Baptism of Fire (for Loyal Lady Dee)

[Veritas]

Hey! Hey! This is Jabber J on KLOL Radio this evening! It's seventy-two smokin' degrees, and I'm burnin' up the airwaves with the hottest hits! Comin' up, we got Soulja Boy, Young Jeezy and Jay-Z, and more! So, stick around, gotta pay the bills, and we'll be right back!"

Dr. McKinsey Adams, seismologist and assistant supervisor of the Nevada Environmental Disaster Agency, turned irritably toward the new intern, Craig Imahara, sitting at his computer terminal, jamming to the latest tunes. How he hated these college kids they threw at him, all tech-savvy but having no idea what was expected of them. He was supposed to be training them to be the next generation of disaster trackers, but all they did was tune into satellite radio, play online computer games, chat, email, and go cybershopping, among other things. He rapped Craig sharply on the shoulder.

The young intern almost jumped out of his seat. "You got those graphs ready?" Dr. Adams asked, "or are you too busy playing Guitar Hero to do your job?"

Craig pulled out a coil of paper from the bin at the bottom of the seismogram. "Right here, Dr. Adams."

Adams took the coil with a grunt of thanks. "Less rock, more research, okay, Craig?" he said.

Craig nodded, turning down the volume of his computer and clicking back onto the shear wave velocity data reports he had been assigned earlier. Adam took the coil back to his desk and unrolled it. Though he was only an assistant supervisor, he still ran a tight ship as far as NEDA was concerned. At forty-seven, he was still physically fit with a metabolism of a man half his age. He had to be. Being the top seismologist in the agency required a lot of field work as well as long hours poring over seismographs, taking readings and giving presentations to government bureaucrats to keep the funding from drying up. The stress load would have killed a lesser man.

Adams unscrolled the graphs for the afternoon, taken from the southern part of the state, near Las Vegas. Hardly anything registered there, but the Entertainment Capital of the World occupied a fault-bounded basin filled with alluvium up to five kilometers deep, with major faults in neighboring Death Valley. Sin City may glow with a thousand neon lights, but it had feet of clay.

Zero point zero, zero point zero, zero point three, zero point five--practically flatline as far as he could see. All was quiet on the Southern front, he thought. Around four PM, however, a one point five had registered, the highest he had seen in that region. True, it was the equivilant of a construction site blast taking place deep underground, and would barely be felt by anyone on the surface, but it was enough to cause some concern, but no panic. It was probably the rippling effect from a tremor from furthur up north. The southern tip of Nevada always got the aftereffects of shockwaves from the faults upstate, often so minor no one even knew there had been an earthquake. Adams called the Reno branch of NEDA to confirm his findings. Later he'd call Carson City. They'd confirm it was just a minor tremor up north that made its way to Vegas. It was a routine procedure, no need to ring any alarm bells.




Leslie Fanning, known to her fellow Wiccans as Sunsinger, shuffled the deck of Tarot cards in the usual ritualistic manner--cut, then shuffle, then cut again. It was her favorite morning ritual, like reading the paper or singing in the shower. It gave her an idea of what the day would be like for her before she left for her day job as an EMS dispatcher. It saddened her that she could not share her Wiccan way of life with her co-workers. Either they were skeptics, like her supervisor, Morton, who scorned anything that hinted of the paranormal, or they were religious zealots, like Regina, her fellow dispatcher and a Jehovah's Witness who left her church's magazines in the break room. One particular issue denouncing Wiccans as Satanists made her blood boil, but she couldn't make a federal case about it because then she'd be facing a mob of them outside her front door, intent on converting her to Jehovah's way of life. That she didn't need.

The cards she used were a quarter larger than a standard playing deck, specially ordered from Paranormality.com. Of all the decks she had used, this one was the best by far; they just felt right in her long, delicate musician's hands. She played the recorder for her coven on various occasions: handfastings, births, solstices, feast days, or whenever the mood for music struck. She also read the Tarot for her fellow Wiccans on request. Mostly, she read them for herself, like this morning.

Leslie laid three cards on the crimson velvet covered table, specially reserved for Tarot readings. She carefully laid the rest of the deck aside and turned each card over to reveal the past, the near future, and its outcome. She looked at the first card on the left.

The Fool, reversed. Not a good sign. It symbolized foolishness, instability, and the wasting away of creative energy in bad choices and rash decisions. A bad time for commitments. But the second card in the center was worse--the Tower, symbolizing disruption, conflict, change, sudden violent loss, ruin and dramatic upheaval. But, she reflected, it all would lead to enlightenment and freedom.

The third card, Death, seemed to confirm that hopeful note, for it revealed the beginning of an new life as a result of underlying circumstances due to past events and actions. The end of one phase of life would signal the beginning of a new one. Some major event would come as a wake-up call for her to begin anew. Yes, that was the message in the cards.

She swept the cards back into the deck and put everything away. It was time for her to go to work, and even Wiccans had to make a living. As she left her apartment she saw her neighbor, Lucas Hasselbeck, a young struggling musician just coming home from a late-night gig. Leslie couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Lucas had married his high-school sweetheart before the ink on their diplomas was barely dry. Isabella had been his strength, his inspiration, his main supporter when others told him to give up. Though they struggled to make ends meet with her day job as a drycleaner and his night gigs, she never stopped believing that he'd get his big break. When she had been killed by that drunk driver who had been going ninety in a forty mile an hour zone while pursued by two police cruisers, all the life seemed to drain out of him. Yet, to his credit, he kept going, doing it for Isabella, his muse in death as she had been in life.

Leslie had played guitar and recorder duets with him during his better moods, but she never ventured to ask him out for a drink or anything. He still pined for Isabella, though she had been dead for less than a year now. Goddess willing, he would come around, she thought as she stood at the bus stop. Grief was the price to pay for love.




Costa Sarantakos, Criss Angel's second oldest brother and as much a heartthrob as his more famous sibling, knelt beside his bed that morning, face buried in his arms. The dream had come back again last night, and this time he had cried out in terror when he awoke. It was the third time this week that he had that very same dream. He just couldn't understand it. Why was he having the same nightmare over and over again? Was he going crazy or something?

When he and his brothers were growing up in East Meadow, Long Island, whenever any one of them had a bad dream, their father would ask if there was a sin on his conscience. If not, then it was either something he ate or something else was bothering him, like at school or work. Then Dad would tell him to say a prayer and go back to sleep. So there was Costa, on his knees by his bedside, seeking solace from prayer, only solace didn't come so easily.

Ruins of buildings, like Ground Zero. Fire and smoke. Dirty, sooty, bleeding people begging for help, reaching out to me to help them. But I don't know how to help them. I'm not a doctor, or a fireman, or anything. I am as helpless as they are.

Hot tears burned his eyes and soaked into the bedclothes. He was tired, but he was too scared to go to sleep again. He felt ashamed of himself, a man in his mid-forties behaving like a child afraid of his own dreams. He needed to get up and get on with his life. They were dreams, that was all. Figments of his subconscious, a sweeping out of mental clutter from his brain.

