One man lay draped over a mangled shopping cart, with his leg, missing from the knee down, he was dead, and a pool of ruby red blood began to make its way toward the drain a few feet away.
The air left his lungs and he choked back the need to vomit. The building was all but gone, through the fire and debris, Mark could see that the walls were sheered off at about four feet high. Pipes and metal, along with brick, were piled up in the outer rim. From the looks of it, the blast had been in the center of the store.
Rushing to his feet, he found the strength to stand then he ran. This can't be happening! He thought as he bolted toward the building. Only a matter of minutes had passed by from the blast until now, but it seemed like it had been hours.
"K!" he screamed, reaching the spot where the front doors used to be. He started to dig into the mass of bricks and rubble. "Sam!" He cried. He refused to believe that they were...
"NO!" They were alive, they had to be! This was a mistake --
"not like this," he sobbed, "not like this."
His hands were soaked with blood as he dug in the dirt and concrete. He found a strap, it looked like Sam's backpack, and a fresh flood of hope filled his heart as he pulled. The strap was only three inches long and was burnt at the end but it was Sam's. He threw his head back and screamed yelling out to God to save his little girl but only feeling the cold stone sky in return.
Tears ran down his face, and he tried to wipe them away, but that just made it worse. He could feel the world spinning, and then, his head hit the dirt making a new cut on his forehead, which began to bleed at once.
The sound of the fire trucks and police cars could be heard in the distance. Mark's head ached; he could not get his ears to stop ringing. He could see the blue sky through the smoke, with the same lumbering clouds floating off in the distance; they seemed to smile, why were they smiling?
Then everything went black.
________________________________________
SWEET
DREAMS
51
KIRK SAT IN THE parking lot of Simco Foods, which was a big metal warehouse with a little office stuck to the front like a tumor. The bulk of the building was covered with rust and the small office and the parking lot were as neglected as the rest of the building.
Taking out his gun, he dropped the clip, made sure that it was full, and then slid it back into place. Pulling the slide back, he put a bullet into the chamber. Kirk was never a boy scout, but he was always prepared. Being a detective had taught him that you never know what people will do when their backs are against the wall.
After locking the car, he went through the front office door. The receptionist was an older woman with gray speckled hair and more wrinkles then a bulldog. She looked to be in her sixties and when Kirk entered the dingy office, she looked up at him through her horn-rimmed glasses.
"Can I help you, young man?" Her voice quivered just like he remembered his grandmothers did when he was a boy. He loved going over to his granny's house, she always had a dish of M&M's on the coffee table.
Kirk pointed to the Detroit Police Department badge on his hip belt and flashed her a half grin. The FBI had issued them all identification but he didn't want to use it if he didn't have to. No one ever looked at the city stamp on the badge anyway.
"I'm detective Weston and I am investigating a homicide and would like to ask you a few questions."
"Well I don't know if I can help you with that, we don't get much excitement around here." She fumbled with the tiny chain that hooked to her glasses and went around her neck.
"Your company delivers to David's Island don't they?"
Kirk looked around at the faded pictures on the wall of a mountain lake and one of the ocean. They looked to be over thirty years old and the rest of the office was dated just the same. Kirk tried to sound like he was half-interested in the answer so as not to alarm the poor old woman.
"Yes, we
The air left his lungs and he choked back the need to vomit. The building was all but gone, through the fire and debris, Mark could see that the walls were sheered off at about four feet high. Pipes and metal, along with brick, were piled up in the outer rim. From the looks of it, the blast had been in the center of the store.
Rushing to his feet, he found the strength to stand then he ran. This can't be happening! He thought as he bolted toward the building. Only a matter of minutes had passed by from the blast until now, but it seemed like it had been hours.
"K!" he screamed, reaching the spot where the front doors used to be. He started to dig into the mass of bricks and rubble. "Sam!" He cried. He refused to believe that they were...
"NO!" They were alive, they had to be! This was a mistake --
"not like this," he sobbed, "not like this."
His hands were soaked with blood as he dug in the dirt and concrete. He found a strap, it looked like Sam's backpack, and a fresh flood of hope filled his heart as he pulled. The strap was only three inches long and was burnt at the end but it was Sam's. He threw his head back and screamed yelling out to God to save his little girl but only feeling the cold stone sky in return.
Tears ran down his face, and he tried to wipe them away, but that just made it worse. He could feel the world spinning, and then, his head hit the dirt making a new cut on his forehead, which began to bleed at once.
The sound of the fire trucks and police cars could be heard in the distance. Mark's head ached; he could not get his ears to stop ringing. He could see the blue sky through the smoke, with the same lumbering clouds floating off in the distance; they seemed to smile, why were they smiling?
Then everything went black.
________________________________________
SWEET
DREAMS
51
KIRK SAT IN THE parking lot of Simco Foods, which was a big metal warehouse with a little office stuck to the front like a tumor. The bulk of the building was covered with rust and the small office and the parking lot were as neglected as the rest of the building.
Taking out his gun, he dropped the clip, made sure that it was full, and then slid it back into place. Pulling the slide back, he put a bullet into the chamber. Kirk was never a boy scout, but he was always prepared. Being a detective had taught him that you never know what people will do when their backs are against the wall.
After locking the car, he went through the front office door. The receptionist was an older woman with gray speckled hair and more wrinkles then a bulldog. She looked to be in her sixties and when Kirk entered the dingy office, she looked up at him through her horn-rimmed glasses.
"Can I help you, young man?" Her voice quivered just like he remembered his grandmothers did when he was a boy. He loved going over to his granny's house, she always had a dish of M&M's on the coffee table.
Kirk pointed to the Detroit Police Department badge on his hip belt and flashed her a half grin. The FBI had issued them all identification but he didn't want to use it if he didn't have to. No one ever looked at the city stamp on the badge anyway.
"I'm detective Weston and I am investigating a homicide and would like to ask you a few questions."
"Well I don't know if I can help you with that, we don't get much excitement around here." She fumbled with the tiny chain that hooked to her glasses and went around her neck.
"Your company delivers to David's Island don't they?"
Kirk looked around at the faded pictures on the wall of a mountain lake and one of the ocean. They looked to be over thirty years old and the rest of the office was dated just the same. Kirk tried to sound like he was half-interested in the answer so as not to alarm the poor old woman.
"Yes, we
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