it's way
north east to Blythe where the 10 freeway intersected.
It was the town of Blythe where he planned to wait
for Michelle's call.
Brawley appeared quiet as he rode through the
downtown sector. A combination of manure and
hay scent waft the air. The district maintained an old
school 1950's atmosphere where one might still expect
department stores advertised as a five and dime.
The speed limit an excruciating twenty five miles per hour.
Cable strung stop lights with a red track mind left Nick
exposed and vulnerable.
After ten nerve racking minutes of stop and go he finally sat at the
head of 78 north waiting for the final light to turn green.
It was there, across the street, outside a rundown liquor store
he first saw the man.
Nick's impulse was that of a solemn resolve.
A gut instinct unquestionably dictating to Nick's soul the man
did not belong.
As if in direct defiance to Nick's initial judgement the man
seemed as if he not only belonged, but ruled his surroundings.
The arms where stretched outward like the wings of a bird.
The wrists limp, the hands dangling.
In the left he held what appeared to be a bottle of Orange
Crush that swung against the rhythm of a dance.
A dance that reminded Nick of a waltz..
A waltz originating from a distant age created under
dark foreboding skies.
From an ancient time when Man was but a spice added to a
mixture of emerging concepts.
Light and Dark finding themselves inadvertently stirred
and mingled within the boundaries of a great cauldron.
Gasping and suffocating at the repulsive touch and stench
of the other with no escape.
Out of an intolerable disharmony the fabric of separation was born.
Lines drawn, sides chosen, legions formed, in symbolic denial
and rebellion against the truth of a great catastrophe.
Through the concept of elimination great weapons were
forged into the world.
Legions of the Dark awaited in bound cages their
rights of birth.
Unleashed upon the world by mechanism of a summons.
Enacted through the movements of a dance. Performed in
forbidden forests under dark reflected moonlight, to an
audience of yellow eyes.
And as he danced his surroundings grew.
Emanating from the ground he stood on.
Seeping low and outward in all directions like the shadow
of a cloud absorbing the streets and buildings
of the entire township and beyond.
Attached to the belt loop of a tan colored zoot suit
flashed a gold watch case suspended by a chain.
Nick couldn't see the eyes.
A matching colored fedora was cocked and forward
leaving only a blissful smile to the imagination.
The light turned green and Nick crossed the intersection
drawing the attention of the man.
He dared not return the gaze but kept his eyes focused
down the road.
The blissful smile erupted into a gapping cheerful grin.
As if the sight of Nick brought to mind a sudden realization
of a deep dark secret known only to himself.
Nick felt the eyes bore deep into his back raising goose flesh
down his spine. The 78 mercifully bent itself around a swooping
left putting the man's line of sight behind him.
Two miles down the road his heart rate slowed to normal.
To his left a dairy farm seemed to stretch for miles. Grazing
pastures lush with green mixed against plowed dirt fields
anticipating planting..
Like salt and pepper sprinkled across the land, black
and white Jerseys forged their way northward fronting
the roadway. It was a fun road to travel given to combinations
of short straightaways then left and right exchanges as the road
worked it's way north then east then north again.
After navigating a particularly tight left Nick jammed down on
the breaks hard causing a slight fishtail from the rear end.
Cattle were in the roadway. A large break in the fencing exposed
their means of escape..Behind them a hundred Jerseys marched
in single file toward a common destination. To the north hundreds
more crowded the fence line their bodies rigid and alert as if
deciding where their rightful place stood in the ever growing
exit line.
Nick brought the bike to a standing halt. His jaw dropped,
eyes bulging in amazement and horror.
Dead cows were in the roadway..
Dropping stone dead as their hooves touched the black surface
of the tarmac. Piling on the shoulder ten feet wide...
The line of the dead slowly merging into the left lane as
those that came after staggered their way over fallen
brethren until they too became victims of the road.
The black and white barrier grew steady and thick reaching
the center yellow division strip of faded double lines
and spilling into the right lane.
Nick still had time to circumvent them on the right shoulder
but time was running out.
He leaned forward peering at the roadway seeking a device
crossing it that might explain the phenomenon..
He detected nothing but was gripped with fear of becoming a
victim himself once breaking the apparent invisible line.
The massacre continued relentless closing the gap.
He put the Harley in first and slipped the clutch crossing
the line at the extreme right shoulder.
As he did the cattle to the north stampeded the fence line.
Five hundred feet ahead of him they charged the fence
like a battering ram laying it to waste.
Gone were the docile brown eyes of submissive beasts
of burden. Replace instead by a malevolent rage of bloodlust.
They hurled through the mangled fence kicking and
screaming, snapping back their gum lines exposing perfect
rows of two inch square cap teeth.
Nick slammed the bike in second gear and the earth shook.
The rear tire bit and slipped against the bucking road bed.
A billowing curtain of cloudy dust rose up behind the stampede
catching the up draft of Santa Anna creating a wall of
storm..
Three hundred feet away he screamed "third!" catching
the upper gear gaining speed..
The road bucked again as inertia slammed the dead
against pavement sliding and building against the shoulder.
All eyes where trained on him now. Frenzied eyes that
glared determination.
The air filled with deafening thunder.
Charging hooves,breaking bones, snapping jaws, and
the barking exhaust of an accelerating Harley Softail.
Two hundred feet out the left lane was completely
covered. What had taken minutes for the cattle to
accomplish previously now had taken only a
few seconds.
He punched fourth gear as a cow plundered into the
right lane. A hundred feet to go and the gap was
there..So were the cows.
Charging over the fallen, it's neck extended like a
race horse, the murderous right eye of the cow
knew it had him.
Nick slid against the gas tank and targeting the gap
then let go of the handle bars..
The cow launched it's self into the air.
Nick laid his back down flat against the seat and
raised his left leg off the driving peg.
Turning it's head in mid air the cow barred it's teeth
to meet the on coming prey.
Locking his knee, raising his leg, like a lance his left boot crushed
through a mouth of gnashing teeth. It's head
jerked left forcing the bike right.
Staring directly at the sky, Nick watched as the
massive head passed over him an inch above his
brow line crashing to the road a fraction behind the
rear fender.
Grabbing the bars he tore himself from the seat and leaned
left with all his might cutting diagonally across the lanes.
He shook his head up shifting to fifth cranking open the
throttle grip he burned down the roadway against a sand
storm sky.
Riverside, California
4:00 PM
Michelle found conditions on the east 90 state highway only
slightly improved, but as the miles slowly gathered carrying her
farther from the center of Los Angeles air quality and visibility
began to improve.
She had just merged onto the 60 east in Riverside, a twenty
five mile stretch that would link her with Interstate 10 east
when she fell in behind a small group of motorcyclists ahead
of her. Mimicking their pathways through congestion and
accident scenes.
The ability to see obstructions farther ahead rewarded an
overall improvement in her state of mind. Now with the added
comfort knowing others such as her self were finding success
cautiously freeing themselves from the chaotic region.
She had been on the road for three and a half hours
covering a total distance of seventy five miles.
Fatigue had settled between her shoulder blades.She
needed water badly plus the slow progression had used
two thirds of the bike's fuel.
Riverside was too dangerous to consider stopping. Soon
she would merge on the 10 east down the San Gorgonio
Pass to small desert towns where she would find a quiet
spot to fuel the bike and call her parents and Nick.
That goal still lay one hundred miles away.
The bikers ahead of her slowed abruptly swinging around
a bad accident. People were standing in the roadway and
as Michelle navigated a slow turn a man appeared clutching
and hurdling at her. His right leg was wounded and dragging
behind as he leapt trying to pull Michelle from the bike.
She ducked her head instinctively and the man's out
stretched hands caught the dome of her helmet deflecting
his strength allowing her to speed passed.
It happened so fast she first thought a large bird had
mistakenly flown into her path. Not until she glanced in
the right side mirror seeing the man sprawled on the
roadway did she realize she'd been attacked.
In the moments following the incident she became
resolved. She wanted to be with Nick. She suddenly
realized getting to Nick was the driving force that had
given her the fierce determination to get through this
ordeal..She straightened her back releasing muscle
tensions and allowed her self the luxury of hope.
After all she'd been through this day and most certainly
the worst behind her she felt a new energy.
Even the ass hole on the hard tail custom chopper behind
her couldn't intimidate her now..
He'd been dogging her tail for the last ten miles trying
to pass her. The close zigzag moves around traffic
and debris hadn't allowed a passing opportunity and
with each mile the rider's frustration was becoming
more aggressive.
Finally the road opened for a quarter mile and the
chopper blasted past. The rider's left arm
extended flipping her the finger. The frame and
gas tank were a combination of air brushed
red and orange flames over a yellow base.
Raked forks, ape hanger handle bars, and bright
chrome engine casing. The rear tire wide
and thick like a hot rod roadster's.
The extended appendage of the rider continued
waving like a flag as it barreled down the road
passing the other motorcyclists as well.
Michelle breathed relief as the fat oversized rear
tire disappeared from view..
"Nick" she whispered.."Soon I'll be with Nick."
chapter 11
Brawley, California
3:00 PM
Nick took a frontage road off the 8 freeway as he
neared the city of El Centro. A farming community
serving the produce growers of California's Imperial
Valley..He turned left and navigated a series of dirt
access roads working his way north to the cattle town
of Brawley where he'd pick up the head of highway
78 north. A two lane alternate route making it's way
north east to Blythe where the 10 freeway intersected.
It was the town of Blythe where he planned to wait
for Michelle's call.
Brawley appeared quiet as he rode through the
downtown sector. A combination of manure and
hay scent waft the air. The district maintained an old
school 1950's atmosphere where one might still expect
department stores advertised as a five and dime.
The speed limit an excruciating twenty five miles per hour.
Cable strung stop lights with a red track mind left Nick
exposed and vulnerable.
After ten nerve racking minutes of stop and go he finally sat at the
head of 78 north waiting for the final light to turn green.
It was there, across the street, outside a rundown liquor store
he first saw the man.
Nick's impulse was that of a solemn resolve.
A gut instinct unquestionably dictating to Nick's soul the man
did not belong.
As if in direct defiance to Nick's initial judgement the man
seemed as if he not only belonged, but ruled his surroundings.
The arms where stretched outward like the wings of a bird.
The wrists limp, the hands dangling.
In the left he held what appeared to be a bottle of Orange
Crush that swung against the rhythm of a dance.
A dance that reminded Nick of a waltz..
A waltz originating from a distant age created under
dark foreboding skies.
From an ancient time when Man was but a spice added to a
mixture of emerging concepts.
Light and Dark finding themselves inadvertently stirred
and mingled within the boundaries of a great cauldron.
Gasping and suffocating at the repulsive touch and stench
of the other with no escape.
Out of an intolerable disharmony the fabric of separation was born.
Lines drawn, sides chosen, legions formed, in symbolic denial
and rebellion against the truth of a great catastrophe.
Through the concept of elimination great weapons were
forged into the world.
