A sudden explosion ripped off several metal locker doors. Spears of green
shrapnel, hurled twenty feet away, injured a dozen people. A small boy fell tothe floor as his
splattering blood painted a macabre fresco of red on the
wall.
“Security,
code-four! Security, code-four!” shouted a voice over the Everman Airport
loudspeaker.
A
squad of guards appeared from nowhere.
“Everyone stay calm!” bellowed the security force in
unison.
The
directive had little effect. People
continued running in all directions, not knowing why or where they were
going. A news commentator had
recently
described the year as “the best of times-the worst of times.” Could Charles Darnay’s “worst of times”
be worse than this? No. This was
the worst of the worst
of times.
“Everything is under control.
You are safe now,” the guards repeated over and over, as they moved among
the crowd.
One by one, people stopped running.
Some fell exhausted into nearby chairs, others slumped against the walls,
and one man simply dropped to the ground
as though finishing a marathon.
Two nurses came
forward and began assessing the condition of the injured, and mentally separated
them into three groups: slightly, seriously, or fatally wounded. First aid kits were retrieved from every
corner of the terminal, and immediately the nurses began cleaning and bandaging
the wounds. Human flesh was so
fragile. The same flesh that built towering cupolas, exploratory space crafts,
and even bombs, that same flesh damaged easily, sometimes beyond repair. It seemed this was the case for a
five-year old boy who lay motionless on the floor. The thing about the “worst of times” was
that it even applied to little boys.
Someone placed a blanket over the boy to prevent shock, and he lay
beneath it breathing small, quivering moth breaths. Then suddenly his body shuddered and
gave out a last, almost sorrowful sigh, as though in despair of never being able
to build any of those cupolas or space crafts. The boy’s mother, who was
kneeling over him, saw this and began screaming hysterically. “Oh my God! My baby is dead! My baby is dead!”
The nurses did
not stop. They had already
classified the boy as fatally wounded and were too busy with those they could
help.
The mother
continued screaming for several minutes before anyone paid attention. Finally, a
middle-aged man walked over.
“You may not
believe this now lady, but you’re lucky. He was hurt real bad. I could see that right off.” The man gestured to the small, lifeless
child cradled in the woman’s arms. “Same thing happened to my niece, about three
months ago. Only it was a car
bomb. The poor little kid, she
never did nothing to nobody. She was
just minding her business, walking home from school. Wrong place at the wrong time, that’s
all. She was hurt real bad
too. Trouble is she didn’t
die. She’s just a vegetable
now. Poor little kid.”
The
mother’s tear stained face looked up at the man. Her expression told him she had not
understood a word he said.
“My baby...my baby....”
“Yeah. Poor little kid. I’m sorry...real sorry,” the man said,
and walked away.