《Dream Bound Manifest》 Chapter 1: Thirty-Six Seconds Chapter 1: Thirty-Six Seconds Assuming the statistics were correct, then every thirty-six seconds, someone in the United States died of a heart attack. This meant that, in merely the time needed to pause Netflix for a quick break to piss, several people somewhere in the world would¡¯ve already keeled over and dropped dead. This, along with many other details regarding the complex topic of congestive heart failure, was something Arthur Evans knew almost everything about. And why? For what purpose had Arthur, someone with no interest in medicine, become so obsessed with heart failure? Why did he spend day after day researching every known heart condition with the zeal of a police technician racing against a ticking clock to defuse a bomb? Well, truth be told, it was actually for one reason and one reason only: to reassure himself that, in moments like this one right now, he was positively, emphatically, and unquestionably not experiencing a heart attack. ¡°Of course I¡¯m not having a heart attack,¡± he said aloud to himself. ¡°This isn¡¯t a heart attack, so just calm down. I¡¯m not having a heart attack. I¡¯m perfectly fine.¡± But am I? Arthur wondered, butterflies in his stomach. Am I really okay? Here he was, once again: standing in the middle of his apartment drenched in sweat as he gasped, grimaced, and wondered if the worst was about to happen to him. It was just after four in the morning and, having been unable to sleep, Arthur had gotten up for a small snack. Unfortunately, upon taking just a few steps after getting out of bed, it had begun to happen to him again. And, as always, it struck without warning or mercy. A sense of alarm exploded in his head and fear flooded every one of his senses as he stumbled his way into the kitchen. His legs wobbled, and fearing he might fall, he tried to grab the tiny countertop across from the refrigerator in his apartment¡¯s pathetically tiny dining area. He missed, somehow managing to instead swat his entire toaster off it. For just a split second, it dangled midair while it remained suspended by the still-attached power cord. Then the toaster immediately snapped free and plummeted straight down to the floor, nearly landing on Arthur¡¯s left foot. With a loud clang and a secondary crunch, it crashed down onto his poorly maintained, seldom washed, and already cracked wooden floor, whereupon several sparks shot out of the torn wire. Fortunately, the worn-out, green-colored rug mere inches away from the malfunctioning toaster did not catch fire from the brief, but heavy shower of sparks. Having failed to grab hold of something, Arthur began to fall backwards. Thankfully, he managed to spin himself around and grab the back of one of his two old, worn-out wooden chairs that were tucked into the small round dining table. Putting all his weight on it, he struggled to stabilize his body while he continued to vocally reassure himself. ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± he told himself. ¡°I¡¯m not having a heart attack. Of course I¡¯m not. I¡¯m twenty-two years old. My cholesterol¡¯s good. I have no family history of heart disease. It is almost statistically impossible that I could be having a heart attack. I know what a heart attack is. I know everything about them! This isn¡¯t it. This isn¡¯t a real heart attack. So I need to just¡­I need to just¡­¡± But what if it is actually real this time? he wondered. He felt his eyes widen in pure terror. What if he really was having a heart attack this time? He might be. How could he be sure he wasn¡¯t? After all, his chest was aching and becoming tighter by the second; it was difficult to breathe, and he felt like he was losing control of his body. But no, no, no. It always felt like this, didn¡¯t it? No! This is different! This time it¡¯s the real deal! I¡¯m dying! This isn¡¯t a panic attack. This is a real heart attack! It then occurred to Arthur that his hands were becoming weak and that he was going to collapse. Worse, he was going to die! The sense of impending doom was too strong to be a false alarm. Nothing that felt this awful could possibly be benign. Something inside of his body must have broken in a terminal way, and now his body was warning him that the end had arrived. This was it. This was the end of his life. He was about to be no more. ¡°No!¡± he shouted to himself, increasing his grip on the wooden chair. It was old and needed replacing, so it was no surprise that a little piece of loose wood dug into his right thumb deep enough that it would be a hassle to remove later. But he didn¡¯t care. Honestly, he didn¡¯t. A little splinter was the least of his concerns, and that went the same for the pain that came with it: hell, he barely even felt it as he whimpered in abject horror at the much worse prospect of ceasing to exist. Right now, the only thing he wanted was to continue to live beyond the next few minutes. He felt his consciousness fading. He felt his soul begin to leave his body as he became limp. The intensity of the fear was so magnificent that he began to weep. He wasn¡¯t ready to die. He wasn¡¯t ready for his dream to end. His body was actually disobeying the orders he was giving it. This wasn¡¯t like the other times. This was different. This was a real heart attack. Or a stroke. Or something serious. He was finally going to die. His existence would come to an end in this shitty, one-bedroom apartment that served him as both a place of refuge as well as a prison from which he could not escape. ¡°It¡¯s happening,¡± he murmured as his grip loosened on the chair and he collapsed, falling face first onto the floor. ¡°I¡¯m dying. This is it. This is the end for¡ª¡± His words fell off as, just then, a miracle occurred: a true, genuine miracle. As his terror-stricken, disobedient body flapped and thrashed frantically on the dirty kitchen floor, he just-so happened to swing his right elbow into the leg of the dining table. This caused the entire table to briefly shake before lurching a few inches backwards. An instant later, the sound of a slight ¡°clack¡± sound emanated from above him, followed by a gentle noise of something plastic rolling on wood and moving in his direction. Is that what I think it is? Arthur thought. Did I just knock over my¡­? Even amid his chaotic bout of distress, and even as his brain screamed at him that his life was moments away from ending, Arthur still found the willpower to focus in on that beautiful, loving, miraculous sound of rolling that grew ever-so louder as it approached the back end of the table, beneath which he now lay helplessly. ¡°Please,¡± he begged, now speaking at a whisper. ¡°Please, please, please!¡± As though the universe had decided to grant him mercy and oblige his desperate wish, the sound of rolling plastic came to a halt, and then Arthur watched with equal part disbelief and gratitude as a small pill bottle fell off the side of the table and began to drop down towards his face. Without any hesitation, and with a sense of urgency so strong that it bordered on a frenzy, he threw out his left arm, clawing at the air and catching the bottle. ¡°My Xanax! Oh, thank God! My Xanax!¡± With both of his hands shaking intensely and the rest of his body shivering uncontrollably, he twisted off the top and grabbed one of the pills labeled ¡°Alprazolam¡± and chucked it directly into his mouth without water. He swallowed it as fast as he could before attempting to twist the top back on and seal the bottle. But with his entire body still shaking uncontrollably, he lacked the dexterity to even do something as simple as that, so instead, he clumsily dropped the whole thing and watched as the pills spilled out onto the grimy kitchen floor. He didn¡¯t care, though. He¡¯d pick them up later. Right now, he refused to even move. He remained completely motionless, paralyzed with fear. It felt like even so much as lifting a finger could cause the sense of impending doom to increase dramatically to the point where his body would die an instant death. Just be calm, he told himself. I just need to be calm. Eventually, the fear of death began to gradually lessen. The pain in his chest started to dull. This told him the Xanax was working. And if the Xanax was working, then he no longer simply ¡°understood¡± that the issue wasn¡¯t his heart, but he was able to make himself believe it as well¡ªand in a way that went beyond the merely intellectual but now also included the emotional, as well. In a sense, he¡¯d known the entire time that, logically, it couldn¡¯t have been a heart attack. Truly, it was never the thinking part of his brain that tormented him during these God-awful occasions. It was the emotional part of his brain that absolutely wrecked him. Now that he was emotionally¡ªas well as logically¡ªpositive that what he¡¯d experienced was just another of his panic attacks, his condition improved rapidly. Second by second, he quite literally came to his senses. Even as tears fell from his eyes, he began to laugh at himself¡ªat his own stupidity. ¡°Of course it was just a panic attack. I¡¯m so fucking stupid. Real basket case over here.