Legions of the Dark awaited in bound cages their
rights of birth.
Unleashed upon the world by mechanism of a summons.
Enacted through the movements of a dance. Performed in
forbidden forests under dark reflected moonlight, to an
audience of yellow eyes.
And as he danced his surroundings grew.
Emanating from the ground he stood on.
Seeping low and outward in all directions like the shadow
of a cloud absorbing the streets and buildings
of the entire township and beyond.
Attached to the belt loop of a tan colored zoot suit
flashed a gold watch case suspended by a chain.
Nick couldn't see the eyes.
A matching colored fedora was cocked and forward
leaving only a blissful smile to the imagination.
The light turned green and Nick crossed the intersection
drawing the attention of the man.
He dared not return the gaze but kept his eyes focused
down the road.
The blissful smile erupted into a gapping cheerful grin.
As if the sight of Nick brought to mind a sudden realization
of a deep dark secret known only to himself.
Nick felt the eyes bore deep into his back raising goose flesh
down his spine. The 78 mercifully bent itself around a swooping
left putting the man's line of sight behind him.
Two miles down the road his heart rate slowed to normal.
To his left a dairy farm seemed to stretch for miles. Grazing
pastures lush with green mixed against plowed dirt fields
anticipating planting..
Like salt and pepper sprinkled across the land, black
and white Jerseys forged their way northward fronting
the roadway. It was a fun road to travel given to combinations
of short straightaways then left and right exchanges as the road
worked it's way north then east then north again.
After navigating a particularly tight left Nick jammed down on
the breaks hard causing a slight fishtail from the rear end.
Cattle were in the roadway. A large break in the fencing exposed
their means of escape..Behind them a hundred Jerseys marched
in single file toward a common destination. To the north hundreds
more crowded the fence line their bodies rigid and alert as if
deciding where their rightful place stood in the ever growing
exit line.
Nick brought the bike to a standing halt. His jaw dropped,
eyes bulging in amazement and horror.
Dead cows were in the roadway..
Dropping stone dead as their hooves touched the black surface
of the tarmac. Piling on the shoulder ten feet wide...
The line of the dead slowly merging into the left lane as
those that came after staggered their way over fallen
brethren until they too became victims of the road.
The black and white barrier grew steady and thick reaching
the center yellow division strip of faded double lines
and spilling into the right lane.
Nick still had time to circumvent them on the right shoulder
but time was running out.
He leaned forward peering at the roadway seeking a device
crossing it that might explain the phenomenon..
He detected nothing but was gripped with fear of becoming a
victim himself once breaking the apparent invisible line.
The massacre continued relentless closing the gap.
He put the Harley in first and slipped the clutch crossing
the line at the extreme right shoulder.
As he did the cattle to the north stampeded the fence line.
Five hundred feet ahead of him they charged the fence
like a battering ram laying it to waste.
Gone were the docile brown eyes of submissive beasts
of burden. Replace instead by a malevolent rage of bloodlust.
They hurled through the mangled fence kicking and
screaming, snapping back their gum lines exposing perfect
rows of two inch square cap teeth.
Nick slammed the bike in second gear and the earth shook.
The rear tire bit and slipped against the bucking road bed.
A billowing curtain of cloudy dust rose up behind the stampede
catching the up draft of Santa Anna creating a wall of
storm..
Three hundred feet away he screamed "third!" catching
the upper gear gaining speed..
The road bucked again as inertia slammed the dead
against pavement sliding and building against the shoulder.
All eyes where trained on him now. Frenzied eyes that
glared determination.
The air filled with deafening thunder.
Charging hooves,breaking bones, snapping jaws, and
the barking exhaust of an accelerating Harley Softail.
Two hundred feet out the left lane was completely
covered. What had taken minutes for the cattle to
accomplish previously now had taken only a
few seconds.
He punched fourth gear as a cow plundered into the
right lane. A hundred feet to go and the gap was
there..So were the cows.
Charging over the fallen, it's neck extended like a
race horse, the murderous right eye of the cow
knew it had him.
Nick slid against the gas tank and targeting the gap
then let go of the handle bars..
The cow launched it's self into the air.
Nick laid his back down flat against the seat and
raised his left leg off the driving peg.
Turning it's head in mid air the cow barred it's teeth
to meet the on coming prey.
Locking his knee, raising his leg, like a lance his left boot crushed
through a mouth of gnashing teeth. It's head
jerked left forcing the bike right.
Staring directly at the sky, Nick watched as the
massive head passed over him an inch above his
brow line crashing to the road a fraction behind the
rear fender.
Grabbing the bars he tore himself from the seat and leaned
left with all his might cutting diagonally across the lanes.
He shook his head up shifting to fifth cranking open the
throttle grip he burned down the roadway against a sand
storm sky.
Riverside, California
4:00 PM
Michelle found conditions on the east 90 state highway only
slightly improved, but as the miles slowly gathered carrying her
farther from the center of Los Angeles air quality and visibility
began to improve.
She had just merged onto the 60 east in Riverside, a twenty
five mile stretch that would link her with Interstate 10 east
when she fell in behind a small group of motorcyclists ahead
of her. Mimicking their pathways through congestion and
accident scenes.
The ability to see obstructions farther ahead rewarded an
overall improvement in her state of mind. Now with the added
comfort knowing others such as her self were finding success
cautiously freeing themselves from the chaotic region.
She had been on the road for three and a half hours
covering a total distance of seventy five miles.
Fatigue had settled between her shoulder blades.She
needed water badly plus the slow progression had used
two thirds of the bike's fuel.
Riverside was too dangerous to consider stopping. Soon
she would merge on the 10 east down the San Gorgonio
Pass to small desert towns where she would find a quiet
spot to fuel the bike and call her parents and Nick.
That goal still lay one hundred miles away.
The bikers ahead of her slowed abruptly swinging around
a bad accident. People were standing in the roadway and
as Michelle navigated a slow turn a man appeared clutching
and hurdling at her. His right leg was wounded and dragging
behind as he leapt trying to pull Michelle from the bike.
She ducked her head instinctively and the man's out
stretched hands caught the dome of her helmet deflecting
his strength allowing her to speed passed.
It happened so fast she first thought a large bird had
mistakenly flown into her path. Not until she glanced in
the right side mirror seeing the man sprawled on the
roadway did she realize she'd been attacked.
In the moments following the incident she became
resolved. She wanted to be with Nick. She suddenly
realized getting to Nick was the driving force that had
given her the fierce determination to get through this
ordeal..She straightened her back releasing muscle
tensions and allowed her self the luxury of hope.
After all she'd been through this day and most certainly
the worst behind her she felt a new energy.
Even the ass hole on the hard tail custom chopper behind
her couldn't intimidate her now..
He'd been dogging her tail for the last ten miles trying
to pass her. The close zigzag moves around traffic
and debris hadn't allowed a passing opportunity and
with each mile the rider's frustration was becoming
more aggressive.
Finally the road opened for a quarter mile and the
chopper blasted past. The rider's left arm
extended flipping her the finger. The frame and
gas tank were a combination of air brushed
red and orange flames over a yellow base.
Raked forks, ape hanger handle bars, and bright
chrome engine casing. The rear tire wide
and thick like a hot rod roadster's.
The extended appendage of the rider continued
waving like a flag as it barreled down the road
passing the other motorcyclists as well.
Michelle breathed relief as the fat oversized rear
tire disappeared from view..
"Nick" she whispered.."Soon I'll be with Nick."
Monday, November 17, 2008
SALVATION chapter 10
Salvation
Chapter 10
Long Beach, California
Michelle calmed herself after the brief conversation with Nick
and prepared herself for the ride.
The medicine cabinet held a supply of cotton balls used
between her toes when applying nail polish.
She soaked two in water squeezing out the excess, and
applied the them as sound plugs putting extras in a plastic
baggy with water. They muffled noise considerably.
Selecting amber tinted riding glasses then packing dark
and clear also, she decided to wear a black spandex
head cover with the spectacle cutout usually employed
during cold weather conditions.
The nose and mouth protection would filter pollutants that
now lay thick in the air.
Lacing up her boots, zipping up her jacket, strapping down
her helmet, she left the condominium frightened, deaf,
and determined.
The 710 north out of Long Beach was grid lock.
Michelle wondered if she would be allowed to even
begin her journey.
A semi truck and trailer was overturned two miles up the
freeway spread across the traffic lanes.
She could hear the muffled sounds of music blaring as
she snaked up the right shoulder of the road, cutting
between lanes of stacked vehicles slowly working her
way along the blacktop.
The music seemed to be of the same song, seeping the
moist cotton balls.
The same song at different parts and volumes as she
slink by one vehicle after another.
Shifting her weight side to side working the throttle
slightly back and forth, up shifting for a moment then
down shifting, breaking, constantly slaloming, reminding
her of Aspen, pristine snow fall, down hill skiing, and the
day's of her youth..
Days that now seemed as questionable as a dream. A
distance and time so removed from her current situation
as to make them illusions created by a terrified mind
desperately seeking escape from a copeless state.
Her eyes watered and stung adding additional elements to
the obstacles emerging out of twenty yard visibility.
Presenting each passing moment with split second decision.
The riding glasses quickly collecting sticky soot and grime
distorting her vision further.
There was no quarter save perfect response to each situation.
Metal debris, broken glass, vehicles tipped over, vehicles on
fire, screaming wounded, panicked pedestrians, congers of
malice, and the silence of death.
Rampant brawls between commuters sometimes taking place
inside cars, but more often outside between the lanes causing
Michelle to swing hard left or right avoiding them.
The semi crash site lay in chaos. Emergency flair tubes lined
the roadway forming a halo of wishful thinking against
smothering layers of atmosphere.
Michelle's wits had found their end. Entombed and suffocating
in a world vaguely resembling her own. As if she'd passed
on and existed in a parallel purgatory of shadow land.
A place where all things manifest a half life of decay.
A military helicopter hovered fifty feet above the crash like
a giant bellowing mantas..It's crew shouted warnings through
bell horns sounding like threats.
"Freeway is closed!...Freeway is closed!".."Remain in your
vehicles!"..Freeway is closed!"
"Don't stop..Don't stop for anything!" Nick's words filled her
head and she bore down..
With no more than three feet between the semi's cab bumper
and a cement median guardrail on the right shoulder..
Lowering her body between the handle bars, squeezing her knees
against the gas tank, no vision beyond her current place and
time.. Michelle opened the throttle hearing her self scream as the
bike slipped the narrow gap.
The road opened on a stiff Santa Anna breeze.
She filled her lungs with the diluted mix, gripped the bars
and held on.
Imperial County, California
2:00 PM
Nick spread a paper map over the seat of his old
Harley Softail in the dirt parking area of the Desert
View Tower.
A landmark perched three thousand feet atop the
Jacumba Mountains resting at the San Diego/Imperial
County line. Built in the 1920's using the area's
abundant native rock, the seventy foot four floor
monument looks much like a displaced lighthouse. To
the east the I-8 highway tumbled and slithered it's way
down the mountains coming to rest then stretching out
again over the Anza Borrego Desert below.