But it was the same dream, over and over again, for three nights in a row. How could he explain that? Stress? No, it was something deeper, something more significant.

Dear God, he prayed. What are You trying to tell me? Is this a warning? Is this a prediction of the end of the world? Or is this a sign of something else? Or am I just going nuts here? Oh, dear God! Please, give me an answer!

[RACHEL02189]

More please :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Oh no....Will Costa tell Criss? Please continue this, and I thank you for posting this for me! I'm ecstatic that Criss (with amazing help from Mateo, Luke, and Brian) answered my question and now I'm itching to go back to Vegas really soon to see BeLIEve in its updated form!

[Veritas]

Dr. Melinda Shyne, MD, examined the hand X-rays on the flourescent screen in the examining room of St. Mary's Hospital. No sign of infection, no major fractures, no long term damage as far as she could see. Just a four-inch nail going straight through the right hand. It had taken the better part of an hour to extract it without incurring any more damage. A few stitches front and back, an Ace bandage, and the patient was good to go, with orders to get plenty of rest and drink lots of fluids to replace blood loss.

The patient, of course, was none other than Criss Angel, Las Vegas' hottest new illusionist and resident daredevil. He had been bought into the ER after his latest stunt went wrong--attempting to catch a nail fired from a pneumatic nail gun at fourteen hundred feet per second. Dr. Shyne had seen and undone the damage caused by human stupidity and recklessness: firecrackers launched from hands, mouths, and in one case, the buttocks; Evel Kneval and Tony Hawk wannabes who had crashed into concrete without a helmet; accidental chainsaw massacres; and the list went on. Usually, the patients were a little wiser if none the worse for wear after their ordeal, but when it came to death-defying stunts, Criss Angel took the blue ribbon for sheer persistance. The only difference was that he got paid for it.

Now he sat on the examining table, his hand bandaged in gauze, his face indifferent. Dr. Shyne turned to her famous patient and looked him squarely in the eye.

"You got off lucky, Criss," she told him. "That nail could have ended your career for good. What made you think you could catch a flying nail in the first place?"

"Well, I caught an arrow a few years ago," Criss explained. "So I decided to up the ante and go for a nail from a nail gun."

"And you lost," Dr. Shyne said. "Look, Criss, do yourself a favor. Stick to card tricks and making coins disappear, okay? You might just live to see your next birthday."

"People don't pay me to just make coins disappear or just do card tricks, Doc," Criss retorted. "They want me to freak them out."

"Well, you certainly did with that nail gun. You're the only person I know who makes a living trying to kill himself."

"I'm not trying to kill myself, Doc," Criss argued. "I'm just the type who likes to push his own envelope, that's all."

"Keep it up and you'll be pushing yourself into your own grave," the doctor shot back.

"Been there, done that," Criss shrugged.

"Only you'll be dead for sure. You, my friend, are an adrenalin junkie," she told him. "You get a rush from danger. You get high from the adrenalin when you do those stunts of yours. You couldn't stop even if you wanted to."

"So what do you want me to do?" Criss asked, "go into rehab?"

"If there was a clinic for it, I'd say yes."

"Look, Doc, I'll be fine, really. Don't worry about me, or you'll be giving yourself an ulcer or something."

"It's not myself that's at issue here," Dr. Shyne said. "It's you. You're the one who's been living on the edge, and one day you are going to find yourself toppling over it with no one to save you. You can't keep cheating death forever, you know."

Criss picked up his jacket with his good hand. "When my time comes, it comes," he replied philosophically. "I don't fear death, I accept it. Circle of life and all that." He gave the petite, strawberry-blond physician a friendly hug. "I'll send you an invitation to my next birthday party," he said, smiling mischeviously as he left the examining room.

Dr. Shyne could only stand there, shaking her head in disbelief.





Fashion Week was still three months away, but Vivi DiLano of Las Vegas' ECRU was a whirlwind of activity. Fabric selections, fittings, alterations, redesigns, measurements, and all the usual stresses of preparing for a fashion show kept her going at a marathon pace. Though she was only a twenty-two year old intern for Vegas' own high-end clothing line, she was as determined as the designer herself that everything would be perfect for the big event. Vivi herself took care in her own personal appearance and behavior to reflect the integrity and the sophistication of ECRU. Her hair was fashionably layered with tufts sticking out in just the right places, her makeup was impeccably applied, and her clothes came from ECRU itself, a perk from her internship. She carried herself with dignity and grace, or so she believed. Her friends thought her divalike attitude made her seem snobbish, almost a caracature of the fashionista she pretended to be. Looking past her designer clothes, they saw the same plain-Jane Genevieve Delano from Pioche, Nevada, with a faceful of pimples and an impossible dream to become a fashion designer in her own right.

In Vivi's mind, however, her past was dead and gone. She had burned her bridges behind her and was on her way to becoming fashion's newest sensation with her internship with ECRU. To her, it was a stepping stone to fame and fortune. But for now, she had to get everything ready for Fashion Week, and make sure that everything was perfect. Erica Connolly, the chief designer for ECRU, was counting on her, and Vivi was not going to let her down.

She went into the sewing room to check on the gowns to be modeled at the show. Six were already hanging on the rack, ready to go. She carefully inspected each gown for flaws or imperfections. The blue low-cut looked good enough. The black dress with the hip-high slit seemed to hang just right, though she wouldn't know until the actual fitting. She measured the pleats in the sleeves of the winter-wheat after-six gown to make sure they were all equally spaced. To her relief, they were, but she saw some loose threads dangling from the ends. Very sloppy work, she thought to herself. Well, she'd have to snip them herself. She took a pair of shears from her toolbelt and was about to painstakingly trim the sleeves when she felt the floor move under her feet. It was as if someone had set the building on vibrate. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

All sewing stopped. No one moved for a few seconds, only murmurs of bewiderment. The word "earthquake" bounced back and forth among the staff. Vivi dismissed such a foolish notion. Earthquakes in Las Vegas? No way! LA maybe, but Vegas was miles away from the San Andreas fault. No, it had to be a truck or something going by.

"All right, everyone," she called out. "Let's get back to work now. Nothing to worry about."







Earthquake risks around Las Vegas are significant. As the metropolitan area sustains its record growth rate, the potential for damage from a major earthquake continues to grow apace. Recent upgrades to seismic construction standards will help to mitigate risk. However, today we are a long way from truly understanding the potential consequences of a devastating earthquake, which must happen before we can adequately prepare.

Dr. Adams pondered the study done by the University of Nevada, Las Vegas seismic research team that he had just read. The one-point-five reading from the graphs had been just a minor tremor according to Reno and Carson City. Indeed, it hadn't even registered with them. Adams was tempted to pass it off as a fluke, but long experience had told him that dismissing the smallest tremor could have major consequences. The best course of action was to monitor the southern tip of the state for any future spikes on the graph. Only time would tell whether it was a fluke or a harbinger of disaster to come...




