The Last Hero

September 13th, 2013

September 13th, 2013Bryan stared at the mangled door jamb of the front door and sighed. Shattered glass and splintered wood littered the front porch. The barrel-chested man standing next to him had his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It looks like your buddy H-Bar struck again,” the man grumbled.

“H-Bar” was the name bestowed upon Bryan's friend and fellow firefighter, Terry Lincoln. Terry's overuse of the Halligan bar was the stuff of legend among most of the firehouses in the area. Many people believed he went to bed at night with the tool by his side. One time, Bryan overheard a fellow firefighter joke he once saw Terry caressing the thing in his bedroom one night. After the joke circulated throughout the ranks, the man standing next to him, Fire Chief Mackenzie “Mac” Shawnessy, gave him the nickname and it had stuck ever since.

“I think your pal has deep psychological issues,” Mac continued. “This was a goddamn gas leak. Jesus, I swear to all that's holy, one day I will beat him to death with that thing!”

Bryan stifled a smile. If Mac saw it, he would probably beat him in Terry's place. Mac was a “by the book” commander and, although he occasionally found Terry's overuse of the H-Bar amusing, this was not one of those times. The homeowner would surely sue the department for damages.

When they stepped into the foyer, Terry emerged from the kitchen with the H-bar dangling by his side and a large scowl on his face. “Gas stove.”

Mac flicked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the shattered door. “What about that?”

Terry shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

Bryan could feel the heat of the Chief's rage radiating from Mac's body. If Terry kept pushing his buttons, Bryan was afraid this would escalate from a gas leak call to a homicide. Luckily Mac stormed out of the house before any bloodshed. Bryan whirled on Terry.

“One day he is going to shove that thing right up your ass.”

“Well, I guess it will cure my hemorrhoid problem,” he chuckled.

Bryan rolled his eyes and followed Terry out of the house. A crowd of neighbors gathered on the front lawn gawking at them, as if expecting the fire department to drag out a human body. It never mattered whether it was a four-alarm fire or pulling a cat from a tree, onlookers flocked to the flashing red lights like moths to a street light. Bryan noticed the Crystal City police cruiser parked behind their pump truck and frowned when he saw the cop talking with Mac. Mac turned to them with a grim expression and a sympathetic gleam in his eye when he noticed them approaching.

Mac's demeanor concerned Bryan. Although he was a usual grump most of the time, the somber manner in which he addressed them disturbed him. Mac usually kept his emotions in check.

“What's wrong, Chief?” asked Terry.

Mac ignored Terry and addressed Bryan. “I'm sorry, Bryan, but it's your wife and son.”

Bryan removed his fire helmet and cradled it under his arm. “Alicia? Jackson? What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Whittaker,” the cop answered with a look of sadness. “Your wife and son were the victims of a carjacking at the corner of Crescent and 8th. The perp was armed and shot your family before the responding units could get to them. They're at Mercy General in critical condition. I can drive you there if you need me to.”

Bryan stood in stunned silence. That intersection was located near the Ironbound section of the city where no one but the dregs of society hung out. What the hell was she doing in that area?

“Was she lost?” Bryan asked the cop.

“I'm sorry?” the cop responded, looking confused.

Bryan felt his anger rising. “Was she lost? What the hell was she doing there?”

The cop shook his head. “I don't know, sir. We haven't been able to interview her in ICU.”

“Take me to them,” he demanded.

“Here, let me take that.” Terry grabbed the helmet from Bryan. “Get out of here.”

Bryan followed the cop to the car and slid into the passenger seat. They took off out of the neighborhood with lights flashing and siren blaring.

“By the way, my name is Hector Rodriguez,” the officer said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Bryan remained silent. His thoughts focused on his family. The ride was a little more than eleven miles but it seemed like an eternity before they arrived at the hospital. When Officer Rodriguez finally pulled up to the hospital, Bryan stumbled from the vehicle before it came to a complete stop and rushed toward the emergency room doors.