¡± Before a half-hour had passed, every last trace of terror had drained from his body, and so, with a sigh, he leaned over and began to pick up the ten or so pills that had escaped the bottle. They were probably dirty now, but what was he going to do? Throw them away? Not a chance. Besides, it was his own fault for taking such poor care of his apartment. He was a mess. An absolute mess. And he knew it. There was no denying it. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Getting up into a sitting position, Arthur slid on his butt over to the area below his sink where the toaster had fallen. He picked it up and examined it. ¡°Broken,¡± he said with a sad groan. Then he sighed. ¡°Nothing I can do about it now.¡± Returning to his feet, he tossed the toaster in the trash and then yawned as fatigue and exhaustion came upon him. He would likely sleep for eight or so hours now, for which he was glad. He loved sleep. The only place Arthur felt safe in this entire world was under his covers. If possible, he would sleep twenty hours a day. Sleep was his escape. It was his refuge. It was his one pleasant interaction with the world. And so, like a wounded warrior, he dragged his weary but thankfully calm body through his pathetically small excuse for a living room and slipped into the one and only bedroom in his dimly lit, dungeon-like apartment. After making a brief stop to relieve himself at his closet-sized bathroom, he climbed into bed as the warm, calming embrace of the sedative merged together with his natural sense of relief. The feeling was almost¡ªalmost¡ªenough to make him smile. Yawning, he passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. He was just so damn tired. ***** For Arthur, the worst part of his day was waking up. There was nothing he hated more than having to return to reality. But, as was always the case, his body was at constant war with his mind; this, his body made perfectly clear to him through the various aches and pains in his back and in his shoulders. The message being sent was plain and easy to understand: his body had had enough lying around in bed, and now it demanded that he get up and stretch. Moaning quietly to himself, Arthur sat up in his bed and pulled off the covers. He was still so tired, but that was normal. He was always tired. Nothing ever seemed to wake him up. Coffee? Nope. TV shows? Nope. Surfing the internet? Nada. The only thing that had ever helped was an Adderall he¡¯d scored from one of his friends. For around twenty minutes, he¡¯d almost felt like he¡¯d been reborn a new¡ªuntil he then suffered the worst panic attack of his entire life. So, yeah, that was not an option either. Placing his head in his hands, he rubbed his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep so badly, but he would have to wait at least an hour or two or else his body would ache from sleeping too much. ¡°This isn¡¯t living,¡± he said to himself with a moan. ¡°This isn¡¯t life.¡± It took him nearly ten minutes to get out of bed. He was still in his pajamas. He didn¡¯t bother getting changed. He knew he wasn¡¯t going anywhere today. He never went anywhere any day. In fact, aside from a few rare occasions, it had now been a little over a year since he had last left this smelly apartment. It was his prison. His cage. He was stuck here. His only contact with the outside world was through the internet and his aunt, Stacy, who came by once every two weeks with groceries and other provisions. Speaking of which, he¡¯d need to ask her to pick him up a new toaster. With his back stiff and his knees hurting, he made his way slowly into the bathroom to relive himself. He tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He used to be a great-looking guy. He was a natural blond with wavy, thick locks of hair, and the girls at campus used to tell him he had the most ¡°gorgeous¡± hazel eyes. But now? Yeah. No. His hair was a mess. He was unshaven. His entire body from head to toe likely smelled like his armpits. He just didn¡¯t feel like showering anymore. Why bother? Nothing mattered. He didn¡¯t care one bit¡ªor at least he tried to convince himself he didn¡¯t. He obviously wasn¡¯t fully succeeding in that measure, because if he had, he wouldn¡¯t scowl every time he looked in the mirror and saw that his eyes had developed dark circles beneath them. He¡¯d also gained a significant amount of weight: a tremendous amount if he was being honest with himself. It was hard to believe that, fourteen months ago, before those mother fuckers destroyed his life, he¡¯d been a fairly brawny dude. Sure, he was only five-eight, but he didn¡¯t need to be all that tall, as he¡¯d found ways to compensate for that in other areas. Everything was so perfect. He kept his blinds down practically all the time, preferring to keep his disgusting little apartment every bit the dark dungeon of hell that it ostensibly was. But it certainly seemed a lot brighter today. For this much light to be trickling through his windows, it meant that today must have been a particularly beautiful July day. Exiting his cubicle-sized bathroom, he returned to his bed, bent over, and began fishing around for his cell phone. Turning it on, he saw that it was a quarter after two. A sense of uneasiness washed over him. It caused him to worry. Uneasiness could easily turn into anxiety, and anxiety could then, by extension, morph into panic. But, at least for right now, it was only a minor notion of unease. In fact, it was more akin to restlessness. It''s the middle of July. And I¡¯m in here. He walked over to his bedroom window, pulled aside the dusty curtain, and then lifted a single window blind with his finger so that he could peek out of it. The light that entered his bedroom was so blinding that he had to close his eyes for several seconds before he could again open them. When he did, the sense of uneasiness within him ballooned and grew so quickly that it now actually did approach the beginnings of anxiety¡ªas he knew it would. The reason was obvious. Peering out of his window, he saw a world he wanted so terribly to be a part of. Every aspect of the sights that greeted him caused him to swell up with a sense of extreme longing and desperation. And by every aspect, it really was every single aspect. It was the way the light hit the top of the trees in the small forested area far into the distance across the town of Elms, New Jersey. It was the sight of kids playing baseball in the massive park across from his apartment complex or the group of dudes around his age playing basketball on the adjacent court. It was the way the cars traveled up and down the road into and out of town with a sense of purpose. These people were out. These people were doing things. Arthur began to sob, and his sobs turned into a steady flow of tears. Why couldn¡¯t he just leave? Why couldn¡¯t he just walk through the door? There was nothing physically wrong with him. So why, then? Why was he trapped in here? He didn¡¯t understand himself. On the one hand, he sincerely wanted to go outside. He wanted it so bad that it actually hurt. But, on the other hand, he was simultaneously both too scared and too tired. The thought of actually stepping outside into the street filled him with a sense of dread, but it also filled him with an eerie, if not somewhat confusingly oppressive feeling of exhaustion and tiredness. Arthur wept as the unfairness of it all boiled him from the inside. He wanted to go out. He did! And look: he understood that if an outside observer or someone generally unfamiliar with his situation were to suddenly become acquainted with his miserable, self-destructive lifestyle, they would likely ask him why he didn¡¯t simply power through the pain and force himself out of his apartment door. They would want to know why he didn¡¯t grow a pair of balls, get off his ass, and make himself leave. Certainly, that would be one of the first questions a stranger