"Wow!" Chaunte Fresh exclaimed. "Did you feel that?"

"You mean that vibrating under the sidewalk?" her friend Marie Austin asked her.

"Yeah," Chaunte answered. "Wasn't that wierd?"

"I didn't know Las Vegas had earthquakes," Marie said curiously.

"Maybe it was the subway," Chaunte opined. "They have a subway here in Las Vegas, you know."

Marie seemed relieved. "Of course! That must have been it!"

"Yeah, so let's get to the Luxor and see Criss!"

Both skipped happily to the Luxor Hotel, two young tourists from Wisconsin, Loyals to a fault. They had pooled their tips from working in a sports bar for this wonderful three-day vacation in Sin City. It took a lot of lifting endless pitchers of beer and enduring the goosing and shameless flirting from the customers to rake in enough cash to finance the trip, but in the end, it was worth it. They were in Vegas, home of Criss Angel, the hottest, sexiest, most magical hunk this side of the Mississippi! Nothing was going to stop them from seeing him, not if they could help it!





The object of Chaunte's and Marie's affection was in the production office, nursing his injured hand. His eldest brother, JD, sat next to him, a concerned look on his face, but not for Criss' hand.

"I'm glad your hand is all right, Criss," JD said, "but now we got another problem."

Criss looked expectantly at him. "It's Costa," JD began. "He's been kinda moody lately. I don't think he's slept for days. When I asked him what was wrong, he just blew me off, said it was nothing. And while you were at the doctor, he came in late and went straight into the bathroom. Didn't come out for almost an hour."

Criss grew concerned. True, Costa had always been the quiet one among the three, but this was definatly unusual. Coming in late? Ignoring his own family? "Something's wrong," he said.

"Wanna go talk to him?" JD suggested.

Criss nodded. "Let's go talk to him and see what this is all about," he said, rising. "Where is he?"

JD looked around. "Dunno. Gotta look for him."

He wasn't at his usual desk, he wasn't in the store, he wasn't in the front of the office. Only when JD looked in the back storage area did he find his wayward brother, sitting on some cartons, looking miserable.

"Hey, Criss!" he called out. "In here."

Criss trotted over to the storage area, wondering why Costa would be holed up in there of all places. "Cos?" he called out softly, so as not to startle him. "You okay, dude?"

Costa turned his head slowly toward his brothers, saying nothing. Criss and JD sat down on either side of him on the carton.

"What's up, bro?" Criss asked him, caressing Costa's back comfortingly. "Something wrong?"

"You wanna talk about it?" JD encouraged.

Costa sighed heavily. "I...I don't know," he shrugged. "How can I explain what I can't figure out?"

"Tell us about it," JD said, "and we can figure it out together."

Another heavy sigh. "I've been having this...dream, nightmare, whatever you want to call it, for three nights in a row now. It's driving me nuts!"

"What's it all about?" Criss asked.

"That's what I want to know," Costa replied. "I kept having the same dream of burning buildings, people crying out to me for help, but I don't know how to help them. I don't know if it's a warning or a prediction or what."

"Can you describe it in more detail?" Criss asked.

"Well, it looked like Nine-Eleven, only it was here in Las Vegas," Costa began. "Burning, ruined, collapsed buildings, smoke and fire, people covered in soot, bleeding, burned, and they all want me to help them. So much pain, so much suffering."

Costa broke off, burying his face in his hands. Criss kept up with the backrubs. "It's the same damn dream, over and over again!" Costa exclaimed. "You know how Dad always taught us to pray whenever we had a bad dream when we were kids? Well, I did that this morning, but it didn't help, not one bit! It's getting so I'm scared to go to sleep at night! Oh, God!" he moaned.

"Maybe you need some time off," Criss suggested. "Relax, do something you want to do for a while. Go back to New York and see Mom."

"Mom's in Greece, remember?" JD reminded him.

Damn! I forgot. "Well, anyway, maybe a change of scenery would do you good," Criss persisted. "Take a few days off and have a little fun. You've earned it. Then, maybe you'll feel better."

Costa rose to leave. JD and Criss walked out the door with him. "It's gonna be okay, Cos," JD assured him. "Maybe you're having a flashback to Nine-Eleven or something."

"For three straight nights?" Costa countered. "I don't think so."




"Hey, Nini!" Hadley Grace called out to the young clerk behind the counter of the MindFreak store. "Did you feel the earthquake just now?"

Serenity Luciano looked bemusedly at the slender brunette who was the very epitome of her surname, a dancer with Criss Angel's show Believe in the Luxor. "Earthquake? What earthquake?" she wanted to know.

"I felt it outside as I was coming in," Hadley told her. "It wasn't anything major, just a little shaking, like one of those old Magic Fingers beds they have in cheap motels, or something."

"No, I didn't feel a thing," Nini answered. "I've been in the shop all afternoon."

Hadley looked disappointed. "Oh. Well, it was nothing major, like back in Two Thousand Six."

"Whatever," Nini shrugged. "Say, the manager's in, and I'd get canned if I got caught gossiping during working hours again. Catch you later at LAX, okay?"

"Sure," Hadley nodded understandingly. Nini was putting herself through school, having no other resourses but her own, having been raised by her great-grandmother after her parents abandoned her at age four when they realized their teen marriage was a big mistake and went their separate ways. On her own for the first time, Nini balanced school and work with equal grace, landing a partial athletic scholarship at UNLV in volleyball.

Oh, yes, Hadley knew about struggle. She herself had been dancing since the age of five, and finally landed a spot with Believe after one failed audition after another. She lived with her sister, Marcie, in an apartment just off North Las Vegas. Both struggled with making the seven hundred and fifty dollar a month rent and keeping body and soul together, Hadley as a dancer, Marcie as a bartender.

One day, their ship would come in, she believed. Criss Angel was her inspiration, her guiding force. He was no quitter, and neither was she. It had been the greatest thrill of her life to be part of his show. He exuded confidence, and encouraged his troupe to work hard to make the show work. When she landed the spot, it was as if Heaven itself had opened up for her.

Hadley left the store in high spirits. "I feel the earth...move...under my feet!" she sang. "I feel the sky tumbling down!"

[Loyal Lady Dee]

I can not wait to read the rest, seriously. I know the Carole King song :)

[RACHEL02189]

I think season five has confirmed to all of us that Criss loves to push his own envelope :O

[Smurf]

Great Story :) poor Costa :( can't wait to find out more :)

[Veritas]

A three-point-five. Dr. Adams studied the graph with concern. Vegas would have definatly felt that one, he thought. Fourteen years at NEDA and the highest he had detected in the Las Vegas Basin was a two-pointer, and that was years ago, the aftereffect of a quake up north registering a seven on the Richter. This was starting to get serious.

