Monday, January 16, 2017

A Race Against Time

Troy trudged down 42nd Street, shoulders hunched, eyes toward the ground, like a hunchback, each pace having a purpose. The army had repelled the latest--and hopefully last-- of the terrorists after decades of battles; but his city, New York City, had finally succumbed. Many buildings lay in ruin. Others stood damaged, but still proud and defiant. Electricity was non-existent, and gasoline was scarce. He no longer wore his captain’s uniform. He’d left the cleanup to his men. Instead, he had on tattered jeans, a green flannel shirt, and a faded trench coat. Only his military boots remained from the past six months of his fourth tour of fighting. He adjusted the bill of his cap, moving it lower to hide his identity. Being noticed by an old classmate or neighbor might ruin everything.

He weaved a slalom course through barrels and garbage cans burning books, librettos, costumes and anything else combustible--anything that provided heat. There were no neon lights, no traffic signals, no brightly lit store windows displaying the latest fashions. Actors in costume and musicians, some also in costumes, performed songs from their respective shows, while bystanders watched and tiredly applauded. Cats and lions and princesses sang and danced as if nothing had changed, denying the reality of their situation. Troy continued his trek, sometimes walking among the performers, refusing to join in when prodded. He needed to get to Gwen before it was too late.

He turned right onto 7th Avenue and stopped when he saw the looters. He reached inside his coat for the revolver holstered on his left hip. He started to pull out the weapon but stopped. There were too many of them, and Gwen and her unborn child were more important than a few broken windows and stolen goods.

Troy continued to the next block and the next until he found an empty street. He increased his pace and focused on his task, hoping he’d make it on time. He turned down an alley, only paying attention to the other end, when he felt the arm around his neck. A second attacker appeared from behind a dumpster, a carving knife in his left hand.

Troy stomped on the foot of the man holding him. The arm’s grip loosened and Troy flipped his assailant into the man with the knife. The two men lay on the ground as Troy raced to the end of the alley and around the corner without looking back.

“Halt,” a voice said from behind. “Police. You are in a restricted area after curfew.”

Troy kept going until he heard the explosive gunfire. He lurched to the left. The gas pellet hit his right shoulder, ripping through the flesh and detonating a few feet away. Troy’s body pirouetted. He fell to one knee and scrambled behind a burnt out car.

“I know you’re wounded. Come out now and you live.”

Troy moved his hand along the dark pavement meagerly lit by a half moon. His fingers wrapped around a plastic bottle. He threw it in the direction he’d come from. He heard the cop's gun discharge. He raced into the street and delivered a kidney punch that dropped the policeman to his knees. Troy looked closely at the uniform and knew the man was a fake--an actor playing a role. The gun lay on the ground. Troy kicked it into the sewer, he didn’t want anyone else finding it, and continued his journey.

At the next intersection, he saw an ambulance stop in the distance at the clinic where Gwen awaited. He increased his pace to a run, all the time holding his injured shoulder, and covered the remaining six blocks quicker than a normal human should have.

He raced into the building and stopped at the front desk. “I’m Troy. Where’s Gwen?”

“I’m afraid it may be too late, Mr. Troy.”


Troy raced through the double doors into the treatment area. He stopped a nurse, nearly knocking a tray of blood samples from her hands. “I’m Troy. I’m here to help Gwen.”

“Room 3A. But. . .”

Troy entered the room. Gwen lay on a bed, her face ashen, her breathing barely noticeable. A female doctor looked up as he entered.

“Hurry,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”

Troy lay on a second bed, the life saving blood transfusion moving directly from his arm to Gwen’s. He watched his sister’s face and prayed for a miracle. Doctors and nurses circled Gwen blocking Troy’s view of what was happening. He was tired and began to fall asleep when he heard the baby’s cry.

For the first time in days, Troy allowed his body to relax, the baby’s sounds a lullaby to his spent psyche.

“Mother and baby are doing fine,” the doctor said. “Would you like to hold your nephew, Mr. Troy?.”

“It’s Troy. Just Troy. And, yes, I’d love to hold my nephew.

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