Blue Bloods

Deep within her warm, dark cocoon, Grace dreamed of music. The achingly sweet refrains she pulled from her cello. The fierce beat of a marching band. The quiet melody of a stream. The insistent pulse of a heartbeat. The false cacophony of a city, thousands of sounds blending into a melodious whole. The painfully loud and deep ululations of planets whipping around their stars. The crunchy pounding of the universe itself, collapsing into chaos before exploding into order over and over and over again.

Music warmed her, soothed her, kept her safe.

Apologies, little one, but you need to sleep now.

A volcano spoke in her mind, a mountain filled with fire. His voice pressed her down into the echoing depths, and she dreamt no more.

***

The grandfather clock's tick hammered through the silence of the old house. Out of habit, Charlie glanced up to check the time. Since the rain of fire, the clock had become pointless. Time thumped past as clearly as his own heartbeat, as loud as his own breath. Clearer, even; every now and then he lost track of his breath or heartbeat. He held his time, and the slow swing of the pendulum froze in place at the top of its arc.

Problems always had answers. The rain of fire and all its side effects were no different. Charlie had the answer, but he couldn't remember it. He was sure he’d read it in one of his books, if only he could find the right one, if only he recognized it when he did.

The first day he'd wasted looking in places that flashed into his memory. Creation stories, books about beginnings, stories of origins, he'd rifled through them all, to no avail. Frantic, he'd poured good time after bad, days two and three thrown away chasing down endings as assiduously as he'd sought beginnings.

Day four he had a false epiphany; the answer must be in one of his foreign language books. Long ago, as part of his therapy, he'd read translations, but he didn't collect the translations. Faced with the task of finding the translations again, he opted for the simpler answer. The internet provided downloads of educational software, and by mid-day he could read Japanese, French, Korean, Chinese, and German. Late in the day, after reading and rereading everything, he even learned Italian, just to read the dialogue bubbles in one of the books instead of the footnote translation, but that only taught him that the original author spoke lousy Italian. The author couldn't even blame the bad Italian on poor reproduction; Charlie's book collection only contained originals.

Charlie collected originals. That simple idea suffused everything he'd done since therapy, and it had served him well. Steve never understood how Charlie chose his partners when they hit the clubs, but he only looked at a woman’s attractiveness. He could take a skinny, short, blonde, well-endowed Caucasian woman home every night of the week and call himself well satisfied. So, Charlie played wingman, only pushing Steve to the side when novelty raised her ever rarer head.

Of course, originals only made up part of Charlie's vocation. He completed collections. He occasionally restored items that weren't too damaged. His calling, found so long ago in therapy, tied all his disparate ventures together. Charlie brought order out of chaos. When that thought hit him at the beginning of day five, he had the beginnings of true epiphany.

Since then, he'd catalogued his collection, organized it all by date, and read through it from oldest to newest. It had taken more than a week, but he read the very last one now. A retelling of a classic heroic tale, he'd started collecting it mostly for the unique art style of the pictures than the story itself, but as he'd learned in therapy, if you believe something exists, look for it carefully. If you don't find it, it didn’t exist in the first place. Since he knew the answer hid in his collection, it must be in the last few pages of the last book on his list.

The grandfather clock's tock rolled through the house, counterpoint to the tick from eons ago. Charlie glanced up at the clock out of habit. He waited for the pendulum to complete its swing and held his time once more. Silence reigned in the old house full of books, and Charlie read on toward epiphany.

***

Something had changed.

Since the silent day the world shook, she'd tried to figure out the difference. She'd felt the ceiling collapse, assumed death would follow soon. A ball of light surrounded her hand, pushing darkness aside, making her safe, but something had changed.

Silence was the key. If the world had sound again, she would know how to unlock the chains that bound her. Something had changed, so other things could as well, so she strained, endlessly, to open her eyes and end the silence.

***

Jesse slipped her car into the narrow compact spot, killed the engine, and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. As a volunteer, she didn't have to be here today, but her friends counted on her. The ambulance wouldn't drive itself. People desperately needed to get to the hospital, and the hospital didn't have enough paid drivers to keep all the ambulances running on the weekend.

A tired sigh forced its way past her lips. She and Charlie were the only ones in the group who didn't deal with human wreckage all day long, and Drew, Steve and Angela counted on the two of them to keep things in perspective. Charlie disappeared before the meteor even left Earth's orbit. When they had time, Jesse and the other three would have to go to his house and dig him out of his hidey hole. At a guess, she thought he’d probably gone to ground in the bunker in his basement, but for now Jesse had her hands full keeping the other three sane.