He thought of Michelle and felt a pang of quilt. The ride
out of San Diego had been uneventful. Once clearing the
major metropolis prevailing east to west winds brought
with them bright skies and fresh air.
The only hitch was a forty five minute wait at the U.S.
Border Patrol check point five miles east of the small
town of Jacumba.
Stationed first two miles, then one mile, a quarter mile
from it's approach portables flashed warnings in bright red
LED display.
Turn of radios...Silent approach...Offenders subject to arrest.
Traffic was reduced to a crawl. Armed National Guard troops
with closed circuit radios scanned vehicles.
At the check point traffic was stopped, questioned and searched,
Nick included. He cringed at having to remove the ear plugs
but viewed the risk as minimal. The interfacing Border Patrol
Officers were not wearing sound protection. National Guard
troops were however and they framed the vehicles being processed.
Nick was ordered to produce license and registration, answer
questions regarding his citizenship, where he lived, where
he was traveling to.
"Spires of the Moon" Nick advised.
It is a remote area in Idaho where a meteorite touched down
a long time ago. Nick used it figuring the authorities would be
confronting commuters destined for populations such as
Los Vegas, Phoenix, or even El Centro a half hour east.
The Border Patrol Officer cocked his head looking at Nick
for a sign of sarcasm. He didn't see any.
Handing back his identification the agent advised.
"Stay on the freeway. Do not attempt to transverse any
inner cities..There are patrolled fueling stations ahead..
You will see signs on the road pointing them out."
Nick picked the man's brain learning the west bound side
of the freeway was in the process of shutting down.
An effort to quarantine the greater San Diego area.
He asked the officer if he'd heard any new information
out of the L.A. area.
The officer shook his head. "You don't want to go there."
Nick pushed back. "I have a friend trying to get clear of
L.A. east bound on the 10."
The Border Patrolmen smiled and jerked a thumb at his
own back. "Your friend has one of those jet packs, right?"
"Fuck it" Nick mumbled and slipped the sound plugs back in his ears."
"Tell you one thing." The agent yelled.."This gets any
worse I might see you out there at that Spires of the
Moon!"
Nick nodded not really hearing the man while strapping
on his helmet. He pulled the clutch pushing the
shift lever down with his left boot toe engaging first gear.
A single through lane merged with the double lane freeway.
On both sides of the road was a large graded lot containing
dozens of confiscated vehicles. Most all showing signs of violence.
Flattened tires, broken windows, bent and twisted bodies...
"Californians don't like to give up their cars.." he thought
twisting open the throttle.
Los Angeles, California
Detective Pigg stood at the entry of apartment 12 gazing
at a thrashed living room.."Godzilla's been here" he mumbled.
If he'd known then just how close to the truth his first inkling had
been he might have turned around, before it was too late,
and simply gone home.
Samantha waited quietly in the middle of the room arms folded
taking in Hal's reaction.
The front entry was swung half open due to misalignment
of a new door stop.
The final resting place of victim number 1 wedged between
the door and the inner wall it normally flushed against.
The face was that of a young man in his early twenties.
The shredded back of his charcoal gray dress shirt matched the
harrowed flesh that lay beneath it like a tailored suit.
It appeared to Hal the wounds were the result of extreme
masochism or extreme sadism.
The only logical conclusion in favor of masochism would be
the man lay down directly in the path of a rotatiller.
Bloodied wood chips embedded under the fingernails of
his clutched hands seemed to match claw marks on the
inside of the door.
"This fellah wasn't putting up a fight..Just trying get away
from whom ever killed him."
"There's another one in there." Samantha pointed to the
bathroom.
Victim number 2 was an older man..Maybe forty. Long
silver hair and a goatee. Lean and muscular in a sinewy
way. Like victim number 1 he too was face down, however
uniquely suspended from the bathroom ceiling.
Staked at the wrists and feet. Anchored to the 2x4 studs
hidden above flimsy rotting wall board by sunk to the hilt
common kitchen knives.
The kind family and friends use to carve the Thanksgiving
turkey or Christmas ham.
Unlike festive individuals gorging themselves on tradional
trimmings such as mashed potatoes and gravy, whole cranberry
sauce, or pumpkin pie requiring a deliberate uncinching
and extension of belt sizes, victim number 2 was in the
process of losing weight.
His large intestine hung two feet below a gaping jagged
wound torn from scrotum to breast plate.
Stepping closer Hal made a mental note. The knives
employed were not the murder weapons. Even the
dullest edge couldn't possibly have created the ripping
two inch wide channel the man's inner's spilled through.
The murder weapon was the same instrument used on
the first victim near the front door.
"Did you see this?" Hal said turning to Samantha.
She had remained with her back to the doorway.
"What?" Her voice was low and her eyes showed a
helplessness.
"Are you alright?"
"Maybe you were right Hal..Maybe I should have
waited outside."
"Listen." His voice quiet and soothing.."I've been
around you know?"..Her eyes brightened a bit
drawing Hal's reference to her own words..
"I've seen it all, but this.....This is just plain
spooky."
She nodded turning toward the bathroom.
"Did I see what?"
He reached and gently touched her arm.
"No. You don't need to look at it..I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"First, where is the other victim?"
She whispered, "in the kitchen."
"Thanks. Why don't you step outside and get
some air?...I can handle this."
She smiled.."You want me to go outside and
take a couple of deep breaths of that crap?"
"Well,..you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know what you mean..I was thinking
about ordering in some coffee, you want some?"
He nodded, "Actually coffee sounds great lieutenant."
She nodded turning back to him. "Detective."..
His eyebrows raised waiting for her.
"We're still on channel 5...You can call me Sam."
Chapter 10
Long Beach, California
Michelle calmed herself after the brief conversation with Nick
and prepared herself for the ride.
The medicine cabinet held a supply of cotton balls used
between her toes when applying nail polish.
She soaked two in water squeezing out the excess, and
applied the them as sound plugs putting extras in a plastic
baggy with water. They muffled noise considerably.
Selecting amber tinted riding glasses then packing dark
and clear also, she decided to wear a black spandex
head cover with the spectacle cutout usually employed
during cold weather conditions.
The nose and mouth protection would filter pollutants that
now lay thick in the air.
Lacing up her boots, zipping up her jacket, strapping down
her helmet, she left the condominium frightened, deaf,
and determined.
The 710 north out of Long Beach was grid lock.
Michelle wondered if she would be allowed to even
begin her journey.
A semi truck and trailer was overturned two miles up the
freeway spread across the traffic lanes.
She could hear the muffled sounds of music blaring as
she snaked up the right shoulder of the road, cutting
between lanes of stacked vehicles slowly working her
way along the blacktop.
The music seemed to be of the same song, seeping the
moist cotton balls.
The same song at different parts and volumes as she
slink by one vehicle after another.
Shifting her weight side to side working the throttle
slightly back and forth, up shifting for a moment then
down shifting, breaking, constantly slaloming, reminding
her of Aspen, pristine snow fall, down hill skiing, and the
day's of her youth..
Days that now seemed as questionable as a dream. A
distance and time so removed from her current situation
as to make them illusions created by a terrified mind
desperately seeking escape from a copeless state.
Her eyes watered and stung adding additional elements to
the obstacles emerging out of twenty yard visibility.
Presenting each passing moment with split second decision.
The riding glasses quickly collecting sticky soot and grime
distorting her vision further.
There was no quarter save perfect response to each situation.
Metal debris, broken glass, vehicles tipped over, vehicles on
fire, screaming wounded, panicked pedestrians, congers of
malice, and the silence of death.
Rampant brawls between commuters sometimes taking place
inside cars, but more often outside between the lanes causing
Michelle to swing hard left or right avoiding them.
The semi crash site lay in chaos. Emergency flair tubes lined
the roadway forming a halo of wishful thinking against
smothering layers of atmosphere.
Michelle's wits had found their end. Entombed and suffocating
in a world vaguely resembling her own. As if she'd passed
on and existed in a parallel purgatory of shadow land.
A place where all things manifest a half life of decay.
A military helicopter hovered fifty feet above the crash like
a giant bellowing mantas..It's crew shouted warnings through
bell horns sounding like threats.
"Freeway is closed!...Freeway is closed!".."Remain in your
vehicles!"..Freeway is closed!"
"Don't stop..Don't stop for anything!" Nick's words filled her
head and she bore down..
With no more than three feet between the semi's cab bumper
and a cement median guardrail on the right shoulder..
Lowering her body between the handle bars, squeezing her knees
against the gas tank, no vision beyond her current place and
time.. Michelle opened the throttle hearing her self scream as the
bike slipped the narrow gap.
The road opened on a stiff Santa Anna breeze.
She filled her lungs with the diluted mix, gripped the bars
and held on.
Imperial County, California
2:00 PM
Nick spread a paper map over the seat of his old
Harley Softail in the dirt parking area of the Desert
View Tower.
A landmark perched three thousand feet atop the
Jacumba Mountains resting at the San Diego/Imperial
County line. Built in the 1920's using the area's
abundant native rock, the seventy foot four floor
monument looks much like a displaced lighthouse. To
the east the I-8 highway tumbled and slithered it's way
down the mountains coming to rest then stretching out
again over the Anza Borrego Desert below.
He thought of Michelle and felt a pang of quilt. The ride
out of San Diego had been uneventful. Once clearing the
major metropolis prevailing east to west winds brought
with them bright skies and fresh air.
The only hitch was a forty five minute wait at the U.S.
Border Patrol check point five miles east of the small
town of Jacumba.
Stationed first two miles, then one mile, a quarter mile
from it's approach portables flashed warnings in bright red
LED display.
Turn of radios...Silent approach...Offenders subject to arrest.
Traffic was reduced to a crawl. Armed National Guard troops
with closed circuit radios scanned vehicles.
At the check point traffic was stopped, questioned and searched,
Nick included. He cringed at having to remove the ear plugs
but viewed the risk as minimal. The interfacing Border Patrol
Officers were not wearing sound protection. National Guard
troops were however and they framed the vehicles being processed.
Nick was ordered to produce license and registration, answer
questions regarding his citizenship, where he lived, where
he was traveling to.
"Spires of the Moon" Nick advised.
It is a remote area in Idaho where a meteorite touched down
a long time ago. Nick used it figuring the authorities would be
confronting commuters destined for populations such as
Los Vegas, Phoenix, or even El Centro a half hour east.
The Border Patrol Officer cocked his head looking at Nick
for a sign of sarcasm. He didn't see any.
Handing back his identification the agent advised.
"Stay on the freeway. Do not attempt to transverse any
inner cities..There are patrolled fueling stations ahead..
You will see signs on the road pointing them out."
Nick picked the man's brain learning the west bound side
of the freeway was in the process of shutting down.
An effort to quarantine the greater San Diego area.
