The Attack

The Response: Chapter Two

21:23 CST August 15th

 

Elliot Harper, Birmingham Policeman

I was washing the dishes at the station. Not that I wanted to. I lost the bet with my buddies and this was my punishment. I didn't expect anything big to happen tonight, it was a Thursday. I don't think anyone thinks to themselves, "Hey it's Thursday let's go rape some people." Well, I hope not.

"Elliot, we have a 10-80 at the Reagan Memorial Theater in Five Points. All officers to site. 10-52 now 10-52."

I pressed my radio "Mac, did I hear you say 10-80?"

"Correct."

I dropped the plate I was drying off, and it shattered on the floor. I sprinted to my vehicle and floored it to Five Points.

When I got within a half mile, I could hear police sirens and smell smoke. "Oh god," I said to myself, "who the hell would do this?"

I parked near the site of the bombing, and I saw the carnage. Blood and debris everywhere. I thought I saw a survivor under a neon sign announcing the ticket price, but it was only a bloody leg.

News reporters swarmed at me like I was a hot carcass and they were flies.

"Any body count? What can you tell us about the expolsio-"

"Stop!" I screamed. I grabbed a microphone from a frail woman reporter and looked a camera in the eye. "We do not know what happen. We are working on the situation. Everyone stay calm. Please."

Just then, a medical team arrived from UAB hospital. They came up to the police supervisor, Mr. Hartman.

"You can not recover survivors until we clear all the explosives out of the build-"

Boom!

"****!" I shrieked. The shockwave from the blast knocked me over on my knees, on top of a pile of reporters. I shook myself off and got up. More carnage. The medical team and Hartman had shielded us from the blast like a human barrier. They were all dead now.

Like a resurrection, another medical team arrived, looking just the old one. They spent around thirty minutes clearing the fourteen dead from the second major blast. A bomb squad went in the ruins of the building, which was mostly collapsed, a concrete skeleton.

"10-52. First casualty counts say 265-290 dead," I said solemnly into my radio. Policemen were pacing back and forth around the building, taking a few minutes to set up a barrier and telling curious pedestrians to stay away.

I took down several security cameras and drove them to the Birmingham Police Department. I questioned several people that had been shopping in Five Points, including a hipster named Ireland Shook who had been buying calming incense at the Golden Temple.

"Man, it's such a shame," Ireland said, "I didn't see much of it. God is looking away from his dead children, the scarlet running down the sewers. This is a city with a history of violence in its vein-"

"Okay," I said annoyed, "that's some nice poetry there. You should put it in a book. But I'm not in a creative mood right now, Ireland. I need evidence so we don't have another attack on our hands."

"Look bro," Ireland said, pissed off, "All I ****ing saw was some guy driving east from the theater right before the explosion."

"Do you have his tag number?"

"Ugh, **** I have it on my phone." He pulled out an IPhone 4 from his acid-washed jeans and typed in a pass code. His background said "COEXIST" and his phone case had a Jimi Hendrix rocking out on the guitar. "I only took a picture of it because I'm a Instagram sensation, always looking for new photos. My name is @Ireland_Is_I."

"What a douche," I muttered.

"Here it is," Ireland said, proud of himself, "22A23F1. It was a Toyota Camry 2008. If you need me here is my number. 205-154-9937."

"Thanks. I'll check you out on Instagram."

"Remember to make peace, not war. Don't seek the death penalty, even for that terrorist!"

I rolled my eyes and got in my car.