Never Far Gone, page 2
Yeah… that’s what I thought.
The two kids I dealt with are going their separate ways, though the disheveled murmuring under their breaths as they walk away is still audible to me, even as their distance increases.
The job’s not that bad, though. Bullshit pay and benefits aside, it’s something I don’t mind. I enjoy the hours away from home. That’s why I chose the longer hours. I can’t stand to be home for too long at a time. With no kids and no wife - or even a pet fish - one can only imagine how mundane a life in isolation can become. The kids at school aren’t too bad to deal with, either. Walking the building, especially during the opening shift, keeps my mind busy and alert. Being alert of your surroundings is one of my most valued skills, courtesy of the United States Military.
The school has five stories and is just a quarter mile from the Jerome Park Reservoir. The colossal structure is surrounded by other schools in its direct vicinity, as well as many residential buildings and the occasional townhouse. Yet, it’s also not too far from the infamous Kingsbridge Station of the Metro Transit System, nearly two blocks away from the rear of the building. Any true New Yorker can tell you how lovely the MTA Trains can be, with the excessive homelessness, seemingly illegal MetroCard fares, and inability to clean trains or stations thoroughly.
That is precisely why I drive…
The first floor is accessed through one of the five entrances surrounding the building, some designed for safety while the others merely make the students’ dismissal less chaotic. The front entrance has two blue metal doors that lead into this small corridor, which can best be described as a 15-square-foot foyer. Only when passing the next set of wooden double doors will you be greeted by the front lobby, followed by the most handsome security guard in the borough.
The first floor also hosts the cafeteria for the children on the east and the auditorium, filled with a few hundred brown extendable chairs, bolted onto the poorly painted dark blue floor on the west. The auditorium’s stage, surrounded by a 30-foot musky drape that hasn’t been washed since the school was built, can only be described as impressive, given its size.
The second floor is easily accessible via the two extremely conspicuous flights of stairs in the school’s lobby and the other stairwells throughout the building. One with the slightest notion of common sense would understand that one flight of stairs - the right - is meant for ascension to the second floor, while the other staircase is for those descending back into the lobby.
Ironically enough, it’s usually the parents who come to pick up their “sick” children from the Principal’s office on the second floor that would get this simple notion twisted.
There is also a sizable library on the west side of the second floor. That’s my favorite place in the building to check in the morning, considering it smells like a newly renovated bookstore. It’s usually quiet throughout the day, even with the substantial number of elementary school students inconsiderably speaking above the noise level for such an environment.
The third floor consists of the typical classrooms one would expect to see in an elementary school, yet between the second and third floors sits a 1,200-square-foot gymnasium engulfed by a light, oak wood floor that seems to get shinier as each day progresses.
Hats off to the janitor, Ramon. What a great guy…
The fourth and fifth floors are also filled with classrooms, but the latter has a smaller gym, probably around 500 square feet, on the east wing of the building. The gym has a mahogany wood floor with the same amount of gloss as its predecessor. Both gyms feature a small equipment room, separated from the rest of the gym by a dark brown 1950s-style door with a padlock. The closet contains all the equipment and toys the students use throughout their gym periods.
The padlock was my idea, as equipment always went missing from the gyms seemingly overnight.
The most important thing to remember about this building is that the elevator connecting all floors is located at the back of the cafeteria on the east side of the school. I volunteered for longer shifts, and that includes the After-school Program that the school offered to parents who were working later shifts and couldn’t pick up their children until eighteen hundred hours - that’s 6 PM for those who can’t read Military Time - which is when we begin closing shop.
Once the last student is picked up and all of the faculty leaves, I do my final sweep of the building for squatters before closing the place myself. Or, at the very least, that was the plan until the State of Emergency was levied on the City of New York.
“Gether, the Governor called it in your county, too,” is what I hear from one of the only other security guards working the shift with me—a short Honduran fellow named Armando Flores. We all call each other by our last names, which I had already become accustomed to in the service.
“You live near Scarsdale, no?” Armando asks me as I approach the muted TV mounted a few feet over the foyer in the lobby. The question is passed down to me in that all too familiar Hispanic accent that only seems to be infused with the indistinguishable accent of a native New Yorker.
“Yeah, did they say why yet?” I asked, slightly unconcerned yet still annoyed at the possibility of driving in the snow on my way home. With a heavy foot, the mere thought of tolerating the cars piling up along the highway makes me nauseous. As the hasty foot traffic around me continues to sway in and out of the building, I continuously glance towards the main entrance whenever a parent or guardian barges in to pick up their child from the Afterschool Program. The time is 5:33 PM.
“Uh, no, not yet,” he says while glued to the TV. After a brief moment of staring at Armando, trying to read his facial expression, I can see his eyes constantly diverting away from the TV when a creak from the wooden doors leading into the foyer fills the air.
Good to see he’s doing his job.
