WWBP: Connections to Dead Worlds · 11:09am May 31st, 2017
More short fiction. Health's been absolutely abysmal this month, but I'll be back up to it tomorrow, I feel.
Not Safe For GhostOfHeraclitus warning, straight out.
The superintendent gave the call; "Bomb squad's cleared out. Let's get moved in, quick as you like."
The police tape stretched out, no one without a badge was allowed within fifty meters of the bookstore. Inspector Taggart led his band of plainclothes in after as two men in padded moonsuits lumbered out, more tilting side-to-side like an action figure moved by a child's hand than walking. Their head lamps went off, and the torches went on.
First on the agenda; A bottle had been bought for the men, and they'd all thrown back a shot, even the teetotallers; It wasn't for the buzz, this many bodies in one place and the smell of it can congeal at the back of your throat. The alcohol would help with that.
No one looked twice at any of their colleagues who went back for a second or third slug. There was a silent, shared prayer of thanks that it was dark enough that you could only see one thing at a time, what you were directly looking at.
"Bomb squad cleared us, so what you see is what you get. Check everyone you see for a pulse, breathing, anything. First priority," Taggart snapped off, men in suits sent running. Their shoes ripped and peeled off the floor as it trailed through blood, too much of it to step around, the sound of plastic wrap being peeled off a countertop, or of sweaty skin ripping off a leather couch.
"After that, we get a full count, accurate as we can, and identify every single one of these people. Check for wallets, for phones, and report back to me."
Seniority meant he got to hold the 'clipboard' rather than go running through the gore-pile. A bit more high-tech than the old days, it was a computer tablet, with an internet connection to access government databases.
The scene itself became visible in small pieces at a time as torches scoured through,, or all-at-once whenever a camera flashed, and the place burned into the back of your eyes, and from there into memory. The place was mostly a pile of meat, spread among shelves, and the police swarmed the piles like corpse-flies. The shredded paper blanketing the scene had done a good job of absorbing the blood, but it made the sharp coppery acid-smell linger in the air. All because a controversial bestseller had come out of hiding for the first time in twenty years for a book signing and a public reading, and--
The bodies didn't mean anything yet, and Taggart treated it purely professionally. He'd left his humanity at the door, he'd have to try to pick it back up later, but if he tried to carry it in with him something was going to break.
This was just another crime scene. These weren't people anymore; Two explosions, unconfirmed source, had made the initial strike, and then an assault rifle to clean up the rest.
When you destroy something, when you brutalise it, it always looks warped and disfigured and slightly unreal and inhuman. They were people once, but now he couldn't even recognize them as that. It helped you shut it out while you did the job. For as long as that was true, they could all do their jobs right now. The photos were already taken; After this they could start to clean up.
Paramedics were working with them shoulder-to-shoulder. No-one left here had a pulse, not even a weak one. Apparently the shrapnel had been coated with something that stopped blood from coagulating, someone could have bled out from even a fine cut, he noted that down on his electronic clipboard. A lot more bodybags then there should have been.
He processed the names, hot and fast, as the headlines started breaking.
There was a buzz from a bodybag, and a light shone through at waist height.
"Shit."
More came, first a trickle. Another light in the darkness of the bookstore, some buzzing. Some peppy jingle, some cheerful music, impossible to be ignored. It was meant to be.
"Inspector?" A nervous constable shouted from across the store, a phone jumping around in his gloved hands, "What's happening?"
"It's the families." Taggart said, "They've all just seen the news. They're calling to make sure they're okay. Make sure they’re the ones that got out."
More phones, more buzzing. Now there were dozens of them, some of them whining mournfully with damaged speakers, others crying full-force. Some just vibrated and glowed in the darkness.
The torches went off, and the room became a strange sort of planetarium, each phone glowing like a dim star in a cold galaxy, shining impossibly bright against the black.
All of them bearing messages from lightyears away, asking what had happened to the worlds that had orbited them.
The phones kept buzzing until their batteries died, as Taggart's men did their work, being careful not to answer any of them even by accident.
Geez.
What's the context here?
A modern tragedy, poignant in both implication and novelty. Thank you for it.
4553673
Been an idea I had since the Pulse nightclub shooting.
My grandfather was also head detective of a major New South Wales drug squad, so a lot of the small details are from the kind of stories you can't get out of him when he's sober.
There's a lot of eerie things you find in modern times. The depiction "The torches went off, and the room became a strange sort of planetarium, each phone glowing like a dim star in a cold galaxy" is haunting.
Wow. Well done. Not really much else I can say.
Brutal, and excellent imagery.
This really struck me. There's so much happening around this statement that really helps underline this scene for the tragedy it represents as a whole, not just to the people who were there at the wrong moment.
I know it likely won't do you much good for me to say this, but I sincerely hope you feel better soon, mate.