would ask¡ªand Arthur knew this because any time he¡¯d talk about his problems, that was always the first point raised. What people didn¡¯t understand was that he¡¯d tried it: many, many times. So many times. He wanted to go out so bad that, during the first few months of this hell, he¡¯d sometimes make multiple ¡°escape¡± attempts during the same day. Each and every time resulted in him suffering an immediate and crippling panic attack the moment he¡¯d set so much as one single pinky toe outside of his apartment. He¡¯d tried waiting a few days before making another attempt only to be met with the same result. After that had failed, he¡¯d tried giving himself a month or two to recover before trying again and, yep, wouldn¡¯t you know it? Same result. He¡¯d tried going out at night. He¡¯d tried going out at day. He¡¯d tried going out in the rain. He¡¯d tried going out in the snow. It didn¡¯t matter. He couldn¡¯t leave. This place was a prison, and he was its captive. Sophie. Oh, my baby. My Sophia. If I didn¡¯t lose you, I wouldn¡¯t have lost myself. As always, his thoughts turned to her. He had crushed on her since elementary school. Then he¡¯d loved her since junior high. Finally, he¡¯d gotten her in his senior year of high school. And then he¡¯d lost her¡ªor no, not lost. She¡¯d been taken from him. By them. And they¡¯d gotten away with it. They¡¯d actually gotten away with it. As Arthur sat in his bed and allowed what little remained of his dignity to pour down his eyes, he wondered why he was even bothering to go on. What was the fucking point anymore? If this was how life was going to be, why should he even bother to live it? Was he really that afraid to die? During a panic attack, sure. When those hit him, he would enter straight-up survival mode. But what about the majority of the time when he was just his lonely self? Was he still afraid to die? What did he really have in this world? Seriously. What did he have? He¡¯d lost both his parents to cancer, he¡¯d been raised by an abusive, alcoholic aunt who genuinely seemed to think that her sudden conversion to Christianity at the age of 57 somehow made up for more than a decade of abuse, and the love of his life was rotting in the ground. He was also poor. The only income he had was from disability, and it was only enough to pay the rent. Nothing was going well. He was trapped in this hellhole. Just¡­it was a mountain of bad built upon another mountain of bad. He was screwed. It didn¡¯t matter anymore. Nothing was ever going to get any better. Nothing could ever improve beyond where things were at right now. So why bother? His life was in such a state of disarray that the only thing he had left to love¡ªthe only positive thing in his entire fucking life other than sleep was a bottle of Xanax. You know what? Fuck it. No, seriously. Fuck it. Enough was enough. He was tired of this shit. He was tired of everything. No more. No fucking more. He was going to take the whole bottle. Then he could finally sleep. If his aunt was right, he¡¯d be able to see Sophia again. Or maybe not. Maybe he¡¯d end up in hell. Either way, it was time to give a middle finger to life itself. He was going to do it. He was really going to do it. Of all possible reactions to his sudden rush of determination, Arthur laughed of all things as he made the depressingly short trip from his tiny bedroom to his even tinier kitchen to retrieve the bottle of benzodiazepines. It was time to check out. This was the right thing to do. He¡¯d had enough. No more. It ended today. As Arthur sat back down on his bed with the pill bottle and a Gatorade from the fridge, he decided to count the pills out of curiosity. He couldn¡¯t help but laugh as he counted thirty-six pills. What a wonderful final coincidence. Thirty-six pills. Thirty-six seconds. Thirty-six reasons why it was time to lie down and never sit back up again. He poured all of them into his mouth and then began downing them with the Gatorade. Bottom¡¯s up! Time to sleep. Good luck waking up after downing thirty-six of these. The drowsiness came immediately, and Arthur fell into an almost coma-like state, fully believing he was going to die, although unlike during a panic attack, this time, it was what he wanted. He was finally going to get it¡ªor so he believed. Instead, the world gave birth to a God. Chapter 2: The First Incident Chapter 2: The First Incident The situation was worse than he¡¯d feared, and the lives of hundreds of innocent people were at risk. Sensing things were about to get messy, a rush of urgency overtook Sergeant Arthur Evans as he gritted his teeth and readied himself for a possible firefight. Somehow, he¡¯d miraculously made it through all these years without having to actually kill anybody, but something told him that was all about to change this very afternoon; he was feeling an even stronger sense of apprehension than he usually felt when receiving a SWAT call-out. What are we waiting for? We need to get in there before they start shooting the hostages. Three police helicopters buzzed overhead, and two more could be heard approaching their location just outside of Port Authority in Midtown Manhattan. A popular location with tourists, it made crowd control incredibly difficult and tiresome. It also created the kind of traffic conditions that would take hours to resolve, which in turn created its own set of operational difficulties. Everywhere around him, a feeling of confusion and fear was palpable. The citizens were terrified, and it was his job to protect them. ¡°Sergeant Evans,¡± said the voice of Lieutenant David from his chest-mounted radio. ¡°Hit the streets and take cover.¡± ¡°Copy that.¡± It¡¯s game time. Clad in full tactical gear, he leapt out the side of the Bearcat and into the street. Then he directed all five members of team 1 and all five members of team 2 to take cover on each side of the armored vehicle respectively while they awaited permission to engage. Even with the protection of the Bearcat, Arthur still felt open and exposed. Inhaling, he increased his grip on the loaded m4 carbine in his hands and prepared to move on a moment¡¯s notice. All around him, flashing lights cast a red and blue glow even amid the early-afternoon sunshine; the cries of dozens of police sirens blared endlessly, drowning out all other noise on the typically very loud 42nd street. The uniformed officers had strict instructions not to engage and to only assist with crowd control and in directing civilians out of harm¡¯s way. If blood needed to be spilled, well¡­that was for his team to deal with. I¡¯m ready for it. Ahead of him and halfway across the street was the entrance to Port Authority. His visibility was too poor to see inside of it from where he crouched beside the armored vehicle. As he listened carefully to the burst of nonstop chatter from his radio, it became readily apparent that no one had any solid, up-to-date intelligence on the situation inside of PA. All they seemed to know was that a group of ski-mask-wearing thugs had stormed the place and had taken hostages. It was also believed that these men were part of an infamous band of benzodiazepine smugglers who went by the name of ¡°The Xanax Crew.¡± ¡°Lieutenant, you wanna tell me what the hell we¡¯re waiting for?¡± Arthur asked. ¡°If we don¡¯t get in there soon, then people are going to die.¡± ¡°Give the negotiator a chance, sergeant. If we can resolve this peacefully we will.¡± Arthur grunted. ¡°Copy that.¡± He glanced at the five members of team 1 on his side of the vehicle and nodded at all of them at once; they returned the nod with one of their own. It was a brief exchange, but it signaled a shared understanding between them. ¡°Would you believe me if I told you that, even after all these years, I¡¯m still scared shitless each time we get a SWAT call?¡± he asked them. ¡°I think we all do, sarge,¡± one of his men replied. Another grunted in agreement. ¡°That¡¯s how you know we¡¯re still human,¡± he said. Distantly, on the other end of the street, Arthur could hear the sound of civilians demanding to know what was going on, if or when they would be allowed back in, and oddly enough, one of them even insisted that they be let through now, which caught Arthur¡¯s attention. Taking a very quick glance over his shoulder, he saw an older woman waving around a pink handbag while yelling at a uniformed NYPD officer with a tone that suggested she felt particularly aggrieved. ¡°I need to get back in,¡± she insisted. ¡°Get out of my way.