As my eyes scan the room, I notice something I have never seen before: faculty scurrying home early; it’s not the “It’s Friday, and I wanna get home to my leftover Chicken Alfredo and watch porn all night” scurrying. A noticeable concern is on their faces as they pass the double doors into the now dark and slightly windy winter night. Then there’s the parents. The group of remaining children begins to diminish as their respective parents pick them up; some carry their children as they brush past anyone in their way. When it comes to the moderately crumpled paper in front of me on the security desk that reads “Sign-Out Sheet” in bold font and all caps, most of the adults are putting little to no effort into their signatures. Others, especially those who arrived closer to the 6 o’clock mark, ignore the sheet altogether, not even pausing to acknowledge us or the questions coming from their children.
“Take over the desk. I’ll be right back,” I mumble to Flores as I begin stumbling up the staircase in the lobby towards the Principal’s office to get confirmation as to our next steps following the State of Emergency, almost tripping in the process of going upwards. I’m assuming the snowstorm coming to the area is directly responsible for the declaration, as New York is notorious for closing their schools for even the most minuscule snowfall.
Now, I own a cabin just West of Millinocket Lake in Maine for unrelated reasons, yet with this pivotal piece of information, it should be made clear that I am no stranger to cold weather. So, calling a State of Emergency due to light snow - which is said to not be more than five inches of snow by morning - is nothing more than an eye-roller for me. I make it up to the office to see the school principal; the poor bastard goes by Principal Lofter. And here you are, thinking my name is messed up. He’s bundled up lightly but hurrying as if in a rush like everyone else.
“Mr. Gether, I need you to do me a favor…” the old man, who seems to be in his mid-to-late 50s, says out of breath. All I know about the man is that he’s from one of the southern states, which is why he has difficulty pronouncing my last name, yet I never overthink it since he seems like the type to hate being corrected.
“Yes, sir,” I say, slightly out of breath from skipping steps on the staircase in the lobby.
“I need you to stay in the school if you can, just to see how bad things get by the morning. Ramon left midday without saying a goddamn word…” Mr. Lofter says as he extends his slightly shriveled, tanned right hand towards me while using his left to cover his mouth as he begins to cough. I can smell the alcohol from here, albeit faintly. “Nevertheless…” he continues, seemingly annoyed, “We can’t rely on him assisting us tomorrow if things get terrible here. The young lad lives in Brooklyn. I can leave you the keys to my office, and you can rest here if need be. I’ll pay you overtime as well, of course. I really need you, sport,” he says, with his last sentence sounding more like a question than a statement.
“Sure thing, boss, but what about Armando? And do you have any idea what the staff and parents are so shaken up about-” I manage to get out before my last question is rudely cut off by the old man standing before me.
“Son, Armando can go home. He’s been working with us longer, yet somehow, I trust you more…” he admits as his disgruntled laugh causes the smell of alcohol to be more present in my vicinity than before. As he pushes away from his wooden desk and begins to stand from his seemingly comfortable rolling chair, he glances at me sincerely before placing a hand on my shoulder and continuing to speak. “This place won’t stand without you,” he says as his hand slides off of my shoulder and grabs the handle of his ancient-looking satchel.
“I- I can do that, sir. Thank you,” I whisper as my tone transitions to concern rather than appreciation for the opportunity to work overtime. He gives me a nod of approval before breaking his gaze and ushering past me. He grabs his windbreaker from the coat rack near the office entrance before storming out of the room as quickly as I had entered.
Great…
As the sounds associated with a chaotic dismissal - kids hollering, parents scolding, teachers instructing, and so forth - seem to evaporate in nearly an hour, I find myself standing alone in the desolate building I was hired to protect. Typically, such isolation would console me, yet I can’t help but feel a sense of dread looming over me as the various sounds of sirens and honking from around the neighborhood fill the air. With each minute that passes, that dread only seems to worsen. As I scan each floor and find that each classroom is visually cleared, the commotion from outside the walls seems to elevate as time progresses, turning my dread into paranoia.
I can’t do this…
The thought of remaining in the dark about what is going on beyond these walls is almost too much to bear. I’d compare the feeling to being ten times worse than a sudden cliffhanger in a TV show, yet I don’t think that would do it enough justice. With my uniform still on, I descend the West Stairwell until I reach the first floor of the building. One by one, I verify that each exit is locked before going to the security desk and grabbing my beige jacket and black book bag. The bag is quite heavy, yet I barely acknowledge the weight as it is flung over my jacket with ease. With the keys in hand that Principal Lofter had given me before his departure, I make my way out of the East Exit before locking the door behind me and heading for my truck in the rear courtyard.
Damn, it’s freezing out here…
With each exhale I take, revealing itself in a white cloud that can only be done in the cold, I put my hands in my pockets as I approach the newly released 2014 Toyota Tundra I spent every penny in my savings account to finance. Given my frequent commutes up North, it seemed more like a necessity than a desire. The snow falling on the ground around me only defends my argument. I unlock the black truck, its factory paint still radiating in the night sky as specks of snowflakes accumulate on the hood, and practically throw myself into the driver’s seat as the vehicle roars to life. With my bag being swung onto the passenger seat, I crank the heat up before giving the truck a few moments to warm up.