He asked the officer if he'd heard any new information
out of the L.A. area.
The officer shook his head. "You don't want to go there."
Nick pushed back. "I have a friend trying to get clear of
L.A. east bound on the 10."
The Border Patrolmen smiled and jerked a thumb at his
own back. "Your friend has one of those jet packs, right?"
"Fuck it" Nick mumbled and slipped the sound plugs back in his ears."
"Tell you one thing." The agent yelled.."This gets any
worse I might see you out there at that Spires of the
Moon!"
Nick nodded not really hearing the man while strapping
on his helmet. He pulled the clutch pushing the
shift lever down with his left boot toe engaging first gear.
A single through lane merged with the double lane freeway.
On both sides of the road was a large graded lot containing
dozens of confiscated vehicles. Most all showing signs of violence.
Flattened tires, broken windows, bent and twisted bodies...
"Californians don't like to give up their cars.." he thought
twisting open the throttle.
Los Angeles, California
Detective Pigg stood at the entry of apartment 12 gazing
at a thrashed living room.."Godzilla's been here" he mumbled.
If he'd known then just how close to the truth his first inkling had
been he might have turned around, before it was too late,
and simply gone home.
Samantha waited quietly in the middle of the room arms folded
taking in Hal's reaction.
The front entry was swung half open due to misalignment
of a new door stop.
The final resting place of victim number 1 wedged between
the door and the inner wall it normally flushed against.
The face was that of a young man in his early twenties.
The shredded back of his charcoal gray dress shirt matched the
harrowed flesh that lay beneath it like a tailored suit.
It appeared to Hal the wounds were the result of extreme
masochism or extreme sadism.
The only logical conclusion in favor of masochism would be
the man lay down directly in the path of a rotatiller.
Bloodied wood chips embedded under the fingernails of
his clutched hands seemed to match claw marks on the
inside of the door.
"This fellah wasn't putting up a fight..Just trying get away
from whom ever killed him."
"There's another one in there." Samantha pointed to the
bathroom.
Victim number 2 was an older man..Maybe forty. Long
silver hair and a goatee. Lean and muscular in a sinewy
way. Like victim number 1 he too was face down, however
uniquely suspended from the bathroom ceiling.
Staked at the wrists and feet. Anchored to the 2x4 studs
hidden above flimsy rotting wall board by sunk to the hilt
common kitchen knives.
The kind family and friends use to carve the Thanksgiving
turkey or Christmas ham.
Unlike festive individuals gorging themselves on tradional
trimmings such as mashed potatoes and gravy, whole cranberry
sauce, or pumpkin pie requiring a deliberate uncinching
and extension of belt sizes, victim number 2 was in the
process of losing weight.
His large intestine hung two feet below a gaping jagged
wound torn from scrotum to breast plate.
Stepping closer Hal made a mental note. The knives
employed were not the murder weapons. Even the
dullest edge couldn't possibly have created the ripping
two inch wide channel the man's inner's spilled through.
The murder weapon was the same instrument used on
the first victim near the front door.
"Did you see this?" Hal said turning to Samantha.
She had remained with her back to the doorway.
"What?" Her voice was low and her eyes showed a
helplessness.
"Are you alright?"
"Maybe you were right Hal..Maybe I should have
waited outside."
"Listen." His voice quiet and soothing.."I've been
around you know?"..Her eyes brightened a bit
drawing Hal's reference to her own words..
"I've seen it all, but this.....This is just plain
spooky."
She nodded turning toward the bathroom.
"Did I see what?"
He reached and gently touched her arm.
"No. You don't need to look at it..I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"First, where is the other victim?"
She whispered, "in the kitchen."
"Thanks. Why don't you step outside and get
some air?...I can handle this."
She smiled.."You want me to go outside and
take a couple of deep breaths of that crap?"
"Well,..you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know what you mean..I was thinking
about ordering in some coffee, you want some?"
He nodded, "Actually coffee sounds great lieutenant."
She nodded turning back to him. "Detective."..
His eyebrows raised waiting for her.
"We're still on channel 5...You can call me Sam."
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
SALVATION chapter 9
Salvation
Chapter 9
San Diego, California
Nick flipped closed the silver face plate of the tiny cell phone.
His emotions were mixed. Grateful he knew Michelle was alright.
Worried about her chances of getting free of the Los Angeles area..
Seventy five miles of bedlam lay between Long Beach and
Riverside.
Once there she could pick up the I-10 east leading her to what he
hoped would be safety.
Her bike worked in her favor. Although the 07' Dyna Glide Custom
didn't have the same advantage of Sportster agility.
The coil over rear suspension beat the hell out of Nicks 02'
Softail Heritage Classic which rolled fat like a buick in comparison.
Adding to the equation the additional power of the 96 cubic inch Evolution Big Twin, Michelle's bike gave her a better than average chance..
Buck had called him from the studio around 10am.Wondering where he was.
He apologized, saying he'd had a rough night..
They all had keys, they could start without him.
While speaking with Buck the residue of the dream still haunted him.
Leaving him shaken and washed out. Nagging. Refusing to leave.
He advised Buck he'd get up there by noon and apologized again.
After hanging up he decided to take some time..
He had showered before Buck's call but also wanted to shave.
The apartment felt quiet and sober..
He decided to turn on the tv set and add some ambient noise..
That was approximately 10:30 am..
Now It was almost noon.
Police and fire engine sirens wailed consistently out side the apartment.
Helicopers thumped overhead accompanied by loud speaker warnings.
"This is the San Diego County Sheriff Department.
Police action in progress...Stay in your homes."
The skyline was muddy and filled with the stench of fire.
Pillars of thick black smoke appeared in every direction Nick could see from
the balcony of the apartment.
Standing in the center of the apartment..Dressed, helmet in hand, ready to roll.
Checking the tv for any last minute updates..Shrewish thoughts surfaced.
What other choices did Michelle have?..L.A.X and a flight out? Not possible.
The FAA had already temporarily grounded flights in and out of the entire Southern California region.
Even if they hadn't. How safe could she possibily be mixed within the masses
of a busy airport?
Stay home?
The official request of the Los Angeles police Department was exactly
that.
"If your at work stay at work. If your at home stay at home."
Had his own advice added a fuel of panic tipping Michelle's decision to flee the
area? Had his concern for her safety inadvertently put her in more jeopardy?
His own decision to leave the San Diego area was based on the logic that
in any given population the ratio of police officer to citizen was approximately
1 in 300...
Under normal conditions that ratio was sufficient to maintain society's expectation of law and order.
What Nick saw taking place here in San Diego. A hundred and fifty miles from
the center of Los Angeles. Was a huge shift against authority's response time
if an individual was in peril.
How much greater the lag in response time would Michelle suffer at her Long Beach location less than fifty miles from the epicenter?
Nick's decision to advise Michelle as he had done was based on gut feeling and the little known facts he had available to him at the time.
In his heart and mind he firmly believed there was no safety for her to be found in the L.A. region.
But what if he was wrong?
After speaking with Michelle he had called the studio back.
He spoke with Toby, then Mac, and Buck..
Passing them the information he'd learned from the news casts.
The general consensus was the three men would stay hold up
there at the studio..
It seemed the safest alternative apposed to venturing back
into San Diego..Nick agreed..
He saved mentioning Michelle and his plans to meet her
until he spoke with Buck..
He knew the idea was risky, and his life was in danger.
He knew the boys would try to talk him down.
Advise him to join them and wait things out.
Buck didn't try. He asked if Nick was bringing her back
with him to the studio.
Nick had no answers. His only concern was she get out
of the L.A. region..After that she would be deciding her own
course of action..
Once he was certain the men understood the danger
of listening to any music at this time he hung up..
He placed little foam ear plugs in both ears..
They were lying around the apartment and at the studio.
Used as a tool when recording vocals..
It was necessary to plug one ear when singing into pre recorded
playback.. A means to hear both the music and the vocalists
pitch at the same time.
He strapped on the helmet then opened the front door
scanning the immediate area..
It looked clear.
He locked the apartment and sprinted to the Softail.
Firing it up and rolling out cold.
Ashlee's death had been an accident..
They had been in love and she was ripped from him in a moment.
Suddenly. No early warning. Gone.
She simply was in the act of driving a car..
Her make up bag had slipped off the the passenger seat..
Lying on the floor board.
It would only take a second..to retrieve it..
And she wanted to look nice for Nick when she met him.
Unbuckling the seat belt. Steering with her left.
Reaching with her right and down...
Pulling her head an instant below the dashboard.
When she looked up, clutching the make up bag, her
life was over.
Two years and one month had passed. Seven hundred and sixty days..
Until last night, when he first lay eyes on Michelle,
Nick had felt exactly the same as day one.
Los Angeles, California
1:pm
The sky rained black ash. The atmosphere thick and settling like hot fog.
Close and stifling as oil fires and smog collaborated changing oxygen to
oxalic acid.
North Stanley Street in South Central Los Angeles looked much as it did on any given day.
Tan colored mock adobe homes with black rusting security bars.
Traditional wood sided structures, asphalt rolled or shingle roofed.
Intermixed with twelve unit apartments stuccoed in steel blue.
Laundry hung on back yard clothes lines, or drying over balcony
balustrades of rod iron fencing.
Scorched brown Bermuda braced another day of drought.
The littered curbs and vacant lots played host to blowing debris in the mild Santa Anna wind.
As if a overloaded sanitation truck had barreled past throwing it's candy in a parade.
A mail man appeared out of the haze making his way down the block.
Clad in blue short sleeves and shorts. The kind with wide pinstripes on the sides.
Detective Hal Pigg rolled to a stop finding an open spot against a low curb of faded red paint..
A yellow fire hydrant mounted to the weed infested sidewalk framed itself in the
cruiser's passenger side window..
The location was acceptable.
Far enough south of the suspect's address to remain unnoticed.
He removed an L.A. Dodgers cap adjusting the tight fitting wireless radio headset.
Reminding him of the first time his parents forced him to wear a tie.
The right side speaker on the headset was all but useless.
Along with the wireless issued to all field officers as of 11:am this morning was a package of wax ear plugs for the right ear as an added precaution.
He slipped a flat black SWAT issue combat helmet off the passenger seat and strapped it on.
Pressing a tiny button embedded at the base of the stemmed microphone he checked in.
...."83...(officer I.D.#).....10-97... (arrived at scene).....10-4?" (copy)
Dispatch confirmed the officer's I.D. by the last two digits of his badge number.
"83,..10-4."
Officer Hal Pigg..The surname was not the mistaken type 'O' of a less than meticulous fiction writer.
Nor the delusional trappings of a self inflated mistaken sense of humor
conceived in the dark passages of a cynical mind.
Hal Pigg was simply, Hal Pigg..He had been Hal Pigg since the day be was born..
There was nothing to be done..
He had no control over the derivatives of linguistics as they pertain to the English Language.