The fax machine kicked into action, spewing out seismographic data from Reno and Carson City. Adams snatched the sheets from the hopper and compared them with the graphs. Their readings were actually lower than Vegas, two-point-zero at the most. It didn't make sense. Historically and geographically, the Vegas Basin had the lowest frequency of seismic activity in the state. But, he recalled, it did not rule out the possibility of a quake happening at all. Either this was the biggest quake Vegas would ever experience, or it was a forequake, a sneak preview of coming disaster.

McKinsey Adams had been a seismologist since his freshman year at UCLA twenty-five years ago. Fourteen of those years were spent here at NEDA. Of earthquakes he knew one thing for sure--no one could predict them for sure. Seismographs could record the intensity of them, geologists could study the tectonics of the plates, and cities and towns could prepare for the aftermath of them, but no one on earth could predict just when, where and how strong the next one would be. Adams could only watch and wait.





Criss, for his part, was causing an earthquake of his own by announcing his most dangerous escape yet: To free himself from a pair of handcuffs secured around the railing of a hotel balcony that was about to be demolished. If he didn't make it to the roof and to the waiting helicopter in three and a half minutes, he would be left behind to face his fate. It was to be shown live on July thirtieth, before a crowd of thousands.

Weeks, if not months, would go into planning and preparing for this most dangerous demonstration, yet there were misgivings among Criss' family and the MindFreak staff, especially Criss' mother, Dimitra. She had returned from her vacation in Greece, happy and full of news about the distant relations still among the living, only to receive the horrifying news of Criss' latest stunt.

She approached her famous son in tears. "Why?" she pleaded, "why do you want to do this, Christopher? Please! I am begging you, don't do this stunt!"

Criss held his mother tightly in his arms. "Shhhhh! Mama, it's all right," he cooed.

"No!" Dimitra wailed. "It's not all right as you say! You'll be killed! I don't want to lose you, Christopher! Why do you always have to do these things? I worry and pray for you every time you do one of these 'demonstations' of yours, but you don't seem to care about how I feel!"

"Ma! That's not true!" Criss protested. "I love you more than anything! I'd never hurt you--never!" He raised her tear-streaked face with his fingertips. "Mom, I am going to make you a solemn promise. After I do the Clearwater demonstration, I will never, ever, do another dangerous, life-threatening demonstration again as long as I live. Just to make you happy."

Dimitra looked up at her son's clear hazel eyes that she had given him at birth. "I want to believe you, Christopher," she whispered. "But you may not survive this time."

"Believe me," he assured her. "I will. And if, God forbid, I don't, my last thoughts will be of you."

Criss embraced his mother tenderly. "This will be the last one, I swear to God," he said firmly. "Besides, I got Believe to do in October. I gotta stick around for that, you know."

His mother stared him squarely in the eye. "If you do solemnly swear as you say," she said seriously, "then I will pray for you to be successful. But if you break that vow in any way, then I can never trust you again. I am counting on you to keep your word, Christopher Nicholas. I am sick and tired of worrying about you doing these things on your show. I do not want to outlive you, Christopher, but I do not want to die from the shock of you doing these stunts."

Criss released his mother, gathered her soft hands into his and kissed them affectionatly. "I do so solemnly swear," he told her.

"Good," Dimitra said. "May God watch over you in Clearwater."

"I love you, Mom," Criss said softly.

"I love you, too, Christopher," his mother returned.

"I love you more," he whispered.





A week had passed since the NEDA picked up the tremor, and nothing unusual happened in Las Vegas since then. In the Entertainment Capital of the World, the only tremors came from the whir of the slot machines and the jiggling of the exotic dancers. Is everybody happy? You betcha! Even in the tough economic climate, Sin City sang out to one and all, "Every morning, every evening, ain't we got fun?"

Costa Sarantakos, however, would have responded "No, I ain't got fun". The same nightmare had haunted him again, twice in the same week, with much more intensity--he could almost smell the smoke from the burning buildings, and he heard the victims crying out his name. Costa! Costa! Please help us! Help us! Save us! Don't leave us here to die! He remembered responding I can't, I don't know how! There's too many of you! Where do I go for help?

In desperation, he sought help from a local priest. It was cheaper than a shrink, he figured. He carefully outlined his recurring nightmare to the patient cleric sitting opposite behind his desk, and the misery it was causing him. "What should I do, Father?" he asked.

The priest pondered what Costa had told him carefully. "You say you are helpless in your dream, that you don't know how to help the injured, is that correct?"

"Yes, Father," Costa replied.

"Then, it is my opinion that God is calling you to learn how to help them," the priest told him.

"You mean, God wants me to be a doctor, or a fireman or something like that?" Costa wanted to know.

"Maybe," replied the priest. "Or, you could just learn first aid, do volunteer work, that sort of thing."

Costa gave the matter some thought. "Well, I know I'm past the cutoff age for becoming a fireman," he said. "And becoming a doctor would take too long. I guess I'll stick with the first aid."

"Good," said the priest. "See if that helps."

"Father?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think this dream of mine is a warning?" Costa asked. "A prediction of some future disaster?"

"That is hard to say," the priest replied. "God alone knows the future. But you can prepare for the future in many ways, with careful planning, with the right training, and with faith. Be strong, and pray every day. May God grant you peace."

Costa smiled a little, feeling a great burden rolling off his shoulders. "Amen," he said.




Costa entered the MindFreak production office in high spirits for the first time in over a week. JD and Criss couldn't help but notice the change in their brother's demeanor. He seemed so upbeat, smiling and greeting everyone with a cheery "Good morning".

Criss divined what had bought about such an about-face in Costa's attitude and stood before him, arms crossed, ready to grill him for answers. "Okay," he said, "who is she?"

Costa looked bemused. "Who?"

"The girl you're in love with," Criss said accusingly. "Who is she?"

"What girl?" Costa asked, not having any idea what Criss was talking about. "I don't know any girl?"

"Then how come you're all smiling and cheerful all of a sudden?" Criss demanded. "You're acting like a man in love to me."

"No, I'm not in love," Costa retorted. "It's because I found the solution to that dream I'd been having, that's what!"

"You mean the one with the burning buildings and the injured victims?" JD asked for clarification.

"Yeah, that one," Costa replied. "The problem lay with the fact--or the idea, or whatever--that I didn't know how to help the injured, right? Well, I figured the solution is to learn how to help them, so--"

He whipped out a billed cap with the American Red Cross logo on the front and placed it on his head. "I decided to take a class in first aid with the Red Cross--CPR, mouth-to-mouth, treating burns and other injuries, that sort of thing."

Criss and JD stared at Costa, unsure of what to make of this new development. "Ohhhh-kayyy!" Criss drawled, "if that's what you want to do, Costa, then...more power to you."

"Great," JD chimed in with a bit more confidence. "Now you can patch Criss up when he goes down with the hotel in Florida."

"Wait! Whoa!" Costa laughed. "I said I was taking a class, not going to med school! And you said I could take some personal time off, so I'm gonna put it to good use."

"Well, if this is what you really want to do, Cos, then I'm not going to stand in your way," Criss said with forced enthusiasm. "I mean, if this will help you overcome those nightmares, then I'm all for it. When's it start, anyway?"