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am, this is an active-shooter situation. You cannot go through.¡± ¡°But my fifteen-year-old son is still inside. And what shooter? What are you even talking about? I was just in there. Everything was fine. I stepped outside for one minute to smoke a cigarette, and when I turned around, you people just appeared out of nowhere. This doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, ma¡¯am,¡± the officer replied, holding her back. ¡°You can¡¯t go through.¡± ¡°But my son!¡± ¡°We¡¯re doing everything we can.¡± Not wanting to become too distracted, Arthur forced his attention away from the civilians and returned his gaze to the PA entrance, ready to act in an instant if anyone emerged from the stairs that led down into the large transit hub that also doubled as a shopping center. All this waiting didn¡¯t feel right. Although only a minute or so had passed, in a situation like this, it felt more like twenty. As if echoing his concern, the lieutenant¡¯s voice chimed in on his radio. ¡°I don¡¯t like the feel of this,¡± Lieutenant David said. ¡°And it doesn¡¯t look like the negotiator is making any progress. But, son, if we send you in, then you¡¯ll be going in blind. We have no situational awareness. We don¡¯t even know the number of potential targets. Do you think you can handle it?¡± Arthur laughed confidently. ¡°It''s what we¡¯re trained to do, sir. Breach and clear. Just give us the word.¡± For a few seconds, there was silence on the other end of the radio, followed by the sound of a sigh. ¡°You¡¯re sure about this?¡± ¡°I am.¡± ¡°All right, then. In that case, here¡¯s the order: teams one and two, move on¡ª¡± ¡°Just what in the hell is going on?¡± a woman¡¯s voice demanded, interrupting the lieutenant. ¡°All units stand down¡ªand explain to me what in God¡¯s name you think it is you¡¯re doing.¡± Surprised, Arthur looked questioningly at his men, several of whom shrugged and returned equally confounded gazes. Who would think to do such a thing in the middle of a SWAT operation? How in the hell did she get on their channel? ¡°I could ask the same thing,¡± Lieutenant David said angrily. ¡°I¡¯m in the middle of an operation. Are you crazy? What the fuck!¡± ¡°What the fuck is right,¡± the woman replied. ¡°Someone had better tell me what¡¯s going on and why a SWAT operation is being conducted outside of Port Authority when I didn¡¯t hear a goddamn thing about this until now. Who is speaking to me? Who¡¯s in command over there? Who the hell ordered a¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªdispatch is this some kind of joke?¡± asked a deep, irate, and perplexed-sounding male voice, speaking over the female one. ¡°Does somebody wanna explain to me why I got about ten different patrols all screamin¡¯ at me saying there¡¯s multiple 412¡¯s flying over PA? Did Al Qaeda attack us while I was takin¡¯ a shit? Fuck is going on here? I wanna know the son of a bitch who cut me out of the loop. Where the fuck is Robbie? Aviation Unit, do you copy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here, sarge,¡± said yet another new voice to the conversation. ¡°But uh¡­I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. None of our 412¡¯s are in the air right now.¡± ¡°Oh really, wise-guy? So what is it I¡¯m seeing right now out my fuckin¡¯ window then, huh? Robbie, I swear to God, you better tell me what is going on, because I swear on my mother¡¯s grave, I¡¯m gonna¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªI¡¯m telling you, sarge! None of our 412¡¯s are airborne right now. And like¡­we don¡¯t even have five of those in the first place. So I don¡¯t know what else to say about that. Also, we don¡¯t fly those in Midtown, and in fact the only scheduled flight today is a patrol around Staten Island. So whatever it is you think you¡ª¡± ¡°Are you people out of your fucking minds?¡± Lieutenant David burst in. ¡°We have a hostage situation in progress and you¡¯re clogging up the channel with all this horseshit? There will be hell to pay for this. You¡¯re going to get people killed!¡± ¡°A hostage what?¡± the female voice chimed back in, sounding both enraged and bewildered. ¡°And who the hell is this? Who am I even speaking with? Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on? You¡¯re lieutenant¡­who?¡± ¡°David,¡± he fired back. ¡°Responding to a hostage crisis at Port Authority. So do me a favor and¡ª¡± ¡°Dispatch, this is Officer Jason Brody, Midtown South. I just pulled up at PA. There¡¯s at least thirty uniforms here and a¡­SWAT team. What¡¯s going on? I didn¡¯t get a call about this.¡± ¡°Did you just say thirty uniformed officers?¡± asked a completely new voice. ¡°From where? From which precinct? Who sent them there? Someone fucked up big time. What¡¯s going on in Port Authority?¡± The confusion seemed to get worse and worse by the second. With each passing moment, more and more voices entered the fray until so many people were speaking and yelling at each other at once that Arthur couldn¡¯t keep up. All of them demanded to know who had ordered what and why. This was a total shit-show and an even greater embarrassment to the entire force. As representatives of the NYPD, this display of unprofessionalism and incompetence was totally unacceptable. They were supposed to be the best of the best¡ªsophisticated! Or at least more sophisticated than this, Arthur thought. Then he paused on that word. Sophisticated¡­ More Sophisticated¡­ Soph¡­ Sophis¡­. Sophie¡­ SOPHIE! SOPHIE! SOPHIE! Arthur felt tears fall down over his eyes, obscuring his vision and making it difficult to see out of the faceplate. It caused the whole of his vision to blur. He closed his eyes as he felt the pain of sadness tighten in his chest while the image of Sophie popped into his mind. She was such a beautiful woman with long locks of silky-black hair, delicate green eyes, and the cutest freckles he¡¯d ever seen. She was the only thing he¡¯d ever wanted in this world. She left me. She left me, and I¡¯ll never get her back. I loved her. I loved her so much. I¡­I need to get her back. I need to get her back somehow. I can¡¯t live without her. I need her more than anything. I have to get her back! But I can only do that if I get this ship back on course before we crash! His face became soaked as a violent wave broke against the ship¡¯s bow and covered the entire deck in water. Captain Arthur Evans screamed at his second-in command, a scrawny little rat of a woman who looked more like a meth addict than a sailor. ¡°How many times do I have to repeat myself? Turn starboard, Aunt Stacy. Now!¡± Her wrists shook on the ship¡¯s helm. It looked like she was struggling just to maintain her grip. The arthritis was likely to blame. Everything about her exuded weakness. It was hard to believe that this was the woman who had frightened him so much when he was little, and she¡¯d¡­ I don¡¯t want to think about that. Stop it! Sometimes, Arthur actually pitied her. Sometimes, it was even possible to understand how the death of her sister had darkened her heart to the point she was willing to take it out on a little boy¡ªher own nephew! But none of that mattered. None of it. Because they were about to crash! There were island-sized rocks up ahead, and things weren¡¯t looking good. The ship could collide any second. If they didn¡¯t get out of the way, they would slam right into it. If that happened, it would almost certainly take on water, and while everyone aboard would no-doubt survive, the cargo he¡¯d been paid handsomely to deliver would be ruined. But even more importantly, the ten crates of stolen Xanax he was smuggling would be lost to the ocean. And he couldn¡¯t allow that to happen. He needed his Xanax. It was the only thing that helped him with the panic attacks. Stolen novel; please report. Panic attacks. Panic attacks. ¡°And that¡¯s how she became famous at the age of sixty-five,¡± the fabulously dressed man with black hair and a spotted tie said to the camera. ¡°Seriously, give the old ¡®gal a round of applause¡ªoh, and don¡¯t forget: you can catch her newest film in theaters this August! Up next, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest for you. The one and only Arthur Evans is here, and we¡¯re going to talk about his upcoming book: Overcoming Anxiety, a Journey to Recovery. Arthur, why don¡¯t you come on over here and have a seat. It sure is good to meet ya.