No say so in the philology of alphabetical concepts that were long ago pieced together forming ideas and values handed down from generation to generation by the ancient tradition of Grandfather to Father,..Father to Son.
He had been Hal Pigg since the pungent mixture of dirt playgrounds, bloody noses, skinned knees, and swollen knuckles became a daily conditioning of his young life.
And he had remained true to his Father and his Father's Father through out the years of puberty and adulthood despite the giggling groups of high school girls and embarrassed college professors caught snickering behind his back.
He turned his attention to the fire hydrant.
Seeing through the drip dried dog piss stains that coated it.
Beneath the human territorial markings expressed through 'gangster red' graffiti lingo.
Hal pulled a little back notebook from the glove box noting the street location of the hydrant.
South Central had been his beat..Back a few years when he had still been a patrol officer.
It had been his commitment for over a year now.
During his time off duty.
Repainting defaced fire hydrants through out his old patrol area.
What he saw behind the ugliness of disrespect.
Below the chipped and tattered fading yellow paint.
Was something worth honoring.
Standing strong and at ready.
Created by man to help make the world a better place.
The mail carrier was infected. Hal punched the transmit button again watching
the habits of the grinner.
As he did another cruiser pulled over shimmering 's like a mirage at the far north end of the street.
It was lieutenant Harrington's unmarked car.
" 83..Advise 10-66 (suspicious person)..One..White..Male..Postal carrier...2229 North Stanley Street..10-4"
Dispatch paused them came back.." 83,..surveillance is in progress, 10-4?"
"10-4."
Headquarters was aware of it..The post office was officially closed.
Surveillance choppers had been especially active overhead in this area.
A prelude to the code 11 (SWAT call up) about to be carried out.
They didn't want to move on Mister short pants and blow the SWAT's cover.
Hal gave lieutenant Harrington time to advise dispatch his position.
Then switch the radio channel to number 2..synchronizing the lieutenant's
radio with his own..
The mail carrier's persevering determination was commendable.
Pulling the correct order of rubber banded materials from his large tan leather pouch.
Sorting and double checking the address numbers posted on the exterior of the homes.
He simply laid the mail on the front lawns of the appropriate residences.
"That's rich"..Hal murmured.."Close buddy but no cigar."
Harrington's voice cracked in Hal's left ear." 83, 74, 87, code 12..(swat in progress)..stand by."
SWAT was positioned somewhere behind the perk's apartment building
on the block directly east of Hal's right side.
Hal, Lieutenant Harrington, and two other officers of L.A.'s Special Operations Bureau were to converge at the front of the complex thwarting any frontal escape route.
Lieutenant Harrington was in command of platoon B. The platoon Hal and officers 74, and 87 were also teamed.
The Special Weapons And Tactics platoon D, currently storming the apartment complex, was commanded by Lieutenant Samatha De La Cruz.
The radio hissed again..
" 74, and 87.. 10-88 (assume post)..83 stand by 10-4?"...
"83,..10-4."
A moment later two silent black and whites sped passed Hal
with Christmas trees blazing..They wedged a Vee at the front of the
apartment building..
"83, 10-88, 10-4?"
"83, 10-4."
Hal hit the overhead light rack and floored it..
Harrington's car duplicated Hal's action..
They slid up taking outside positions of the first cars fatting the Vee formation.
The first two officers had already swung their doors and crouched behind them
leveling their Glock 17 sidearms at the front entry of the complex.
The familiar chop, chop, chop of an approaching police helicopter was faintly heard by Hal and the other officers.
It broke into view seconds later making uninterrupted circles over the area.
Hal saw it propel the sky like stirred soup grabbing his Remington M870 12 gauge shotgun while exiting the cruiser.
Wedging the stock end to the street and the barrel against the arm rest
mounted to the driver door.
He flip the holster strap guard pulling his side arm. Holding the
weapon with both hands he extended his arms between the slopping
window frame and side body of the car.
The risk of contamination brought with it a unique protocol.
Working in a state of deafness Hal and platoon B were not able to
hear what was taking place inside the building as the operation proceeded..
The SWAT team themselves couldn't hear what was going on inside
the building.
Losing the sense of sound put the police at a great disadvantage.
Making the operation considerably more dangerous than it would already
have been with all five senses working in their favor.
Hal kept track of the passage of time by noting the
approximate one minute lap cycle of the blue and white Jet Ranger
police chopper.
It was on it's sixth loop when Hal glimpsed three more police cars
arrive converging on the mail carrier down the block..
The SWAT operation was performed with a minimal of back up..
A indication of just how thin stretched the force had become amid
the pandemonium of the day.
As commander of platoon B, Harrington alone was instructed to flip
his radio receiver to channel 3..The channel the SWAT team was
using to communicate between themselves.
He needed to be kept informed in the event platoon D needed to
pass him quick updated information.
The copper looped around three more times before
Hal's headset buzzed and Harrington's voice punched through.
"83, 74, 87, Code.12...10-26..(clear)...10-4?"
Hal pushed the transmit.."83, 10-4."
There was a short pause..Then the voice returned.
"They found three cold bodies up there."
"Copy that Lieutenant", Hal acknowledged.
"Detective...I am going to need you in with me on this one."
"Yes sir."
"I am putting you on point..Your to report directly to me."
"Yes sir."
Harrington then addressed officers 74 (Larry Carson), and 87 (Gilbert Silversmith) both ranking Police Officers lll.
"Carson, Siversmith, good job guys..I'd like you both to assist across the street
if needed."
Harrington indicated the two officers who now had the mock mail man
spread eagle on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back..
They worked carefully duck taping the man's headphone set like a silver sweat band around his head, securing it.
Harrington continued, "Make sure that music player keeps working. They're manageable as long as that shit keeps pumping through their system."
Officer Silversmith tapped his transmitter..
"I think that's Robertson and Wagner sir..
Out of Hollenbeck Division..Their radio's aren't going to sync up
with Metro's sir.."
Harrington frowned, then nodded in agreement.."Use sign language..Light a
fire and try smoke signals Silversmith..Do what you need to do..It's just one of
those days."
"Yes sir."
Harrington added, "When your finished there, Carson...Silversmith? I want you back over here assisting Detective Pigg..
The Detective will be assuming command of the investigation..
Keep residents clear of apartment 12, and civilians clear out front..Forensics, Coroner's office, meat wagon...Keep everyone out of their face."
Platoon D was beginning to emerge through the front of the apartment building..
Lieutenant De La Cruz appeared like a shadow from the shaded front entry.
Black on black attire..She was deep in conversation with Metropolitan Division
Special Operations Bureau with step by step accounting of the operation and
its conclusions. Her MP5 submachine gun and fixed Surefire Flashlight strapped over her right shoulder..
Harrington held up three fingers and both he and Hal switched radio signals to
channel 3. SWAT officers were taking strategic perimeter points protecting the integrity of the crime scene.
The two men approached Lieutenant De La Cruz at the same time providing
her a respectful distance as she spat codes into her microphone.
Her complexion was that of milk chocolate. Hal had decided she was a
Milky Way bar in disguise..Long wavy raven colored hair was drawn up
in a tight swirl hidden under her combat helmet.
He felt self conscious standing there waiting..Partly because he wanted to
get inside the apartment and begin his investigation, and partly because he
felt uncomfortable by the fact he couldn't take his eyes off her.
He knew her of course and she him professionally.
They both worked in the Metropolitan Division and were both assigned
to the Bureau..
It was not unusual for them both to be in attendance at conferences
and department meetings. Sometimes with her sitting next to him.
He always when away from those meetings feeling the same way.
The way he felt right now.
Finished for the moment with headquarters she turned toward Harrington
and confirmed the channel with three fingers. Harrington nodded and she
switched over..
Harrington pushed his transmitter first. "Lieutenant De La Cruz I believe
you and Detective Pigg know each other, am I right?"
She smiled and touched her transmitter. "Yes, how are you Detective?"
Hal nodded, as Harrington spoke. "Detective Pigg is going to handle the
investigation Lieutenant.."
"Oh yes?" She nodded.
Harrington continued, "I am going to confirm it with the Bureau, but I wanted
to give you a heads up Lieutenant in case you noticed anything while you
were up there..Anything you'd like to pass on."
She nodded.."Well, it's a mess up there Lieutenant Harrington as I am
sure you will agree once you see it."
She paused shaking her head. Then continued speaking directly to Hal.
"I've been around you know? I've seen it all, but this..There are three
dead men up there that look like somebody used them to paint the walls."
Harrington punched in again. "Wow..Just what we need today..Crazy music
and now a mass murder..I am switching over to 1. I've got to touch base..
Lieutenant, good job today."
"You also Lieutenant..I am afraid this day is just beginning however."
Harrington nodded then turned his attention to Hal.
"Go ahead on up Hal..I'll be there in a few minutes."
"Yes sir." Hal returned.
Harrington descended the front entry way and made his way to his car.
Hal turned and watched him out of respect for the man.
The cruisers across the street were just pulling out with the grinning mail man.
Carson and Silversmith were stopping sparse traffic and sternly advising
occupants to go home.
Hal turned back and Lieutenant De La Cruz was looking directly at him.
For a moment he lost himself in her dark eyes.
When he blinked he noticed she held up five fingers..
He started to push his transmitter to tell her he didn't understand.
Before he could she motioned to her radio and then to his.
Slowly as if instructing she advanced her channel selection to 5.
He nodded and did the same.
"Are you ready for this?" she said indicating the apartments.
He nodded then realized the SWAT team wasn't hearing this conversation.
"That was a neat trick."
She smiled and the dark mysterious eyes smiled also.
"I have my moments...Some day huh?"
"Yeah", he said..."This crazy headphone set is making my head itch!"
She laughed, "Your too?..I thought it was only me!"
He wanted to tell her he'd be happy to massage her scalp for her later, but
almost choked on the thought amazed how quickly it popped into his mind.
Instead he said something else that made him red in the face.
Wishing he could suck it back like a breath.
"Your very brave,...Lieutenant."
"Yes I am Detective" She sounded professional..Matter of fact.
But Hal saw something hidden behind the tone of voice.
Something that softened in her eyes and a slight smile that produced a dimple
on the right corner of her mouth.
"Well Detective if your ready I'll show you the apartment."
"I don't want you to have to go back in there."..He felt like a teenager..
She looked at Hal thinking to herself that this man was different.
Despite the heat and horrific conditions of the world around him. Knowing
what lay wating for him in apartment 12. His first concern was for her
safety..
Not just from the possiblilty of a crazed apartment resident suddenly
snapping and lashing out in fear and rage.
Or of a certain suspect that may have evaded the teams inital passing..
A suspect hidden in the shadows with bulging eyes and
breathing fear. Waiting..
But it was more the concern he was showing her for the safety of her mind.
An attempt to spare her another trip into the all too hellish reality of a
human being gone horribly wrong.
"You will be there" she said..."You will be there if I need you."
Chapter 9
San Diego, California
Nick flipped closed the silver face plate of the tiny cell phone.