"Tomorrow, nine AM. It's a two-day class for certification."

"Fine," Criss said, nodding. "Go for it."

"Thanks, guys." Costa left the office. Criss and JD drew close together.

"So, what do you think?" Criss asked.

"Hey, it makes him happy, so, why not?" JD shrugged. "You?"

"Let's keep this under wraps for now," Criss suggested. "If word gets out that Costa knows mouth-to-mouth resusitation, there's gonna be a bunch of girls lining up for him to practice on."

JD snorted, nudging Criss in the ribs.




"Blessed be, Sunsinger," Oak Tree Mother greeted Leslie.

"Blessed be, Mother," Leslie replied.

The coven had gathered in the stark beauty of the Nevada desert under cool, clear, starry skies. Seven women and six men made up the coven, Oak Tree Mother presiding. She was a middleaged woman, approaching fifty, her dark hair greying in streaks around her dignified face, giving her a matronly look. Her robes were the colors of the desert night, black with silver flecks to represent stars, denoting her status as the Crone, or Wise Woman. Her twelve followers adored her, looking up to her for advice and solace.

Tonight was a special occasion within the coven. One of their number, Rainsong (aka Janet Grebowski of San Marco, Nevada) was to receive the red robe of the Matron for the first time. Rainsong, seven and an half months pregnant, sat in a canvas director's chair to relieve the burden of childbearing from her feet. Her husband, Del, who chose not to have a coven name, stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. It was a proud moment for both of them.

Oak Tree Mother called for order. "Brothers and sisters," she said loudly, "this night our sister, Rainsong, enters a new phase of her life as Matron. Where once the young Maiden stood, her sliver of light gleaming among the stars, now has grown full with new life within her. Let us rejoice as Rainsong takes on the red mantle of the Matron, symbolizing her passage into motherhood."

Starspirit, Oak Tree Mother's fifteen-year-old niece and the youngest member of the coven, reverently handed her aunt a carefully folded red robe. Oak Tree Mother accepted it in the same manner, then in turn passed it to Rainsong sitting in her chair. Del and Rainsong unfolded it, then Del draped her with it like a royal robe, their fellow Wiccans applauding as he did so. Rainsong was moved to tears over this honor, as were a few other women in the group.

Leslie, or Sunsinger as she preferred to be called within the Coven, sat on her portable stool, recorder at the ready, with two other members with musical talent: Butterfly with her violin, and Red Wolf with his custom-made "native" drum. Sunsinger still wore the white robes of the Maiden, being only twenty-two and still single, though her "maiden" status was questionable at best; she had a few lovers on the side, in and out of the coven, though she was far from promiscuous in the age of AIDS and other STDs. Leslie was no fool; she always insisted her partners wear "protection" before engaging in the act of love. Like all Wiccans, she celebrated life and all it had to offer unashamedly, but she could not ignore reality.

The signal was given for the musicians to play, and the three struck up a merry circle dance that Butterfly had composed for just such happy occasions as this. Butterfly, or Lori Gaines as she was known outside the coven, was a music major at UNLV, studying violin and composing. Her coven name was taken from the butterfly tattoo strategically placed on the small of her back, symbolizing her free spirit, or so she claimed. She was an extraordinarily talented musician, and she and Sunsinger played duets that she had composed as often as Sunsinger's EMS schedule allowed.

After the dancing, the feasting on organically grown vegetables and whole grain bread, and the other coven business was over and done with, the coven fell to chatting about everyday things: jobs, family, health issues, and the like. In due course, someone inquired about the tremor which had occured the previous week, and if anyone felt it.

"Yeah, wasn't that wierd?" Butterfly spoke up. "I was on my way to class when I felt the sidewalk just...vibrate, you know?" She quivered her hands to demonstrate.

"I was in an earthquake once," Red Wolf spoke up. "It was back in Eighty-Nine. You know, the World Series earthquake? Anyway, I was in some bar, then everything just started shaking, you know, and it was, like, what the (bleep)? Pretty scary."

They all nodded in agreement. "You think a major LA-type earthquake will ever hit Vegas?" Sunsinger asked.

Red Wolf shook his head. "Doubt it." he said.

"What about the one that hit Wells back in February?" Del spoke up. "That was pretty bad."

"Yeah, but that was all the way up north," Red Wolf pointed out. "I mean, we're in the freaking desert, for chrissakes! All we have to worry about is drought. The chances of us getting rocked by an earthquake are Las Vegas odds."




"Good morning, my name is Dwight Wyman, and I will be your Red Cross first aid instructor for today," the tall, redhaired bespectacled man in the Red Cross jacket said to the group sitting in the two rows of folding chairs before him. "First of all, raise your hand if you have had any previous Red Cross training."

None moved. "All right," Dwight continued. "Today we will be covering the basics--bleeding, shock, burns, breathing and choking. Let's see, we have..." He did a quick head count. "Ten people, so pair up with someone and you'll be assigned a station for the duration of the course."

Costa felt a tapping on his shoulder. He turned around and saw a young woman of about twenty or so, maybe late teens, he wasn't sure. She had bone straight blond hair, perky breasts and blue eyes that stared eagerly up at him. "Would you like to be my partner?" she cooed.

Costa looked around. Everyone else was paired up, so it looked as if he didn't have much choice. "Yeah, sure," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

Costa and his new partner were assigned station number two, in a far corner of the room. The blond sidled up to him, making him uneasy.

"I'm Deirdre," the blond said. "You can call me Dee."

"Costa," he said. "Costa Sarantakos."

"I know," Dee purred.

Oh, Geez! Costa thought. What the hell did I just get myself into? I'm supposed to be here to learn how to save lives, and I get hit on by a lovesick Loyal! "Look, let's keep it professional, okay?" he said to Dee, backing away. "We're here for a reason, so keep it on a short leash, understand?"

Costa turned his attention to the instuctor, ignoring the peeved look on Dee's face. The instructor went through the first steps a person should take when encountering an accident scene: Make sure the scene was safe to approach, see if the victim was breathing, remove the victim by his feet if he was in danger, do a Full Body Scan for injuries which he detailed on a chart behind him, and so on. He led them to a display of a fully stocked first aid kit on an adjacent table, pointing out the purpose for each item. Throughout the whole course, Costa struggled to pay attention while keeping his starry-eyed partner at bay.

Then came the resusitating. One member of a team was to be the victim while the other performed mouth-to-mouth. Each team was to flip a coin to decide, but Dee was flat on her back before Costa had a chance to pull out a quarter from his pocket. Costa groaned inwardly, but he couldn't lodge a protest, because the instructor was already giving orders: "Check for breathing, lift the head, pinch the nostrils, open the mouth, and breathe into the mouth just enough to raise the chest cavity, then release, listen for breathing, then repeat."

Dee looked up at Costa, smiling expectantly, her perky breasts jutting up like twin peaks. Costa looked down at Dee. "No funny business, okay?" he warned her.