She hadn’t done a very good job. She couldn’t say she’d stayed completely sane herself. She'd hit the gym hoping to test the limits of her newfound strength, but the machines told her she hadn’t any more strength than before. That left her no explanation for the events on the roof. Worse, last weekend a tire had blown on the ambulance, and when she tried to put the spare on, the jack was broken. A section of jersey wall should have been too much to slide, let alone lift, but she'd grabbed it in one hand, hefted the corner of the ambulance with the other, and slid it in as an improvised stand.

It made no sense. Jesse couldn't deal with the world if it made no sense. Maybe it would make more sense after she had a good night's sleep. Tonight looked good for sleep, if she could get away from the hospital a little early. Of course, it would be nice to go out on a Friday night, too. All of them needed it, really. Maybe she could arrange something with Charlie...

The deep rumble of a truck pulling in next to her shook her out of a light doze. She looked around blearily, wondering why she'd fallen asleep in her car. After a few moments, she remembered where she’d parked, and why. She needed a sugar rush, so she grabbed a handful of hard candies from her glove compartment, popped one in her mouth, tossed the rest in her purse, and opened her car door.

Before she got it more than an inch open, it banged against the huge pickup truck squeezed into the spot next to her. Her hand shaking with fury, she pulled the door shut slowly and carefully. She couldn't afford repairs if she broke something. With equal care she slid open her sunroof and slipped out of the car that way.

The pickup, brand new and way too shiny to be a working vehicle, squatted in the handicapped space like a toad. No handicapped plates, no sticker, not even a mirror tag. She glanced around, but the owner was nowhere to be seen; he'd bolted inside already. Jesse made a note of the license plate number, turned to go inside, and stopped as an old sedan rolled up to the door of the hospital. The elderly couple inside looked around but saw no other spots open. The driver got out, made his way around the car, and helped his wife get herself out of the car and braced on her walker.

"I'll be in as soon as I can find a spot." He turned and, one hand leaning on the car, made his way back to the driver's side door.

Through it all, Jesse stood frozen. She couldn't make herself walk away. With all the huge problems going on, some impatient idiot guy had to go and make one more. Enough was enough. Before the old man could drive away, she stepped over to him and flashed a smile.

"Sir? I'm one of the drivers here. I'd be glad to park your car for you."

The old man flashed her a wary look, but one glance at the crowded parking lot melted his fear into resignation. "I appreciate that, miss." He leaned into the car, pulled out the keys, and handed them to her. "I'm Hank Jackson, that's my wife Mildred over there. We'll be just inside, waiting to see if anyone can help us. If you could let me know where you find a spot, I'll go get it after we're done."

She reached past him, punched the lock button, and closed the door. "Let me help you inside, and I'll come back and find a spot when you're settled."

A few minutes later, with the Jacksons settled filling out forms, Jesse wandered back outside. She patted the Jackson's sedan on one fender in passing. "I'll be right back for you."

A few steps and she stood behind the massive SUV in the handicapped spot. She grinned, got a firm grip on the shiny, unused tow hitch, and lifted. The squeal of springs uncoiling as the weight went from the rear wheels accompanied her grunt of effort. After a few steps, she realized the front wheels were locked in place rather than rolling freely, and she leaned under, got one hand under the frame, and hefted.

When she had the truck balanced on her shoulder she looked around, mischief filling her. "So where should we put you?"

A few minutes later, she found the Jacksons still filling out forms. Mildred took one look at her and let out a cry. "Dear, what happened to you?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Jackson. Your car is in the handicapped spot just outside the door."

She handed Hank his keys. He frowned at her. "I'm sure I checked that spot. There was a truck parked there."

"Oh, he wasn't here long. He just needed directions. He didn't have time to hang around."

***

As Drew waited at the traffic light outside the hospital, she scanned the parking lots on the corners. It was an old habit from when she drove a patrol car. It amazed her how people who would freak out if a cop car drove into the lot would keep on doing whatever illegal shit they were doing with that same car passing by on the street.

A crowd on the corner opposite the hospital pointed at the roof and stared. She followed their line of vision until she found what had attracted their attention. Weird, but not criminal, so she turned into the lot and tried to ignore the wadded-up paper towels tucked into her jeans.

Years ago, she'd asked her sergeant about the legality of construction workers dangling their toolboxes from their crane hooks. He'd let her know on no uncertain terms that whether it was or not, the guys working construction had expensive tools, and had a right to keep them from being vandalized.

She supposed if it applied to tools, it applied to trucks, too. Besides, she was on suspension. Not her job at the moment anyway.