His emotions were mixed. Grateful he knew Michelle was alright.
Worried about her chances of getting free of the Los Angeles area..
Seventy five miles of bedlam lay between Long Beach and
Riverside.
Once there she could pick up the I-10 east leading her to what he
hoped would be safety.
Her bike worked in her favor. Although the 07' Dyna Glide Custom
didn't have the same advantage of Sportster agility.
The coil over rear suspension beat the hell out of Nicks 02'
Softail Heritage Classic which rolled fat like a buick in comparison.
Adding to the equation the additional power of the 96 cubic inch Evolution Big Twin, Michelle's bike gave her a better than average chance..
Buck had called him from the studio around 10am.Wondering where he was.
He apologized, saying he'd had a rough night..
They all had keys, they could start without him.
While speaking with Buck the residue of the dream still haunted him.
Leaving him shaken and washed out. Nagging. Refusing to leave.
He advised Buck he'd get up there by noon and apologized again.
After hanging up he decided to take some time..
He had showered before Buck's call but also wanted to shave.
The apartment felt quiet and sober..
He decided to turn on the tv set and add some ambient noise..
That was approximately 10:30 am..
Now It was almost noon.
Police and fire engine sirens wailed consistently out side the apartment.
Helicopers thumped overhead accompanied by loud speaker warnings.
"This is the San Diego County Sheriff Department.
Police action in progress...Stay in your homes."
The skyline was muddy and filled with the stench of fire.
Pillars of thick black smoke appeared in every direction Nick could see from
the balcony of the apartment.
Standing in the center of the apartment..Dressed, helmet in hand, ready to roll.
Checking the tv for any last minute updates..Shrewish thoughts surfaced.
What other choices did Michelle have?..L.A.X and a flight out? Not possible.
The FAA had already temporarily grounded flights in and out of the entire Southern California region.
Even if they hadn't. How safe could she possibily be mixed within the masses
of a busy airport?
Stay home?
The official request of the Los Angeles police Department was exactly
that.
"If your at work stay at work. If your at home stay at home."
Had his own advice added a fuel of panic tipping Michelle's decision to flee the
area? Had his concern for her safety inadvertently put her in more jeopardy?
His own decision to leave the San Diego area was based on the logic that
in any given population the ratio of police officer to citizen was approximately
1 in 300...
Under normal conditions that ratio was sufficient to maintain society's expectation of law and order.
What Nick saw taking place here in San Diego. A hundred and fifty miles from
the center of Los Angeles. Was a huge shift against authority's response time
if an individual was in peril.
How much greater the lag in response time would Michelle suffer at her Long Beach location less than fifty miles from the epicenter?
Nick's decision to advise Michelle as he had done was based on gut feeling and the little known facts he had available to him at the time.
In his heart and mind he firmly believed there was no safety for her to be found in the L.A. region.
But what if he was wrong?
After speaking with Michelle he had called the studio back.
He spoke with Toby, then Mac, and Buck..
Passing them the information he'd learned from the news casts.
The general consensus was the three men would stay hold up
there at the studio..
It seemed the safest alternative apposed to venturing back
into San Diego..Nick agreed..
He saved mentioning Michelle and his plans to meet her
until he spoke with Buck..
He knew the idea was risky, and his life was in danger.
He knew the boys would try to talk him down.
Advise him to join them and wait things out.
Buck didn't try. He asked if Nick was bringing her back
with him to the studio.
Nick had no answers. His only concern was she get out
of the L.A. region..After that she would be deciding her own
course of action..
Once he was certain the men understood the danger
of listening to any music at this time he hung up..
He placed little foam ear plugs in both ears..
They were lying around the apartment and at the studio.
Used as a tool when recording vocals..
It was necessary to plug one ear when singing into pre recorded
playback.. A means to hear both the music and the vocalists
pitch at the same time.
He strapped on the helmet then opened the front door
scanning the immediate area..
It looked clear.
He locked the apartment and sprinted to the Softail.
Firing it up and rolling out cold.
Ashlee's death had been an accident..
They had been in love and she was ripped from him in a moment.
Suddenly. No early warning. Gone.
She simply was in the act of driving a car..
Her make up bag had slipped off the the passenger seat..
Lying on the floor board.
It would only take a second..to retrieve it..
And she wanted to look nice for Nick when she met him.
Unbuckling the seat belt. Steering with her left.
Reaching with her right and down...
Pulling her head an instant below the dashboard.
When she looked up, clutching the make up bag, her
life was over.
Two years and one month had passed. Seven hundred and sixty days..
Until last night, when he first lay eyes on Michelle,
Nick had felt exactly the same as day one.
Los Angeles, California
1:pm
The sky rained black ash. The atmosphere thick and settling like hot fog.
Close and stifling as oil fires and smog collaborated changing oxygen to
oxalic acid.
North Stanley Street in South Central Los Angeles looked much as it did on any given day.
Tan colored mock adobe homes with black rusting security bars.
Traditional wood sided structures, asphalt rolled or shingle roofed.
Intermixed with twelve unit apartments stuccoed in steel blue.
Laundry hung on back yard clothes lines, or drying over balcony
balustrades of rod iron fencing.
Scorched brown Bermuda braced another day of drought.
The littered curbs and vacant lots played host to blowing debris in the mild Santa Anna wind.
As if a overloaded sanitation truck had barreled past throwing it's candy in a parade.
A mail man appeared out of the haze making his way down the block.
Clad in blue short sleeves and shorts. The kind with wide pinstripes on the sides.
Detective Hal Pigg rolled to a stop finding an open spot against a low curb of faded red paint..
A yellow fire hydrant mounted to the weed infested sidewalk framed itself in the
cruiser's passenger side window..
The location was acceptable.
Far enough south of the suspect's address to remain unnoticed.
He removed an L.A. Dodgers cap adjusting the tight fitting wireless radio headset.
Reminding him of the first time his parents forced him to wear a tie.
The right side speaker on the headset was all but useless.
Along with the wireless issued to all field officers as of 11:am this morning was a package of wax ear plugs for the right ear as an added precaution.
He slipped a flat black SWAT issue combat helmet off the passenger seat and strapped it on.
Pressing a tiny button embedded at the base of the stemmed microphone he checked in.
...."83...(officer I.D.#).....10-97... (arrived at scene).....10-4?" (copy)
Dispatch confirmed the officer's I.D. by the last two digits of his badge number.
"83,..10-4."
Officer Hal Pigg..The surname was not the mistaken type 'O' of a less than meticulous fiction writer.
Nor the delusional trappings of a self inflated mistaken sense of humor
conceived in the dark passages of a cynical mind.
Hal Pigg was simply, Hal Pigg..He had been Hal Pigg since the day be was born..
There was nothing to be done..
He had no control over the derivatives of linguistics as they pertain to the English Language.
No say so in the philology of alphabetical concepts that were long ago pieced together forming ideas and values handed down from generation to generation by the ancient tradition of Grandfather to Father,..Father to Son.
He had been Hal Pigg since the pungent mixture of dirt playgrounds, bloody noses, skinned knees, and swollen knuckles became a daily conditioning of his young life.
And he had remained true to his Father and his Father's Father through out the years of puberty and adulthood despite the giggling groups of high school girls and embarrassed college professors caught snickering behind his back.
He turned his attention to the fire hydrant.
Seeing through the drip dried dog piss stains that coated it.
Beneath the human territorial markings expressed through 'gangster red' graffiti lingo.
Hal pulled a little back notebook from the glove box noting the street location of the hydrant.
South Central had been his beat..Back a few years when he had still been a patrol officer.
It had been his commitment for over a year now.
During his time off duty.
Repainting defaced fire hydrants through out his old patrol area.
What he saw behind the ugliness of disrespect.
Below the chipped and tattered fading yellow paint.
Was something worth honoring.
Standing strong and at ready.
Created by man to help make the world a better place.
The mail carrier was infected. Hal punched the transmit button again watching
the habits of the grinner.
As he did another cruiser pulled over shimmering 's like a mirage at the far north end of the street.
It was lieutenant Harrington's unmarked car.
" 83..Advise 10-66 (suspicious person)..One..White..Male..Postal carrier...2229 North Stanley Street..10-4"
Dispatch paused them came back.." 83,..surveillance is in progress, 10-4?"
"10-4."
Headquarters was aware of it..The post office was officially closed.
Surveillance choppers had been especially active overhead in this area.
A prelude to the code 11 (SWAT call up) about to be carried out.
They didn't want to move on Mister short pants and blow the SWAT's cover.
Hal gave lieutenant Harrington time to advise dispatch his position.
Then switch the radio channel to number 2..synchronizing the lieutenant's
radio with his own..
The mail carrier's persevering determination was commendable.
Pulling the correct order of rubber banded materials from his large tan leather pouch.
Sorting and double checking the address numbers posted on the exterior of the homes.
He simply laid the mail on the front lawns of the appropriate residences.
"That's rich"..Hal murmured.."Close buddy but no cigar."
Harrington's voice cracked in Hal's left ear." 83, 74, 87, code 12..(swat in progress)..stand by."
SWAT was positioned somewhere behind the perk's apartment building
on the block directly east of Hal's right side.
Hal, Lieutenant Harrington, and two other officers of L.A.'s Special Operations Bureau were to converge at the front of the complex thwarting any frontal escape route.
Lieutenant Harrington was in command of platoon B. The platoon Hal and officers 74, and 87 were also teamed.
The Special Weapons And Tactics platoon D, currently storming the apartment complex, was commanded by Lieutenant Samatha De La Cruz.
The radio hissed again..
" 74, and 87.. 10-88 (assume post)..83 stand by 10-4?"...
"83,..10-4."
A moment later two silent black and whites sped passed Hal
with Christmas trees blazing..They wedged a Vee at the front of the
apartment building..
"83, 10-88, 10-4?"
"83, 10-4."
Hal hit the overhead light rack and floored it..
Harrington's car duplicated Hal's action..
They slid up taking outside positions of the first cars fatting the Vee formation.
The first two officers had already swung their doors and crouched behind them
leveling their Glock 17 sidearms at the front entry of the complex.
The familiar chop, chop, chop of an approaching police helicopter was faintly heard by Hal and the other officers.
It broke into view seconds later making uninterrupted circles over the area.
Hal saw it propel the sky like stirred soup grabbing his Remington M870 12 gauge shotgun while exiting the cruiser.
Wedging the stock end to the street and the barrel against the arm rest
mounted to the driver door.
He flip the holster strap guard pulling his side arm. Holding the
weapon with both hands he extended his arms between the slopping
window frame and side body of the car.
The risk of contamination brought with it a unique protocol.
Working in a state of deafness Hal and platoon B were not able to
hear what was taking place inside the building as the operation proceeded..
The SWAT team themselves couldn't hear what was going on inside
the building.
Losing the sense of sound put the police at a great disadvantage.
Making the operation considerably more dangerous than it would already
have been with all five senses working in their favor.