¡± Arthur straightened his tie and then walked onto the set. The audience clapped as he nervously approached the couch adjacent to the desk where the host was sitting with his hands folded. There was a big smile on the man¡¯s face, but Arthur wondered if it was a genuine display of kindness or just something to make him look good for the cameras. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m on TV. This is amazing. I never thought I¡¯d come this far in life. I never thought this could happen to me. As nervous as he might¡¯ve been, Arthur was not going to allow a little bit of stage fright to get in the way of him living his dreams. He had so much to tell the world: there were so many things people needed to hear¡ªthings that could potentially help others who had been in his very situation. He was going to show the world that it was possible to overcome even the deepest fears. I wonder how many people are in the audience, he thought. It was difficult to see beyond the filming crew, as a blinding, consistently bright light obscured everything behind the large, rectangular camera that was pointed at him. Taking a seat next to the host, he smiled and placed both his hands on the rather comfortable seat¡¯s armrests. He wanted to appear calm and collected. ¡°Thank you for being here today, Mr. Evans,¡± the host said, the smile never leaving his face. Arthur leaned forward a bit and returned the smile. ¡°Happy to be here, Travis. Thanks for having me.¡± ¡°Oh, it¡¯s my pleasure.¡± A brief moment passed, and then the host¡ªTravis¡ªasked, ¡°So, you wrote this book for who, exactly?¡± As he spoke, he lifted up a bit off his chair and reached across his desk to grab a hardcover copy, which he then held up and showed to the cameras. You know the answer. Don¡¯t be nervous. ¡°I wrote it for all the guys¡ªand I guess girls, too¡ªlike me who are suffering and don¡¯t have anywhere to turn. The people who have to live in fear every day. You know, that like, at any moment, you could just break out into another panic attack.¡± His reply seemed to resonate well with the audience, as they all began to heavily applaud. Arthur made brief eye contact with Travis, who said nothing and continued to smile. He continued to remain silent until the last audience member had finished clapping. ¡°That¡¯s just wonderful to hear. And if I understand your story correctly, I believe you mention in the book that you were a college dropout, too?¡± Arthur nodded. ¡°I was indeed, Travis.¡± He adjusted his position in his seat. His back was beginning to ache and so were his sides. It reminded him of the way he felt when he¡¯d been in bed for too long and needed to get up and move around. ¡°Arthur? Are you okay?¡± ¡°Y-yeah, sorry. Just getting comfortable. Uh, what were we talking about?¡± ¡°Your¡­college experience?¡± ¡°Ah! Yeah, haha. Sorry. Okay, so¡­right. Yes. I dropped out of college. I was actually really good in school. I don¡¯t like to brag, but I was at the top of my class. I had a perfect 4.0 GPA for my first two semesters. But then one day, I was driving home from school, and the car got stopped by some guys in masks. I uh¡­¡± No. No, I don¡¯t want to talk about that. Can we please move on to a different topic? ¡°Of course we can, Arthur.¡± Wait, how do you hear me? I¡¯m not speaking. I¡¯m just thinking. ¡°This is on TV. That¡¯s why. When you¡¯re doing something on TV, the host can always hear your thoughts. You know that, right?¡± ¡°Oh, right. Of course. Can we move on to the next question, please?¡± Terbis nodded enthusiastically. Wait, Terbis? Turvis? Who was he again? Wasn¡¯t¡­he? Wasn¡¯t there something about hostages and¡­? ¡°So, my next question is one the audience has been very eager to see you answer.¡± He placed the book closer to Arthur and then patted it with his open palm. Arthur was so proud to have written it. But when had he actually written it? He couldn¡¯t quite remember. ¡°I¡¯m all ears, Douglas.¡± Douglas once again folded his hands on his desk, but this time, something in his facial expression changed. It was subtle, but Arthur was certain of it. His smile remained absolutely the same: completely unchanged from before. But his eyes took on a sinister, dark look that made Arthur stir uneasily in the chair, which itself was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. His back was really starting to hurt. It helped though when he turned over and pulled the blanket around himself a little more tightly. He needed to pee so badly. The construction crew across the street was being so loud. He needed to buy a new pillow. Douglas pointed at the book. ¡°On page seventy-five, you mention how you killed yourself with an intentional Xanax overdose. What was it like being dead?¡± ¡°Dead?¡± Arthur repeated the word. It sounded strange on his tongue. ¡°What do you mean, ¡®dead¡¯?¡± ¡°You died, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Died? What¡¯re you talking about? When did I die? GET DOWN!¡± Arthur leapt out of his seat and fired four shots towards the back of the crowd, where four men in ski masks had just stormed the¡ª **** The world was blurry. Was he alive? His eyes were open, but he couldn¡¯t see. No, wait, he could see¡ªbut only a little bit. He needed to use the bathroom so badly. He was so weak. He was so tired. He felt like he was floating. But his back ached. Where was he? What was happening? Was his body moving somewhere? Yes. Yes, it was. He was walking towards his bathroom, but he was mostly navigating towards it on memory alone, since he could barely see anything in front of him. His foot hurt. He must¡¯ve bumped it into something. Where was the toilet? He felt around for it. There it was. He pulled down his pajama pants. Oh, God it felt good. He hoped he wasn¡¯t missing his target. The last thing he wanted was to come in here later and see that his wall was yellow. As he urinated, he wiped his eyes with his left hand. It only slightly improved his vision. He could still barely see. Hell, he could barely walk straight, either. He couldn¡¯t recall a single moment in his life when he was as sleepy as he was right now. It almost felt like he¡¯d been drugged. Oh, shit. I was drugged. I drugged myself. How am I not dead? In truth, he didn¡¯t even care. He felt incredibly disoriented and his head was spinning. He knew he was walking, but he wasn¡¯t sure how he knew that he was walking, because he could barely see, and he could only slightly perceive the motion of each step. Somehow, though, he found his bed. Then he crawled back inside and pulled the covers over himself. He was so tired that he didn¡¯t even know if he was lying on his left side or his right. His back hurt. But he was too tired to get up. Live or die, he didn¡¯t care anymore as long as he could continue to sleep. He didn¡¯t even care about the noisy, annoying neighbor in the apartment next door who always talked so loudly on his phone. ¡°Babe, are you okay? Nah, nah, it¡¯s all good. I¡¯m only calling because I just heard on the news that some messed-up shit was happening over at Port Authority. Aren¡¯t you near there? Oh, for real? So like, is it a terrorist attack or¡­? They¡¯re not saying? Someone on Twitter is saying he saw cops disappearing into thin air or some shit. I dunno. Huh? I don¡¯t know, babe. I just read it online.¡± Arthur was so exhausted he barely even heard the jackass. He fell quickly into a deep slumber. Dreams came and went. Most were insignificant. He found himself walking in a field. Then, the next moment he was flying through the sky. Then there were a whole bunch more, none of which left any particular impression on him. In fact, he couldn¡¯t even really recall any of them. They were basically forgotten the moment one ended and the next began. Most lasted only a few seconds, too. One moment he was back in High School, sitting in his old seat at the back of class during second-period English. The next moment he was in the cafeteria. Then back in class. Then back in the cafeteria. After that, it was the football field. Or¡­no, wait, maybe it was back to the classroom again. Or was there someplace else? His memory kept wiping away everything so quickly that it was impossible to know where he¡¯d been or where he was going. All the while, somewhere in the background, he could faintly hear the sound of himself snoring. Was he sleeping in class? No, of course he wasn¡¯t. He was sitting right here in the cafeteria eating lunch. So what was that sound, then? He was sure he heard snoring. Wait a minute¡­ As unlikely as it seemed, somehow, the sound of his own snoring triggered a monumentally important understanding within him. All at once, everything drastically changed. After an