And Then Acid Fell

(Third Story - Third Chapter)

In her younger years, she could go almost an entire week with only coffee as an energy source. Agile, cunning and high in endurance – these were the attributes that best described Amelia. In the nearly 10 years since working at Channel 5, working her way up from an assistant of an assistant to a segment producer, has drained all of her energy and potential.

    Having received the call from Declan Frobisher at exactly 0800, about two hours ago, Amelia went straight back to work trying to assemble a rescue for the network's supposedly prized anchor. She pushed, shoved, jostled, negotiated and groveled, all to no avail.

    “Rescue vehicles and personnel could no longer be deployed,” was the prevailing notion heard all around the chatter. It was a grim realization that was difficult to stomach. The newsroom had been transformed into one of many makeshift headquarters for the coordination of the relief efforts in large part because of the communications equipment at their disposal.

    There have been successful rescues but the teams were advised to hole up in nearby storm shelters, only few managed to return to the building. Of the few that did return, only one or two teams dared to journey back into the field out of fear for their own safety.

    Amelia couldn't accept the fact that their premier news anchor – the face of their nightly news – had been classified as such a low priority. Nobody seemed to have a proper handle on the survivor's guilt she felt, or nobody paid any mind. At the back of her mind, she knew, and accepted, the fact that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

    Agonizing cries and desperate howling lingered throughout the halls since last night and the night before. Food supplies have dipped and the coffers were running dry.

    Amelia hasn't had a decent meal, nor adequate sleep, for what seemed like an eternity. She staggered as she retreated to her desk. She dreaded what would become of Declan and Martin if the storm refused to cease.

    “How's Fido doing?” Declan asked, sitting on the floor with his back against the broadcasting equipment. In the years that they had worked together, Declan and Amelia developed a system for relaying information to each other cryptically.

    “There are no more rescue teams available for deployment,” Amelia informed him resignedly.

    Declan's forehead furrowed, and turned his back away from Martin, who was dismantling the van's interior and mumbling in detestation. “Is it possible to patch in a live feed?”

    “What would be the point?”

    “I'm asking if it would be possible,” Declan grumbled, lacing his shoelaces.

    “They're bearing down on electricity consumption, I don't think the office manager would allow it. What would be the point anyway? It's not like anyone could watch the live broadcast.”

    In the hours before Declan called, when it was light enough outside, the tilted electric post across the street gave way and forced the stranded news men awake. Not long after, Martin caught sight of a car parked not far from where they were, from the small windows at the back of the van. It held, what looked like, a crying child pounding on the windows, and was exactly beneath the other tilted electric post. They then decided that the best course of action was to rescue the child from the imminent, gruesome demise. Martin reasoned that he was the best candidate for the job because his youth provided him speed and agility, and that his skin had already been scarred anyway. Declan countered that Martin was in no shape to make such a daring save. They argued for quite a bit until they arrived at a compromise.

    Declan and Amelia sat silently, acknowledging the hopelessness of the situation. A strange calm enveloped them, a stark contrast to the noise that littered the newsroom on Amelia's end.