Hal kept track of the passage of time by noting the
approximate one minute lap cycle of the blue and white Jet Ranger
police chopper.
It was on it's sixth loop when Hal glimpsed three more police cars
arrive converging on the mail carrier down the block..
The SWAT operation was performed with a minimal of back up..
A indication of just how thin stretched the force had become amid
the pandemonium of the day.
As commander of platoon B, Harrington alone was instructed to flip
his radio receiver to channel 3..The channel the SWAT team was
using to communicate between themselves.
He needed to be kept informed in the event platoon D needed to
pass him quick updated information.
The copper looped around three more times before
Hal's headset buzzed and Harrington's voice punched through.
"83, 74, 87, Code.12...10-26..(clear)...10-4?"
Hal pushed the transmit.."83, 10-4."
There was a short pause..Then the voice returned.
"They found three cold bodies up there."
"Copy that Lieutenant", Hal acknowledged.
"Detective...I am going to need you in with me on this one."
"Yes sir."
"I am putting you on point..Your to report directly to me."
"Yes sir."
Harrington then addressed officers 74 (Larry Carson), and 87 (Gilbert Silversmith) both ranking Police Officers lll.
"Carson, Siversmith, good job guys..I'd like you both to assist across the street
if needed."
Harrington indicated the two officers who now had the mock mail man
spread eagle on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back..
They worked carefully duck taping the man's headphone set like a silver sweat band around his head, securing it.
Harrington continued, "Make sure that music player keeps working. They're manageable as long as that shit keeps pumping through their system."
Officer Silversmith tapped his transmitter..
"I think that's Robertson and Wagner sir..
Out of Hollenbeck Division..Their radio's aren't going to sync up
with Metro's sir.."
Harrington frowned, then nodded in agreement.."Use sign language..Light a
fire and try smoke signals Silversmith..Do what you need to do..It's just one of
those days."
"Yes sir."
Harrington added, "When your finished there, Carson...Silversmith? I want you back over here assisting Detective Pigg..
The Detective will be assuming command of the investigation..
Keep residents clear of apartment 12, and civilians clear out front..Forensics, Coroner's office, meat wagon...Keep everyone out of their face."
Platoon D was beginning to emerge through the front of the apartment building..
Lieutenant De La Cruz appeared like a shadow from the shaded front entry.
Black on black attire..She was deep in conversation with Metropolitan Division
Special Operations Bureau with step by step accounting of the operation and
its conclusions. Her MP5 submachine gun and fixed Surefire Flashlight strapped over her right shoulder..
Harrington held up three fingers and both he and Hal switched radio signals to
channel 3. SWAT officers were taking strategic perimeter points protecting the integrity of the crime scene.
The two men approached Lieutenant De La Cruz at the same time providing
her a respectful distance as she spat codes into her microphone.
Her complexion was that of milk chocolate. Hal had decided she was a
Milky Way bar in disguise..Long wavy raven colored hair was drawn up
in a tight swirl hidden under her combat helmet.
He felt self conscious standing there waiting..Partly because he wanted to
get inside the apartment and begin his investigation, and partly because he
felt uncomfortable by the fact he couldn't take his eyes off her.
He knew her of course and she him professionally.
They both worked in the Metropolitan Division and were both assigned
to the Bureau..
It was not unusual for them both to be in attendance at conferences
and department meetings. Sometimes with her sitting next to him.
He always when away from those meetings feeling the same way.
The way he felt right now.
Finished for the moment with headquarters she turned toward Harrington
and confirmed the channel with three fingers. Harrington nodded and she
switched over..
Harrington pushed his transmitter first. "Lieutenant De La Cruz I believe
you and Detective Pigg know each other, am I right?"
She smiled and touched her transmitter. "Yes, how are you Detective?"
Hal nodded, as Harrington spoke. "Detective Pigg is going to handle the
investigation Lieutenant.."
"Oh yes?" She nodded.
Harrington continued, "I am going to confirm it with the Bureau, but I wanted
to give you a heads up Lieutenant in case you noticed anything while you
were up there..Anything you'd like to pass on."
She nodded.."Well, it's a mess up there Lieutenant Harrington as I am
sure you will agree once you see it."
She paused shaking her head. Then continued speaking directly to Hal.
"I've been around you know? I've seen it all, but this..There are three
dead men up there that look like somebody used them to paint the walls."
Harrington punched in again. "Wow..Just what we need today..Crazy music
and now a mass murder..I am switching over to 1. I've got to touch base..
Lieutenant, good job today."
"You also Lieutenant..I am afraid this day is just beginning however."
Harrington nodded then turned his attention to Hal.
"Go ahead on up Hal..I'll be there in a few minutes."
"Yes sir." Hal returned.
Harrington descended the front entry way and made his way to his car.
Hal turned and watched him out of respect for the man.
The cruisers across the street were just pulling out with the grinning mail man.
Carson and Silversmith were stopping sparse traffic and sternly advising
occupants to go home.
Hal turned back and Lieutenant De La Cruz was looking directly at him.
For a moment he lost himself in her dark eyes.
When he blinked he noticed she held up five fingers..
He started to push his transmitter to tell her he didn't understand.
Before he could she motioned to her radio and then to his.
Slowly as if instructing she advanced her channel selection to 5.
He nodded and did the same.
"Are you ready for this?" she said indicating the apartments.
He nodded then realized the SWAT team wasn't hearing this conversation.
"That was a neat trick."
She smiled and the dark mysterious eyes smiled also.
"I have my moments...Some day huh?"
"Yeah", he said..."This crazy headphone set is making my head itch!"
She laughed, "Your too?..I thought it was only me!"
He wanted to tell her he'd be happy to massage her scalp for her later, but
almost choked on the thought amazed how quickly it popped into his mind.
Instead he said something else that made him red in the face.
Wishing he could suck it back like a breath.
"Your very brave,...Lieutenant."
"Yes I am Detective" She sounded professional..Matter of fact.
But Hal saw something hidden behind the tone of voice.
Something that softened in her eyes and a slight smile that produced a dimple
on the right corner of her mouth.
"Well Detective if your ready I'll show you the apartment."
"I don't want you to have to go back in there."..He felt like a teenager..
She looked at Hal thinking to herself that this man was different.
Despite the heat and horrific conditions of the world around him. Knowing
what lay wating for him in apartment 12. His first concern was for her
safety..
Not just from the possiblilty of a crazed apartment resident suddenly
snapping and lashing out in fear and rage.
Or of a certain suspect that may have evaded the teams inital passing..
A suspect hidden in the shadows with bulging eyes and
breathing fear. Waiting..
But it was more the concern he was showing her for the safety of her mind.
An attempt to spare her another trip into the all too hellish reality of a
human being gone horribly wrong.
"You will be there" she said..."You will be there if I need you."
Saturday, November 8, 2008
SALVATION chapter 8
Salvation
chapter 8
Atlanta, Georgia
Sal Fox crouched against the wall just outside the door of Julie Westgrove's office.
Clutching the pink waste basket like a security blanket.
The unusual silence that had raised his curiosity earlier was now replaced.
A constant buzzing of office phones ringing unanswered.
The hall on the 23rd floor remained empty..
He had persisted leaning against the hallway for some time.
Holding back for the nausea to subside, and his strength to return..
The ceiling shook twice while he waited..The result of something
heavy finding the carpet on the floor immediately above him.
There were muffled cries and screams. Sal couldn't pin point their exact location..
He checked his watch the time was 2:55 pm.
Fourteen minutes had passed since he first entered Julie Westgrove's office..
Fourteen minutes and what felt like fifteen years.
He needed to stand up. Fight off the sickness and wobble in his legs.
He sensed that what had occurred in the office behind him had duplicated
in offices through out the 23rd floor..
Everyone except himself had been audio-intimate with the new single
"King of the World."
Something unthinkable had gone wrong in the minds of those who'd listened to it..
"What have we done?"..
His eyes burned with the sweat of tears.
His mind bearing witness the events leading up to this moment..
The skyrocketing internet sales.."How many are infected now?"..
The scheduled radio broadcast release of the single in Los Angeles through a popular AM rock station.
Corporate owned and operated by Universal Music..
"That was 10 am Los Angeles time"...
Quickly computing the 3 hours time difference it would be almost Noon in Los Angeles now..
He set the waste pale on the carpet between his feet..
Forcing his palms against the wall he slid up using the strength in his
arms and legs..
"There still might be time."..If he could get to his office and call the radio station.
Often the scheduled time of air play was postponed due to complications..
It could be any little glitch causing a scheduled format to change..
A technical problem with equipment..
A hung over radio producer simply behind in their work load for that day.
Or a missed cue..
An unnoticed new slot to be filled in the song rotation..
His head swung suddenly left..
An office door opened down the hall five doors from his own on the opposite side of the hallway.
Sal shook and sucked down a deep breath.
For a moment, nothing.
Then slowly, meticulously a man emerged walking backwards into the hall.
Stereo headphones framed the man's pale balding skull.
A quarter harvest moon of fuzzy beard circled the lower jaw line.
Sal recognized the man immediately.
It was Carl Medford..
A senior account representative who'd been passed over for promotion.
Carl was of the opinion Sal now occupied his chair and his rightly deserved office space.
The grudge was fresh. Sitting on his shoulder spitting venom since Carl arrived at work today learning of the news.
Sal watched as Carl methodically unrolled a 25 foot wire extension cable plugged into the headset's 3 foot original equipment.
Robotically dropping the cable a foot at a time increasing his distance from the office he appeared from.
Carl's intended destination lay directly across the hall.
A large brown door with a big blue plastic 'men's room' identifier bolted to the face.
His expression was one of self accomplishment.
Like the triumph of a disability overcome.
He had ingeniously devised a method to an end.
Resolving a desire in meeting a dual purpose.
He needed to take a shit. And needed to hear 'King of the world' while doing it..
It wasn't that listening to 'King of the World' made Carl a happier fella.
He simply could not live without it.
The throbbing bass lines and back beat of percussion did not fill his blood
with a rhythmic sense of celebration.
A closer definition might in fact be the combination of music and lyrics
pounding through his eardrums was in the process of...subtraction.
Sucking, and feeding..
Taking what had been the totality of Carl Medford at the beginning of the day, and drinking it down into a void.
A void of blackness that's sole purpose was an attempt to fill a space
that could not be filled.
A boundless, fathomless space that held no properties established within a world of matter.
Even the cold dark forbidding aspects of the universe know as 'black holes' were
somehow tame in comparison.
For they at least were explainable..Knowable.
Kin to the fabric of a logical place and time.
Gravity existed there.
Sal stood perfectly still.
Willing his body to meld with the hallway.
Hoping to escape unnoticed by way of Carl's engrossment of deliberateness.
No such luck..
As Carl turned to confirm his distance from the men's room doorway
his eyes spat a silver flash taking in Sal pinned against the wall.
He wore the same identical grin Sal had seen on Shari Galloway's face.