indeterminate amount of time bouncing around from place to place, the seconds-long dream sequences abruptly stopped, and he found himself on a busy street in Manhattan. And it was here, in this exact, precise moment that Arthur Evans finally became aware of his current state of being: he became aware that he was asleep. I¡¯m asleep. But I¡¯m still dreaming? Holy shit. I¡¯ve heard about this. I¡¯ve always wanted this to happen! Arthur had read stories on the internet about lucid dreamers: people who were self-aware that they were dreaming and could thus explore their own dreams. There had been a few occasions in his life where he¡¯d realized he was in a dream, but in all of these cases, he¡¯d always woken up within a few seconds of this realization. But not this time? Is the Xanax keeping me here? A jolt of excitement shot through him as he took a moment to appreciate just how real everything looked. Was this all his brain¡¯s doing? This was fucking incredible. He was awe-struck. It reminded him of the time he¡¯d worn a VR headset, only the ¡°picture¡± quality was even clearer. All around him, he could see cars, buses, taxis, and thousands of people. He could see every detail of every building, sidewalk, sewer grate, and the tops of impossibly tall skyscrapers. He could see Times Square. He could see a man walking his dog. He could even see the cracks and imperfections in the pavement below his feet. And then something happened¡ªsomething that was so unique to him that he simply had no past experience to draw from with which to explain or rationalize it. The world around him was no longer just ¡°clear¡± to his eyes, but in a sudden, somewhat disorienting flicker of light and color, it became literally indistinguishable from the world as seen by his waking eyes. But there was more! He could now hear, feel, and unfortunately, smell the city that he was in. There was only one word to describe the state of awareness that he had entered in that moment, and that word was awake. What is this? What¡¯s happening? Am I really here? The confusion was so powerful that it sent a wave of anxious jittering straight into his chest. There was no mistaking it. He was awake. The feeling of being awake was not something that could be mistaken. Sure, people could be confused about whether or not they were dreaming while they were dreaming, but no one was ever really confused about whether or not they were awake. You knew when you were awake. And this? This was awake. And outside. I¡¯m outside. I need to get away! He gasped. His heart began to pound faster in his chest. His fingers twitched, his knees weakened, and a fear so great rose within him that he had to suppress the urge to scream in pure terror. He couldn¡¯t be outside or he¡¯d have a panic attack¡ªright? Terrified, he waited for it to begin. In fact, the fear coursing through him was likely the first symptom. It would only get worse from here, as the weakening of his knees was just the start. Pretty soon, he would be on the ground clutching his chest. Or at least¡­that was what he expected to happen. Yet, as he continued to stand in the middle of the sidewalk while impatient New Yorkers navigated around him, he found himself wondering why it wasn¡¯t¡­well, you know, ¡°happening.¡± What¡¯s going on? Arthur wondered. Am I¡­okay? A moment ago, he would have thought that he had maxed out the amount of confusion the human brain had the capacity to feel at a single time. He¡¯d have been wrong. Right now, in the most literal sense possible, Arthur abjectly did not know just what in the fuck was going on at all. Not even a clue. Was he really awake? Was he still asleep? Had he teleported here somehow? Had someone kidnaped him in his sleep and brought him here? Who knew? Really, who knew? In fact, he was now so baffled as to his current state of being that he couldn¡¯t even say for sure if he was actually still alive. For all he knew, he might¡¯ve just died in his sleep and become a ghost. ¡°Hey, excuse me. Um, sir? Can you see me?¡± he asked a heavy-set guy wearing a brown tank top and a pair of biker shorts. The man curled his nose at Arthur and regarded him with a plain look of disgust. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°And I don¡¯t think I wanna.¡± With that, he continued on his way. Once again, Arthur¡¯s heart banged furiously in his chest. What did this mean? He wasn¡¯t sure other than it meant he could likely rule out the possibility of him being a ghost or this being the afterlife. Did I just dream that? he asked himself. Did I make him say that with my mind? That woman over there riding a bicycle. Is she riding that because my brain is making her and this is a dream? Or is this real? Well, if this was a dream, it was just as much ¡°July¡± here as it was in the real world. That much was immediately apparent as a pool of sweat built on his forehead. It was only after he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt that he became cognizant of the fact that he was even wearing a shirt. Glancing down, he confirmed with his eyes that he was indeed no longer in his pajamas. He was in a navy blue, short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of jeans that, just from the sensation of tightness on his ankles, should not have been possible for him to fit into at his current weight. Wait, I remember this shirt. These jeans, too. Running his hand down both of his sides, he recalled that he used to wear this shirt to the gym back when he used to weightlift. And the jeans...yeah, he used to wear these to college, didn¡¯t he? A sense of wonder came upon him as he awkwardly slid his hand under the bottom of his shirt. At this point, he didn¡¯t give a damn who saw him or what they thought. This was New York City, after all. He¡¯d once seen a naked man running away from the police with the wooden end of a plunger stuck up his asshole. What was this compared to that? I¡¯m¡­the old me. His stomach felt strange to the touch. It seemed like he had abs again. The big belly he¡¯d grown during his self-inflicted isolation was nowhere to be found on him. This was great. No, this was better than great. This was the best¡ª or rather only¡ªgood thing to happen to him in more than a year! All at once, a rush of exhilaration soared through him, but it was entirely short-lasting. His wave of excitement crashed against an even bigger wave of rational thinking. This had to be a dream. It couldn¡¯t not be one. His body and his clothing surely proved it. There was no sense in allowing himself to feel any kind of happiness, because this wasn¡¯t real, and it would soon go away when he woke up. All this was¡ªall it had to be¡ªwas some super-lucid dream that¡ª ¡°Ouch, fuck!¡± he cried out as some prick, emo-looking kid on a skateboard slammed directly into his shin. ¡°Watch where you¡¯re going, dude! Jesus Christ!¡± Almost falling over from the impact, the kid managed to steady himself and regain his balance. Turning around to face Arthur, he fired off an ugly look, which he then followed up with a middle finger. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there like an idiot when you see people coming, asshole!¡± It hurts. It actually hurts. Bending down to rub his shin, Arthur ignored the little shit and marveled at the fact that he could feel this much pain in a dream. But that, of course, assumed it was a dream, which surely it had to be, right? But if so, then how could he explain all of these true-to-life sensations he was experiencing? He could actually feel the summer heat. He could smell the rotten city smells¡ªbut also the sweet ones from the bakery right across the street near the Citibank. He could also feel pain. He could interact with people. He could piss them off, too, apparently. If this was all a dream, then this was Matrix-level shit. But if it wasn¡¯t a dream, then how could he explain his change of clothing and body shape? Neither explanation made sense. Something was really not right here. He needed to get to the bottom of this. Chapter 3: Magical Aliens Chapter 3: Magical Aliens Despite the generous use of air conditioning, Captain Tony Esposito wiped a pool of sweat from his brow as sheer frustration caused his body temperature to skyrocket. He tried his best to focus, but it was difficult with every phone in the station ringing nonstop, as well as both his personal and work cell. He loosened the collar of his white uniform and then ran his hands over the sides of his face before lowering them back down to his hips. ¡°Everyone,¡± he said. ¡°Just shut the fuck up. Stop.