As the frost on the windshield begins to dissipate, I can’t help but notice how vulnerable I feel given the lack of information I am met with. Even as I flip through the various radio stations, I see no mention of a State of Emergency. Not once. After a few minutes of trying and failing to scour any news outlet for something that could help me better understand what is happening, I glance up and notice a few people running in the same direction on the street. Even with a couple of inches of snow on the ground, there is little in the way to stop those people from running towards, or away, from something that only they can see. Even after a moment of hesitation, I have enough of a reason to justify my desertion. Next stop: Home.
With the windshield wipers on full blast, it is surprising that the roads are emptier than I had expected. A few cars are passing me on the opposite lane of the Bronx River Parkway at a speed that is undoubtedly faster than the limit, but the lack of visibility ahead makes that fact irrelevant in my mind. Instead, I attempt to focus on not hitting anything, or anyone, directly in front of me. Even with a truck well-suited for this type of weather, the sporadic and unpredictable behavior of the drivers around me makes it all the more difficult to stay in my lane. I guess the size of the Tundra isn’t enough to deter an older compact car from cutting me off so they don’t miss their exit.
Dude… watch it!
As I pull off the Parkway and approach a smaller two-lane road leading toward my house, I’m met with the sight of the pavement that has not yet been cleared of snow, causing the truck tires to spin slightly as I turn onto the narrow street. With only one lane for oncoming traffic, I do my best to stay in my lane, given that there are little to no visible markings on the ground. As I begin to close the distance between myself and the house, which is a few more miles north, the ever-worsening glow of high beams from the oncoming lane seems to disorient me as a vehicle approaches.
What the hell is-
As the vehicle approaches my position, I slow down to around 30 mph before being met with a sight that serves as every driver’s worst nightmare: a head-on collision. In a panicked yet slightly collected manner, I softly tap on the brake as I turn the vehicle to the left to bypass the approaching vehicle. Within milliseconds, I can tell that the other driver is going nearly double my speed. As I turn the truck away from the crimson sedan, I slam on the brakes once the other driver flies past me and runs into a metal railing. The sound makes me wince as the impact seems fatal from the start. That hypothesis only seems more credible as the truck rolls over twice before forcefully throwing itself upright on its wheels violently.
I- I can’t… what the fu- oh my god… wha-
With both hands on the steering wheel, I can hear my heart beating out of my chest, even over the small amounts of static protruding from the radio. My breaths start to slow, yet my composure is short-lived once I pull myself together. After a moment of recovery, I finally realize the gravity of my situation. Turning in my seat to face the SUV nearly 50 yards behind me, I can see little to no commotion from within the vehicle. I sit upright and turn the steering wheel in the direction of the crash site as best as I can, and the truck begins to slowly advance towards what I only assumed to be the start of a very long night.
As I hastily park the truck about 20 feet behind the sedan, I contemplate whether I should run out to help or call the authorities. The thumping in my skull isn’t helping me to decide on the matter, so I fumble for the door handle to my truck. As my quivering hand makes contact with the handle, I find myself instinctively jolting as the driver’s door to the SUV in front of me creaks open. After a moment of silence, apart from the rumbling of my truck and the steam radiating from the front of the crashed vehicle, a younger woman, probably no older than 30, falls to the wet ground in agony as a bone protrudes from her elbow. The white spattered around the floor is tainted with a dark red as blood seeps from her wounds. Anyone can tell that the pain she’s feeling is immeasurable, yet there isn’t so much as a grunt from the woman to show for it. I open the door and grab the overhead handlebar to prop my upper body over the open door.
“Are you alright, miss?” I holler over the sounds of a ferocious flurry effortlessly making its way through the neighborhood. There is a cold that follows suit, and it’s enough to make all of the hairs on my body stand up. The thought of asking a question I already know the answer to makes me feel like I am wasting my breath. She doesn’t respond. Without much hesitation, I sit back down and begin scrambling through the center console to find my phone as the blinding LED headlights place the now motionless woman in the center of attention as if she were the key actress in a play.
I need to call the police…
As I struggle to dial 911 and put the phone on speaker, the sound of a busy line fills the air. As an MP during my time in the military, we worked closely with local law enforcement for domestic issues and the like; even then, I have never experienced a busy line when it came to emergency services. I bring the phone to my ear as I redial, only to be met with temporary paralysis as the injured woman nearly two dozen feet in front of me begins to stand. Her rise from the ground is calm and nonchalant, as if she had tripped while going up the stairs. Even though I’m not the one who sustained the injuries, I know that is impossible given her current state. No amount of adrenaline in the world could conceal the pain that she must feel as she rises onto her feet with ease.
How the fuck-
Before I can say or do anything, something I wasn’t anticipating happens: she begins running toward me. The phone I am carrying in my left-hand slips from my grasp and onto the snow below, yet I pay it no mind as I pull the driver-side door shut just as the woman throws herself against the driver-side of my truck. She must be around 5’6,” yet the Tundra vibrates like she has been playing offense for the Giants. Out of instinct, I reach into the book bag on the passenger seat before fumbling for the Glock 26 inside. As I chamber a round, I aim the small handgun at the window and towards the woman.