"Maybe they should date," his mind interjected in an effort to maintain a footing in sanity.
And in that moment his mind followed with a reflection of a semblance..
It suddenly occurred to Sal what the grinning jowls and vacant eyes of both Shari and Carl had in common..
They were the faces of starving wolves.
For a moment that seemed an hour, the two men stared.
Then slowly, seductively, Carl's grin widened..
Sal could not ascertain recognition in those eyes.
He was absolutely certain Carl had no idea who Sal was.
He was also absolutely certain Carl didn't care.
The loping grin froze.
A single index finger protruded from Carl's right fist.
A fist that slowly rose..
The finger kissed his lips then descended pointing directly at the cable snaked before him on the floor.
Carl's head began to swing side to side as did the index finger keeping time.
Sal got the message loud and clear.
It made him recall his 3rd grade elementary school teacher.
Miss Eagelman..An elderly spinster..
Scrawny and lanky with short blue hair cut like a man's.
Ichabod Crane in drag..
Her adam's apple curtsied when she spoke and the skin around her neck reminded Sal of a turkey.
"Do not touch!"...Her long index finger wagged like a dog inches from his face, attached to a fist of lumpy red rolling knuckles.
Sal didn't realize until Carl had finished his Miss Eagelman impersonation that
his own head was mimicking Carl's robotic side to side motion..
Seeming satisfied, Carl returned his attention to the cable.
Resuming his backward trek pushing through the restroom door.
Sal inched along the wall closing the gap between himself and the door to his office.
Slipping inside he closed the door quietly behind him.
Damning the office door for no locking device, he slid the computer chair under the door nob jamming it like he'd seen done in the movies.
The closed quarters helped muffle the constant ringing of phones in neighboring offices.
Squatting at the desk he moved the computer mouse disabling the screen saver.
Sales for 'King of the World' had continued to climb to over 700,000.
But now the screen seemed frozen..No new numbers were being posted.
Sal clicked the browser refresh thinking it to be the problem.
Instead of the page returning, a new page flashed up on the monitor.
'Error 504..Gateway Timeout'...Please contact the administrator..
It seemed the site was currently offline.
He picked up the desk phone and punched through five lit lines routed to his office.
There was no one holding on any of them.
He speed dialed the Los Angeles radio station in hopes of cancelling the release
of 'King of the World'.
The number wasn't busy..
Like the office phones here at Universal the line rang, and rang.
He hung up and picked up again.
This time he dialed 911.
San Diego, California
Ed Hoffman had an advantage.
The 19 inch Zenith portable color television perched a top
two metal gray filing cabinets probably saved his life.
It was his custom to flick it on daily catching the mid morning news.
The Zenith was a trooper..It hadn't failed him in over twelve years.
Sal Fox hadn't mentioned the MENACE single promotion kicking off in Los Angeles.
Ed had to hear it for himself via a special news report breaking just as Fanny Sutherland of Omaha was preparing to spin the wheel on 'Price Is Right'.
The first initial report came over about 10:40 am.
Preliminary reports were sketchy and emotional.
It wasn't until almost 11:45 am..After a series of live updates..
The determining cause of the chaos linked to a kind of hypnosis..
An embedded subconscious suggestion contained in the
music of a band called MENACE.
It took another five minutes or so to dawn on Ed his secretary didn't have the same advantage.
By that time it was almost noon.
Lunch time..
Margie wasn't hungry though.
She'd been listening to 'King of the World' for over an hour.
chapter 8
Atlanta, Georgia
Sal Fox crouched against the wall just outside the door of Julie Westgrove's office.
Clutching the pink waste basket like a security blanket.
The unusual silence that had raised his curiosity earlier was now replaced.
A constant buzzing of office phones ringing unanswered.
The hall on the 23rd floor remained empty..
He had persisted leaning against the hallway for some time.
Holding back for the nausea to subside, and his strength to return..
The ceiling shook twice while he waited..The result of something
heavy finding the carpet on the floor immediately above him.
There were muffled cries and screams. Sal couldn't pin point their exact location..
He checked his watch the time was 2:55 pm.
Fourteen minutes had passed since he first entered Julie Westgrove's office..
Fourteen minutes and what felt like fifteen years.
He needed to stand up. Fight off the sickness and wobble in his legs.
He sensed that what had occurred in the office behind him had duplicated
in offices through out the 23rd floor..
Everyone except himself had been audio-intimate with the new single
"King of the World."
Something unthinkable had gone wrong in the minds of those who'd listened to it..
"What have we done?"..
His eyes burned with the sweat of tears.
His mind bearing witness the events leading up to this moment..
The skyrocketing internet sales.."How many are infected now?"..
The scheduled radio broadcast release of the single in Los Angeles through a popular AM rock station.
Corporate owned and operated by Universal Music..
"That was 10 am Los Angeles time"...
Quickly computing the 3 hours time difference it would be almost Noon in Los Angeles now..
He set the waste pale on the carpet between his feet..
Forcing his palms against the wall he slid up using the strength in his
arms and legs..
"There still might be time."..If he could get to his office and call the radio station.
Often the scheduled time of air play was postponed due to complications..
It could be any little glitch causing a scheduled format to change..
A technical problem with equipment..
A hung over radio producer simply behind in their work load for that day.
Or a missed cue..
An unnoticed new slot to be filled in the song rotation..
His head swung suddenly left..
An office door opened down the hall five doors from his own on the opposite side of the hallway.
Sal shook and sucked down a deep breath.
For a moment, nothing.
Then slowly, meticulously a man emerged walking backwards into the hall.
Stereo headphones framed the man's pale balding skull.
A quarter harvest moon of fuzzy beard circled the lower jaw line.
Sal recognized the man immediately.
It was Carl Medford..
A senior account representative who'd been passed over for promotion.
Carl was of the opinion Sal now occupied his chair and his rightly deserved office space.
The grudge was fresh. Sitting on his shoulder spitting venom since Carl arrived at work today learning of the news.
Sal watched as Carl methodically unrolled a 25 foot wire extension cable plugged into the headset's 3 foot original equipment.
Robotically dropping the cable a foot at a time increasing his distance from the office he appeared from.
Carl's intended destination lay directly across the hall.
A large brown door with a big blue plastic 'men's room' identifier bolted to the face.
His expression was one of self accomplishment.
Like the triumph of a disability overcome.
He had ingeniously devised a method to an end.
Resolving a desire in meeting a dual purpose.
He needed to take a shit. And needed to hear 'King of the world' while doing it..
It wasn't that listening to 'King of the World' made Carl a happier fella.
He simply could not live without it.
The throbbing bass lines and back beat of percussion did not fill his blood
with a rhythmic sense of celebration.
A closer definition might in fact be the combination of music and lyrics
pounding through his eardrums was in the process of...subtraction.
Sucking, and feeding..
Taking what had been the totality of Carl Medford at the beginning of the day, and drinking it down into a void.
A void of blackness that's sole purpose was an attempt to fill a space
that could not be filled.
A boundless, fathomless space that held no properties established within a world of matter.
Even the cold dark forbidding aspects of the universe know as 'black holes' were
somehow tame in comparison.
For they at least were explainable..Knowable.
Kin to the fabric of a logical place and time.
Gravity existed there.
Sal stood perfectly still.
Willing his body to meld with the hallway.
Hoping to escape unnoticed by way of Carl's engrossment of deliberateness.
No such luck..
As Carl turned to confirm his distance from the men's room doorway
his eyes spat a silver flash taking in Sal pinned against the wall.
He wore the same identical grin Sal had seen on Shari Galloway's face.
"Maybe they should date," his mind interjected in an effort to maintain a footing in sanity.
And in that moment his mind followed with a reflection of a semblance..
It suddenly occurred to Sal what the grinning jowls and vacant eyes of both Shari and Carl had in common..
They were the faces of starving wolves.
For a moment that seemed an hour, the two men stared.
Then slowly, seductively, Carl's grin widened..
Sal could not ascertain recognition in those eyes.
He was absolutely certain Carl had no idea who Sal was.
He was also absolutely certain Carl didn't care.
The loping grin froze.
A single index finger protruded from Carl's right fist.
A fist that slowly rose..
The finger kissed his lips then descended pointing directly at the cable snaked before him on the floor.
Carl's head began to swing side to side as did the index finger keeping time.
Sal got the message loud and clear.
It made him recall his 3rd grade elementary school teacher.
Miss Eagelman..An elderly spinster..
Scrawny and lanky with short blue hair cut like a man's.
Ichabod Crane in drag..
Her adam's apple curtsied when she spoke and the skin around her neck reminded Sal of a turkey.
"Do not touch!"...Her long index finger wagged like a dog inches from his face, attached to a fist of lumpy red rolling knuckles.
Sal didn't realize until Carl had finished his Miss Eagelman impersonation that
his own head was mimicking Carl's robotic side to side motion..
Seeming satisfied, Carl returned his attention to the cable.
Resuming his backward trek pushing through the restroom door.
Sal inched along the wall closing the gap between himself and the door to his office.
Slipping inside he closed the door quietly behind him.
Damning the office door for no locking device, he slid the computer chair under the door nob jamming it like he'd seen done in the movies.
The closed quarters helped muffle the constant ringing of phones in neighboring offices.
Squatting at the desk he moved the computer mouse disabling the screen saver.
Sales for 'King of the World' had continued to climb to over 700,000.
But now the screen seemed frozen..No new numbers were being posted.
Sal clicked the browser refresh thinking it to be the problem.
Instead of the page returning, a new page flashed up on the monitor.
'Error 504..Gateway Timeout'...Please contact the administrator..
It seemed the site was currently offline.
He picked up the desk phone and punched through five lit lines routed to his office.
There was no one holding on any of them.
He speed dialed the Los Angeles radio station in hopes of cancelling the release
of 'King of the World'.
The number wasn't busy..
Like the office phones here at Universal the line rang, and rang.
He hung up and picked up again.
This time he dialed 911.
San Diego, California
Ed Hoffman had an advantage.
The 19 inch Zenith portable color television perched a top
two metal gray filing cabinets probably saved his life.
It was his custom to flick it on daily catching the mid morning news.
The Zenith was a trooper..It hadn't failed him in over twelve years.
Sal Fox hadn't mentioned the MENACE single promotion kicking off in Los Angeles.
Ed had to hear it for himself via a special news report breaking just as Fanny Sutherland of Omaha was preparing to spin the wheel on 'Price Is Right'.
The first initial report came over about 10:40 am.
Preliminary reports were sketchy and emotional.
It wasn't until almost 11:45 am..After a series of live updates..
The determining cause of the chaos linked to a kind of hypnosis..
An embedded subconscious suggestion contained in the
music of a band called MENACE.
It took another five minutes or so to dawn on Ed his secretary didn't have the same advantage.
By that time it was almost noon.
Lunch time..
Margie wasn't hungry though.
She'd been listening to 'King of the World' for over an hour.
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