¡± He stood at the front of a large conference room in Midtown Precinct South. Eight of his best detectives, who had all been yammering amongst themselves, abruptly closed their mouths and turned to face him. Tony took a brief moment to meet each one of their gazes before shaking his head. ¡°Now, let me be perfectly clear with you guys, because I¡¯m not gonna say this again. When I ask you morons for ideas, I mean things that are actually possible, okay? I kinda thought that went without saying, but apparently not, because here I am having to say it.¡± ¡°We¡¯re trying our best, Captain,¡± said Detective Richard Bishop. He was an overweight, middle-aged man with grey, balding hair and a body odor that could make Satan cry. ¡°Take it easy, all right?¡± Despite being only five-and-a-half feet, Tony knew he had a quality about him that made him particularly intimidating, which while unintentional, was nevertheless something he used to his advantage when dealing with idiots. Even without raising his voice, people tended to stop and listen when he spoke to them with his no-nonsense, impatient tone. His rigid, confident posture likely contributed as well. ¡°You¡¯re not trying your best,¡± Tony said. ¡°If you were, you wouldn¡¯t keep giving me this¡­this Harry Potter bullshit. This isn¡¯t some X-Files episode, okay? This is the real world. So act like it.¡± Tony had more to say, but before he could speak, another detective chimed in. ¡°In Richie¡¯s defense, Captain, his ¡®aliens¡¯ guess is as good as any right now. I mean, maybe we should at least consider the possibility that¡ª¡± ¡°Stop. Just stop!¡± Another drop of sweat pooled on Tony¡¯s brow, and this one dripped over his nose before splashing down on the navy blue carpet between his feet. He wasn¡¯t sure whether to snap at the two of them or give them some leeway. This was, after all, the single-most¡­¡°unique¡± situation Tony had ever faced in over fifteen years on the force. Never in his entire life had anything made him so confused and disoriented. I just gotta get to the bottom of it, he told himself. Everything in this world has a rational explanation. Less than two-and-a-half hours ago, something catastrophic might have happened. Yes, might. A profound and overwhelming national security disaster of historic proportions might have just taken place: an event of police misconduct so severe that it dwarfed anything in the department¡¯s history. That was what could have just happened. But it also could not have happened. Why? Because, inexplicably, it wasn¡¯t entirely clear that anything had happened at all¡ªwhich was impossible, because it clearly had. Or hadn¡¯t it? ¡°Let¡¯s go over it again,¡± Tony said. ¡°And then again after that. And again and again until someone comes up with something that doesn¡¯t involve magic or aliens. This is literally our job. So stop fucking around and give me something I can actually use.¡± He didn¡¯t like having to treat his detectives like children, but his own ass was on the line since the ¡°incident¡± that had just taken place had happened right on his precinct¡¯s doorstep. The commissioner herself was grilling him for answers, and right now, he had none to offer. He needed to come up with something, anything. Even a working theory, no matter how farfetched, was better than offering his superiors nothing at all. ¡°Detective Bishop, walk us through everything again.¡± Richard nodded. He looked uneasy, but Tony couldn¡¯t blame him. Everyone was uneasy today. No one knew what in God¡¯s name had just happened, and there were very few ideas of where they should begin searching in order to find out. ¡°So uh¡­like what¡¯s been said already, we know that at about 2:37 p.m. earlier this afternoon, what appeared to be a fully outfitted swat team accompanied by a retinue of greater than thirty uniformed officers with helicopter support appeared seemingly out of thin air in front of Port Authority. This incident was witnessed by no less than five-hundred civilians, including several uniformed officers from our precinct. This is confirmed by multiple cell phone video recordings provided to us by witnesses as well as street cameras all along 42nd street. Additionally, voice recordings of the¡­suspects? Can we call them suspects? Or should we call them officers? I don¡¯t really know what we should¡ª¡± ¡°Just keep going,¡± Tony replied. ¡°And for now, stick with persons of interest.¡± Richard nodded. ¡°Communications of the persons of interest broadcasted on our own frequencies that we picked up suggest that multiple parties were involved in some kind of hostage situation, even though none of the armed officers who were actually inside Port Authority at the time reported anything unusual at all taking place. And actually, Captain, every few minutes, I get another statement from someone on duty at the time, and they¡¯re all saying the same shit: there was nothing at all going on inside PA at the time. If anything, they seem to say it was quieter and calmer than usual.¡± It was at this point that a brief but stunning silence came upon the room, and Tony was sure that everyone present, including himself, felt the same sensation of disquiet in the pit of their bellies. This was the fifth time in an hour they¡¯d gone over this part, and he¡¯d felt a lump form in his throat each time. ¡°So, yeah, so¡­¡± Detective Bishop wet his lips. ¡°So anyway, at 2:48 p.m., exactly eleven minutes and eight seconds after the appearance of these persons of interest, both video recordings and witness testimony all confirm that each and every person of interest completely vanished, along with their vehicles, weapons, and even the police helicopters patrolling above. This happened all at once and without any detectable pause in any of the videos taken or any appreciable flashes or distortions of light or scenery. They just¡­vanished.¡± Yet another silence came upon the room. Tony decided to break the quiet before things became too uncomfortable and awkward. ¡°Look, guys,¡± he said to them. ¡°I know this is fucking nuts. I do. Believe me¡ªI do. But there¡¯s a reason why things happen. There¡¯s always a logical explanation. I don¡¯t expect us to know much of anything for at least a while, but we have to think of something¡ªat least something for now. The media is already demanding answers, and while this is only first starting to go viral social media, it¡¯s only a matter of time before this thing gets out of control. The videos are just too insane. This will be a disaster for the entire department if we don¡¯t get ahead of the narrative here. So give me something, guys. Anything.¡± Tony lifted his hands in a gesture of desperation at the eight detectives, who sat at a long, oval-shaped glass table, which was covered in notes, documents, and laptops. Towards the back of the room, the youngest¡ªand most promising¡ªof his detectives decided to speak next. Despite being in her twenties, Detective Pricilla Ruiz had already solved more cases in her first three years than some of his older guys had solved in the last ten. When she decided to speak, Tony briefly felt something akin to hope arise within him. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Maybe this was some kinda really high-tech stunt,¡± Detective Ruiz said. ¡°You know, like from those people¡­Improv Anywhere?¡± ¡°Improv Anywhere?¡± both Tony and the detective sitting to Ruiz''s right asked in unison. ¡°Yeah,¡± she said. ¡°You know? Those funny guys that get on the subway in their underpants every winter? They do flash mobs where they play pranks on New Yorkers. They¡¯ve been doing it for years. They¡¯re all over the internet. Just check YouTube and you¡¯ll see what I¡¯m talking about.¡± Detective Richard Bishop raised his finger and nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Oh yeah! I know who you¡¯re talking about. Those guys that started singing in the middle of Grand Central? My wife loves those guys. They¡¯re great. But wait, you think they could¡¯ve done this?¡± Priscilla shrugged. ¡°No idea,¡± she said. ¡°But they¡¯ve done really impressive work in the past. Then again¡­I think those people are pretty um¡­I think they¡¯re pretty big on not doing anything illegal or dangerous, and this doesn¡¯t seem like the kind of thing they¡¯d get up to.¡± Tony felt his expression sour on his face. ¡°Yeah, not a great theory,¡± he said. ¡°I mean even if there is some kind of high-level stagecraft that could cause a swarm of people and vehicles to vanish in the blink of an eye, don¡¯t forget there were several helicopters, too. Speaking of which, are we absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure we can rule out, with absolute, total certainty that no one from this precinct was involved in this shit?