"Okay, okay, I promise," Dee giggled, squirming with anticipation.

"I mean it," he told her seriously.

"I said I promise."

Okay, here goes. Costa performed the procedure without incident. Then it was Dee's turn. Costa lowered himself onto his back, trying to relax and failing miserably while his partner turned the exercise into foreplay as he lay there, her kiss of life lingering longer than recommended by the ARC.

"How was that?" she asked, as if she had just performed some kinky sex act.

"Dee," Costa said. "You're supposed to save me, not seduce me."




Peak Ground Acceleration in Nevada over the next 50 years:

If a rarer but damaging earthquake occurs in a part of Nevada that has less frequent earthquakes,
the shaking will be every bit as strong as earthquakes we anticipate in Western Nevada.
If we correlate this shaking potential map with possible damage, all of Nevada could experience damaging shaking.



Dr. Adams studied the map on his monitor, a swirling mass of yellow, oranges, and tans, with a touch of blue on the southern tip bordering California and Arizona. From what he could see, Las Vegas was squarely in a yellow zone, meaning a thirty to forty per cent chance of an earthquake happening, with a level eight in intensity, according to the study. Level eight meant that those buildings lacking earthquake resistance would be damaged considerably, while those which were more sturdy would maintain minimal damage.

But which buildings were earthquake proof and which weren't? There was the rub, thought Dr. Adams. It would take weeks if not months to go through the building codes and inspection reports of every building in the Metropolitan area, and time was something Dr. Adams and NEDA didn't have. And he jolly well couldn't go and try to convince a bunch of thick-headed bureaucrats to prepare for an earthquake that might or might not happen, based on a few minor tremors and some color-coded maps. And even if he did manage to get the message out to the public, who would listen to him? When people thought of earthquakes, they thought of LA and Frisco, not Vegas.

Adams rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill, he thought wearily. Charts, maps and data could only project disaster, not actually predict it. A thirty to forty percent chance of an earthquake hitting Las Vegas? Who the hell came up with that? It was like one of his math professors once said: there are lies, damn lies, and statistics. He logged off his computer and rose from his desk to go home. He'd been poring over data for over a week now, and nothing major happened. Making a mountain out of a molehill, that what it was. Just let it go. It's not like the world was coming to an end, he thought.

[Loyal Lady Dee]

:eek: Veritas, you have no idea how much I am enjoying this story! It's one of the most amazing fanfics I have read! :) I have some things in common with Deidre: my nickname is Dee (short for Dolores), I know CPR and First Aid (for my profession of child care provider), and I have met Costa. In fact, I met Costa, JD, Dimitra, and Criss back in 2009. It was one of the best days of my life! I support them as a Loyal, and would never do anything crazy cause they are just too amazing. I hope all Loyals get to meet them all someday, they are too cool! :) Now...on to the rest of the story!

[RACHEL02189]

That's every loyal's fanasty to do mouth to mouth on Criss and any other of his brothers :D

[Smurf]

That's every loyal's fanasty to do mouth to mouth on Criss and any other of his brothers :D

Yep i argee with you :D great Chaper , loving this story :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

:eek: Veritas, you have no idea how much I am enjoying this story! It's one of the most amazing fanfics I have read! :) I have some things in common with Deidre: my nickname is Dee (short for Dolores), I know CPR and First Aid (for my profession of child care provider), and I have met Costa. In fact, I met Costa, JD, Dimitra, and Criss back in 2009. It was one of the best days of my life! I support them as a Loyal, and would never do anything crazy cause they are just too amazing. I hope all Loyals get to meet them all someday, they are too cool! :) Now...on to the rest of the story!

Nickname, Dee? Knows CPR? Met Costa? Hmmmmm...Cosmic!!

[Veritas]

It had been a slow day at the EMS station, barely twenty calls during Leslie's whole shift. Leslie was anticipating the evening with a mixture of excitement and dread, for tonight Criss would perform the most dangerous demonstraion of his career: escaping from a hotel about to be demolished. Would she witness the greatest escape ever preformed, or Criss' death live on television? Her mind boggled, recalling something a fellow Loyal once said about Criss' death-defying stunts: it was like watching a hanging, he said--you can't bring yourself to watch it, but you can't turn away.

Well, she was going to watch it no matter what. Criss would make it, Leslie told herself. He always had. But just to be sure, she would do a Tarot reading for him before the show. Leslie looked at the clock. Two more hours, and her shift would be over, barring castatrophe. Everything seemed peaceful enough around the station. Regina was perusing the latest issue of The Watchtower, the Jehovah's Witnesses' little periodical she always left in the break room and which Leslie always tossed in the trash. Leslie was tolerant of other people's faiths as a rule, but Regina's constant proselytizing rankled her. Regina had already been written up by Morton about it, but she still persisted in leaving JW literature around the station. If she ever found out about Leslie's Wiccan ways, she'd never hear the end of it. Besides, what business of it was hers, anyway?

The two hours dragged on, but the day shift did end. Leslie and Regina turned in their daily log to Morton and left for home. At the bus stop, they stood with other weary commuters for the Local to take them home. Leslie fought the temptation to start a conversation with Regina so as to avoid another invitation to the Kingdom Hall for services. Regina, however, served first.

"Boring day today, wasn't it?" she said casually.

"Yeah," Leslie grunted. "It was."

"Got any plans for the evening?"

It was an innocent enough inquiry, but Leslie knew from experience that it was fully loaded. If she answered no, then the offer to come to services at the Kingdom Hall would be pressed, and Regina was a past master in persistance. If she said yes, then she'd be forced to give the reason, and no excuse would be good enough for Regina to accept. Either way, she was screwed. Unless...

"Why?" Leslie asked innocently. "You asking me out on a date or something?"

Regina laughed a little. Her little joke had caught her off guard, to Leslie's relief. "I mean, I thought you already had a boyfriend, you know?" she went on.

"That's not what I meant!" Regina exclaimed in exasperation. "I'm just saying that tonight's evening services at the Hall, and I'm inviting you to come, that's all!"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Leslie told her as graciously but as firmly as she could.

"Why not?" Regina persisted.

Leslie sighed. I'll tell you why not! I am a practicing Wiccan, I believe in the Mother Goddess, and have no interest in your Jehovah or your church! That's why not! So stop bothering me! "I'm just not interested, that's all," she replied.

Regina fished out a brochure from her handbag. "Maybe this will stir your interest in us," she suggested.

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Regina..."

"Now, I know that you heard a lot of negative press about the Witnesses," Regina argued. "But we're true practicing Christians, preparing the way for the Lord Jehovah to come." She tucked the brochure into Leslie's hand. "Just read it, think about it. You'll see that we're not the evil cultists people think we are."

Leslie's bus arrived at the stop. She pushed her way to the curb. "Service starts at six-thirty," Regina called out to her. "See you there!"