Mercy General, smaller than most of the other city hospitals, never kept a full staff. Since the Hero Factory had been established, doctors trickled into the city but most set up shop in the larger hospitals where the cash flow was heavy. Mercy General, due to its size, was not the most appealing hospital for doctors.

Bryan burst through the doors and hurried toward the intake desk where a nurse sat, filing her nails and humming to herself.

“I'm here to see Alicia and Jackson Whittaker!” he barked breathlessly.

The nurse dropped the file on the desk and turned toward her computer. After a few keystrokes, she squinted as the data came up on the computer screen. “Gunshot wounds.” She hesitated and looked up at Bryan. “Are you related to the patients?”

His heart beat so rapidly he thought it would explode from his chest. “I'm her husband and his father.” His tongue felt twenty times bigger than normal and his throat felt as if he had swallowed a cocktail of sandpaper and broken glass. The way the nurse studied him offered little comfort.

The nurse turned to a phone next to the computer and picked up the handset. “Um, yes…Dr. Anderson? I have the husband and father of the patients in room 223 here in the reception area. You will be right down? Yes, thank you.” She hung up the phone and motioned toward the waiting area. “If you can have a seat, the doctor will be right down.”

When Bryan turned to the reception area, he observed Officer Rodriguez hovering near the entrance. The cop winced when he noticed Bryan studying him.

“It is pretty much the end of my shift so I figured I'd hang around to make sure everything was alright,” he explained. “If that's a problem, I guess I can take off.”

Bryan shook his head and fell into a nearby seat. Five minutes later a doctor, dressed in a white overcoat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, ran across the hall toward them. When he reached the reception area, Bryan stood and watched as the doctor tried to catch his breath.

“Are they okay?” Bryan asked, panicked.

“You may want to sit down, Mr. Whittaker,” the doctor gasped as he worked on catching his breath.

“I don't want to sit down! I want to make sure my family is okay!” Bryan shouted. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Officer Rodriguez inching closer, ready to intervene if things got out of hand.

Dr. Anderson's mouth tightened into a thin pink line of consternation. He chewed on his bottom lip for a minute before speaking again. “I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your wife is in critical condition in our ICU but your son…” he trailed off.

Bryan grabbed the doctor's shoulder and squeezed. Officer Rodriguez's hand fell to the butt of his Taser. “What is it?”

Dr. Anderson sighed and diverted his gaze to the floor. “I'm sorry…your son passed away thirty minutes ago.”

The news hit Bryan like a sledgehammer. His gut clenched and the room spun, becoming a kaleidoscope of colors. He reached out and grabbed the doctor's shoulder before falling to one knee. His breathing became ragged, like trying to suck a milkshake through a coffee stirrer. Everything around him disappeared into a fog and the only thing he could see was the innocent, gap-toothed smile and curly blond locks of his son bouncing in the breeze as he played with his soccer ball. That was the last time he saw him. Bryan never bothered to say goodbye when he left for his shift. Jackson looked like he was having so much fun that Bryan didn't want to bother him. Some downtown scumbag stole his son from him and Bryan felt the blood drain from his face.

Officer Rodriquez grabbed his arm and helped him into a nearby chair. “Hey, do you need me to get you a bottle of water or something? Whatever you need, buddy, I'll go get it.”

Bryan looked at the officer fiercely. “What I need from you is to find the bastard who did this.”

A look of resignation fell across the officer's face, which was all Bryan needed to know about the situation. Crystal City only recently budgeted for a police force. Filling the ranks took time and they didn't exactly have the pick of the litter. Some of the officers were seasoned veterans of other departments but most were rookies or unwanted cast offs from other departments who had to accept the job or risk having to find a new career. In the end, the city only had a budget for a police force of fifty officers. The city required triple the amount. They didn't have the manpower dedicated to give Bryan's case the attention it deserved.

“Let me go get you a bottle of water,” the cop said before hurrying down the hall.

Bryan hadn't cried since he lost his mother twenty years ago. That streak ended on September 13th, 2013.