¡± Detective Ruiz gave a firm nod. ¡°Captain, I¡¯ve quadruple checked. The only officer from our precinct on the scene was Officer Jason Brody, who according to both witness and video evidence, pulled up in his squad car two minutes before the vanishing took place, and he¡¯s just as thrown off by this as we are. He claims to have been completely uninvolved, and there is no reason to doubt him, especially since he¡¯s still¡­well, you know, ¡®here¡¯ with us.¡± Tony wiped yet another bead of sweat from his face and then closed his eyes for just a moment. When he reopened them, he raised his arms in confusion. ¡°This just doesn¡¯t make any sense. I don¡¯t even know¡­I mean I don¡¯t even¡­where do we even start to look for an answer here? At what point do we need to call in a fucking scientist?¡± None of his detectives¡ªnot even Detective Ruiz¡ªmanaged to offer him any guidance. They simply looked back at him, some with a note of compassion, but most with a weakened expression and with the color drained from their face. This was really something spectacular and terrible all at the same time. ¡°Captain¡­?¡± ¡°Yes, Detective Bishop?¡± ¡°I know you¡¯re gonna get pissed off, but please just¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± Tony snapped, pointing angrily at him. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hear about aliens or magic or any more supernatural bullshit. I¡¯ve told you: enough of that!¡± To Tony¡¯s surprise, Richard snapped right back at him. ¡°Well, I¡¯m fuckin¡¯ sorry, Captain, but I can¡¯t pretend I didn¡¯t see what I saw. We all saw what we saw. We all heard what we heard. Those weren¡¯t our guys out there. Those weren¡¯t our police helicopters. So I¡¯m just trying to help, okay? I mean, shit! Unless you can think of any rational way that over forty fuckin¡¯ people could just like¡­pop into existence and then vanish¡­I dunno, man, I just think we should put everything on the table.¡± Of all things, Tony laughed out of pure, utter frustration. ¡°Jesus,¡± he said. ¡°The media is gonna be banging down our doors any second. This spectacle is already trending on Twitter. What am I supposed to tell the commissioner? What am I supposed to say to her?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know, Captain. I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°Do we at least have any hits on facial or voice recognition yet?¡± ¡°Nothing on voice,¡± Richard said. ¡°What about the stuff they were talking about?¡± Richard cocked an eyebrow. ¡°You mean the ¡®Xanax Crew¡¯? Nah, Captain. We didn¡¯t turn up anything on that.¡± He spoke as if it were obvious¡ªas if literally anything about this were obvious and open to natural assumption. The smugness he detected in Detective Bishop¡¯s voice irritated him, but for the moment, he decided to ignore it. Instead, he refocused his attention on the visual side of things. ¡°What about facial recognition?¡± At this, Detective Ruiz added her voice, though there was something odd in her tone, something¡­dark almost, and it became gradually darker as she spoke. ¡°I actually just got a text from Alberto down in video forensics. They¡¯re not going to be done for a while, but they have some preliminary data that¡­no, what? Hold on.¡± She had her cell phone in her hand, which was slightly trembling, something he had never seen from her before. She shook her head and mouthed the word ¡°no¡± followed by ¡°what¡± as if in disbelief. She then moved her phone closer to her face as if to reread something on her screen a second or perhaps third time. ¡°Detective Ruiz? Priscilla? Hello? What¡¯s going on? Speak, please.¡± She lowered her phone. Her brow furrowed, she met his gaze, and then she said, ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m understanding correctly or if this is a typo or something. So far there are no matches, but¡­and I don¡¯t know if this¡­it¡¯s possible maybe I¡¯m not understanding what they¡¯re trying to tell me, because if¡­let me just text them back and make sure I know what I¡¯m¡ª¡± ¡°Just spit it out, already,¡± Tony demanded. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Okay. It appears, at least if I¡¯m reading this correctly, that several of their faces changed, and that¡¯s why they¡¯re having such a difficult time with the recognition software. They¡¯re gonna try using a different algorithm to match the¡ª¡± ¡°Wait, wait!¡± Tony shot in. ¡°Back up a damn second. Did you just say their faces changed? What does that even mean? What do you mean their faces changed? Explain.¡± ¡°I mean some of them had one face, and then a few minutes later, they had a different face. Like, that¡¯s just what Alberto¡¯s saying so¡­I¡¯m just telling you.¡± Absolutely baffled, Tony held his palms out at her. ¡°Whoah, whoah. You¡¯re not making sense. Are you saying that their face¡±¡ªhe pointed to his own face as if for reference¡ª¡°actually changed. As in, I¡¯m standing here as me, and then a few seconds later, I look like Detective Palo over there?¡± ¡°Captain, you should only be so lucky,¡± the detective in question quipped, barking out a laugh. This earned him a few chuckles from some but mostly looks of annoyance as Detective Ruiz nodded in confirmation. ¡°It¡¯s just a text message, but that¡¯s what they seem to be saying.¡± Tony breathed a long, troubled sigh. Then he walked towards the oval table, pulled out a chair, and sat down, resting his forehead in his palms. ¡°Detective Bishop,¡± he said, speaking only slightly above a whisper. ¡°Tell me your theory again about the aliens.¡± **** ¡°Sir, I¡¯m sure there¡¯s no reason for the FBI to get involved,¡± Commissioner Fatima Mirza said, becoming more apprehensive by the second. Too much was happening at once, and it was a struggle just to keep up. What was supposed to be an easy, brief day before a much-deserved vacation had just turned into a nightmare from hell. ¡°I understand, sir. But why involve the FBI? We don¡¯t even know yet if this was an attack or just some kind of prank or if it even¡ª¡± Just then, her office phone rang, and she blew a sigh of relief. ¡°Please just hold on for one moment. One of my captains is calling me right now. Maybe I will have more information for you in a second.¡± She spun around in her office chair so fast that her hijab nearly slipped off her head. ¡°Captain Esposito. I was expecting your call ten minutes ago. Tell me what¡¯s going on? This is spiraling out of control.¡± ¡°We¡­don¡¯t know, Commissioner. We have no idea. I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°What do you mean you have no idea? It¡¯s your job to know!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, ma¡¯am. We¡¯re still working on it. I¡¯ve got every available unit chasing leads and reviewing evidence. But we¡¯ve got nothing right now. No explanation at all.¡± ¡°Not even a working theory? At least give me something plausible, Captain. It doesn¡¯t have to be right: just plausible. A direction to go in. Something!¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ve¡­we¡¯ve got nothing.¡± ¡°Then what should the department tell the press?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯d better think of something, because I¡¯m having you brief them.¡± ¡°Fatima!¡± ¡°Tony!¡± ¡°Do not throw me out there like bait.¡± ¡°Someone has to do it, and it can¡¯t be me. Think that¡¯s unfair, explaining this to the press? Do you think I have it any easier? I now have to explain to the Department of Homeland Security why untraceable, unidentifiable, helicopters bearing the NYPD insignia were flying over restricted airspace completely uninhibited using what, in their words, not mine, was ¡®unprecedented stealth technology.¡¯ Between the two of us, you have it easy. They think I let some kind of military attack helicopter from the future fly over Manhattan. So don¡¯t complain to me, Tony.¡± ¡°But I don¡¯t even know what to say. I literally have no idea what¡ª¡± Fatima hung up before the detective had finished speaking. She had no time or patience. Something inexplicable and dramatic had just taken place in her city, and with each passing second, the chorus of questions grew louder: from the press, from the government, and from people all around the world who were logging onto YouTube or Twitter and seeing something that, at least so far, no one could explain.