Leslie boarded the bus without a word to Regina. Yeah! When Hell freezes over! she thought nastily. She paid her fare and took a seat far in the back. She looked down at the brochure with distate, then tore it up. How would she like it if I pressured her to become a Wiccan? Leaving the newsletters in the breakroom like she leaves those stupid magazines, or inviting her to our gatherings and feasts?

She drew a deep breath to release her frustration. Why do I have to keep my beliefs in the closet while Regina is free to flaunt hers? I thought America was founded on freedom of religion! I should be allowed to practice my beliefs as openly as she does! Just once, I'd like to shout out to the whole world "I am a Wiccan! I believe in the Mother Goddess and am one with the Earth!". Well, one of these days, I will! One of these days, I am going to look Regina and her fellow Witnesses and tell them what they can do with their magazines and their door-to-door proselytizing! And when that day comes, oh, Goddess, I am going to make them wish the earth would swallow them up whole!



Clearwater, Florida. Fifty thousand Loyals waited several hundred feet away from the soon to be demolished Spyglass Resort Hotel for the appearance of Criss Angel, while millions more watched on television in the comfort of their homes. The festive mood was tempered with fear and anxiety over the demonstration about to take place.



Chaunte Fresh and Marie Austin huddled next to each other in front of the nineteen-inch set in the apartment they shared not far from the bar where they worked. They were both lucky to get that night off together, not only to watch the episode, but to offer comfort and reassurance to each other during the mindracking ordeal to come.




Nini Luciano had to work at the MindFreak store that evening, but she invited Hadley Grace to come over and watch the demonstration on the giant plasma television in the store itself. The shop was crowded with onlookers watching the show on the enormous screen in high definition, hardly breathing, let alone making conversation.




Leslie Fanning sat at her card table in front of the television, ritualistically dealing her Tarot cards and laying out three of them on the crimson cloth. What will Criss fate be? she mentally asked the Fates, or the Goddess, or whatever forces of nature were listening. Nervously she turned over the three cards on the table.

The Magician, upright. Very appropriate, considering. It symbolized mastery of the material world, creative action, self-discipline and a willingness to take risks. That was Criss in a nutshell, Leslie thought. The second card, the Chariot, upright, meant triumph over adversity, overcoming life's obstacles, and well deserved victory. Very positive. The third was the most welcome of all, the Wheel of Fortune, upright, the card of destiny and good fortune. Leslie exhaled with relief. Criss was going to make it after all.




Most of the program was taken up by interviews, shots of the hotel, computer graphics of the implosion, and prerecorded street magic performed by Criss, but the final fifteen minutes were the most tense in television history. Criss was handcuffed to the railing on the sixth floor of the building, then left alone to escape. To make matters worse, rain started to fall, and communication was faulty at best.

Criss gave the signal to begin the countdown, and set to work freeing himself from the handcuffs. The audience shrieked and cheered him on as he freed himself, then tried to pick the lock on the first door, but failing that, broke the window, then entered the hotel to the second door, picked the lock on that, opened the door, ran up the stairs to the next door, picked the lock, entered that, then raced up to the roof where a door with two locks challenged him. Time was running out, the helicopter lifted off while he was still in the hotel, and just when Criss had worked out one of the locks, the cameras blanked out, and the building came tumbling down with a roar.

Chaunte and Marie clung to each other, weeping. In the MindFreak shop, Nini, Hadley and the others present stared in shock. Leslie prayed to the Goddess for Criss' safety. At the site, there was silence.

Then, as if by some miracle, Criss emerged from behind a slope, covered in concrete dust but very much alive. His mother, Dimitra, and his brothers, JD and Costa, rushed up to embrace him, tears streaming down their faces. Chaunte and Marie shrieked with joy. The MindFreak store erupted in cheers. Leslie looked down at her cards, her faith in them confirmed.




Criss spent a few days in Florida, visiting his Greek friends and relatives and resting from the ordeal he had overcome. They congratulated him on his success, but his mother kept reminding him and anyone within earshot that it would be the last. An exasperated Criss kept assuring her that it would.

"Your mother loves you, Christopher," his Aunt Popi told him. "She doesn't want to outlive you, that's all."

"I don't know how he's gonna top that one, anyway," Costa commented. "I mean, how can you top being blown up in a building?"

"I have a gut feeling that he'll find a way," JD opined.

"No!" Dimitra exclaimed. "No more! That is it!" She turned to Criss and pointed her finger in his face. "Christopher, you made a promise to me, and I am going to hold you to it!"

Criss could only sit there on the overstuffed couch, smiling sheepishly. He quickly decided to change the subject. "So, Costa," he said loudly. "You got your Red Cross certification yet?"

Costa stared at Criss bemusedly. "I got it weeks ago, you know that," he replied.

Dimitra looked at him. "Red Cross? What are you talking about, Red Cross?"

"Well, it all started when I began having this recurring nightmare about some big disaster and everyone was crying out to me to save them," Costa explained. "So, I took a couple of days off and took a course in lifesaving, and I got certified by the Red Cross."

Dimitra thought about it. "Hmmm. Well, that is good to know, darling."

"Yeah," JD chimed in. "You could have been using it on Criss if he slipped up."

"If Criss slipped up," Costa retorted, "he'd be dead."

"Well, I am sure it will come in handy someday," Dimitra assured him. "It's good to know these things for just in case."

"Was it hard?" Criss asked.

"No, no, it wasn't hard," Costa replied, "we got paired off in teams, and assigned a station to practice on each other."

"Who was your partner?" Criss asked.

Costa blushed a little. "Some little blond named Dee," he answered with some embarrassment. "She knew who I was, and..."

"Started coming on to you?" Criss smiled knowingly.

"Let me put it this way," Costa said. "She gave mouth-to-mouth resusitation a bad name, that's for sure. My next certification class, I'm gonna pick someone else--anyone else! Preferably over forty!"

The family laughed. Poor Costa, a victim of his brother's fame, Dimitra thought. "Well, the important thing is that you learned something useful," she said to him reassuringly. "Who knows? You may save someone's life someday, and not just your brother's, either. God only knows what will happen in the future."




Zero pointers for the entire week on the graph. All was quiet in Nevada and California. Dr. Adams began to relax. Okay, maybe that three-point-five had been a fluke after all, he thought. One minor tremor, then the faultlines went back to sleep. It had been a false alarm; he had been worried over nothing.

Still, it did not do to become complacent. A major quake could occur at any time, anywhere. Like freedom, it required eternal vigilance, but unlike freedom, earthquakes were an all too real threat that put lives in danger and destroyed millions of dollars in property. All he and NEDA could do was monitor the graphs and keep tabs on the climate, giving warning when needed as soon as humanly possible.

A thirty to forty percent chance of a quake hitting Las Vegas, he recalled from the UNLV study. It didn't rule out the possibility altogether, but by that calculation, it meant that there was a sixty to seventy percent chance that there wouldn't be one. McKinsey Adams wasn't a gambling man by nature, but they seemed to be pretty safe odds to him.

But of course, he had been wrong before.

[RACHEL02189]

Veritas I had a dream last night after reading this that Criss saved me during an earthquake in Las Vegas he tackled me as the light on the Luxor fell off. :cool:

[Veritas]

whoa!

[RACHEL02189]

It felt so real thou

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

Labor Day weekend, and a busy one for the Luxor and all the other hotels in Las Vegas. Despite the sluggish economy, thousands flocked to Sin City to try their luck at the casinos or to forget their troubles at the shows, taking advantage of the online discounts on hotel accomodations.

Saturday saw an influx of new guests checking in at the Luxor: happy couples who were married or about to be married in the hotel wedding chapel; elderly folks ready to blow their retirement funds at the blackjack tables; families with small children arriving to see the Pirates of the Caribbean show or even to see Criss Angel perform an impromptu magic act in the lobby; and the usual bored tourists hoping to experience something exciting. Bell attendants carted endless loads of luggage up and down the inclining elevators. Wait staff nearly collided into each other fulfilling orders for room service. The concierge's phone rang incessantly for restaraunt reservations, theater tickets, show times, and other demands. In all, it was just another typical day at the Luxor Hotel and Resort...





In the ECRU shop, Vivi DiLano was putting in overtime getting ready for Fashion Week. The staff had the day off, of course, but Vivi proved to be a human dynamo when it came right down to the wire. In the silence of the nondescript square building just off the fables Vegas Strip, Vivi labored painstakingly on the showpiece of the collection: a tailored, straight-skirted snowy-white wedding gown with paisley patterned sequins going up the side and a white hood in place of a veil. Very twenty-first century, Vivi thought. Billowy tulle, lace veils and poofy sleeves were so Fifties. This gown was so much more elegant, and besides, could be used as a summer evening gown as well. ECRU was high-end, but it was also practical in its designs, which suited Vivi quite well...




At the EMS station, Leslie was at her usual post, headphone on, dispatching paramedics to Sunset Park where a skateboarder had cracked his skull while grinding down a rail and landing head first on the concrete. Her partner for the day, Evelyn, had vanished while on duty, a flagrant breach of regulations. She was always sneaking off for a smoke or a snack or something when the opportunity rose, leaving Leslie or anyone else to pick up the slack. Goddess, that girl's so lazy, Leslie thought. She was so going to get fired. The monthly performance reviews were coming up, she remembered, and Evelyn was gonna be history...



Nini was in the MindFreak shop, folding new CA t-shirts onto the display table near the front. She had just started a new term at UNLV, her last in her quest to earn a business degree. She hadn't seen her friend, Hadley, for a while, what with her being busy with Criss' show and all. Rehersals alone ate up most of her time. She was following her dream, and Nini was going after hers. Best of luck and good wishes all around, she thought as she arranged the stacks of shirts neatly on the table. It was no big deal, really. They'd hook up some other time...



Dr. Melinda Shyne pressed a stethescope against the hairy back of one Daniel Roskowitz, an overweight foreman complaining about tightening in his chest. "Take a deep breath," she instructed.

Roskowitz did so, repeating whenever the stethescope pressed against his back. The lungs were good, Dr. Shyne noted. He said he had quit smoking fifteen years ago, thankfully. It was the strain of his spare tire that was causing the strain on his heart, no doubt about it. She would have to set him up on a diet plan and recommend he exercise every day for at least thirty minutes--join a health club or something, she would tell him, cut back on the brewskis and eat more sensibly if he wanted to live another ten or fifteen years longer at least...



Criss and his camera crew wandered around the streets of Las Vegas, taping the astonished looks on the faces of the passersby after Criss dazzled them with his street magic. With a flick of his wrist he tossed playing cards into the air and deftly caught them again, producing the very ones selected by his latest volunteers. Cards seemed to appear out of nowhere: from behind a person's back, inside pockets, purses and hats, even his boots. When he wasn't doing card magic, he was either levitating himself or a volunteer from the audience. Whatever Criss did, he wowed them...




Meanwhile, at the Las Vegas NEDA station, the seismograph needle drew a steady line along the strip of graph paper slowly unscrolling from its spool, registering zero-point-zero, then zero-point-one, then back to zero-point-zero, then suddenly jumping to three-point-zero, three-point-nine, five-point-nine, six-point-zero. The needle zigzagged sharply across the graph, streaking jagged spikes of black as the earthquake reached a maximum of six-point-nine, the strongest ever recorded in that region.





It came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, as those who witnessed the great Las Vegas earthquake would relate later. Like Nine-Eleven, it had been just another day, everyone going about their business, they said, and then it happened. The ground shook, the pavement heaved as if some giant monster was emerging from the ground. Water pipes ruptured, sending geysers shooting up from the cracking streets. Women shrieked, men screamed, children cried out for their mommies and daddies. Entire city blocks seemed to split in half, sending masonry cascading to the ground.




Vivi DiLano tumbled to the floor of the ECRU shop, the dressmaker's form falling on top of her. She tried to get up and run, but the shaking building knocked her down again and again. On her third or fourth try, a heavy shelving unit containing sewing supplies toppled on top of her, pinning her underneath. She struggled to free herself, but could not budge the unit. She had only enough strength to scream for help.



Nini felt the tremors under her feet at first, then watched as jackets, shirts and other merchandise hanging on the walls came tumbling down. A ceiling fixture fell on the jewelry case, shattering it. Remembering her earthquake emergency training from her California days, she found refuge underneath the sales counter and rode out the quake curled up in a fetal position, with only a three-quarter inch sheet of plywood counter to protect her.



"Okay, I want you to pick a card," Criss instructed his latest volunteer, a tattooed skateboarder of about nineteen years of age. The skate rat had just withdrawn a card when the pavement under their feet began to heave. The onlookers were thrown to the ground along with Criss and the camera crew. One videocamera shattered as it tumbled off the shoulder of its cameraman. The other managed to remain on its perch, documenting the disaster in a shaky montage of panic.




Leslie was still alone at her post when the quake hit. As soon as the tremors made their way to the station, she ducked underneath the desk for safety, as she had been trained. "Oh, Goddess!" she prayed. "Protect me! Make it stop!"

She heard the loud crashing of furniture and computer terminals toppling to the floor as she huddled underneath her desk. The lights went out overhead. The giant glass panels in the front of the dispatch room sprouted jagged cracks, bursting in their frames and shattering to the floor. Leslie screamed and screamed and screamed...




Then, as suddenly as it came, the earthquake stopped. The dazed population of Las Vegas looked around themselves, wondering what had happened. Their city, the Entertainment Capital of the World, lay in ruins: cars were overturned, many on fire where they had collided with other cars or parts of the city itself. Windows were cracked, shattered or gone altogether. The pavement buckled crazily along the Strip. Children wailed in terror, coughing from the dust choking the air.

Criss rose from where he fell, wiping the dust from his eyes, and noticed a bright red streak on his right arm. He had scraped the skin on the pavement as he had fallen. Clutching his wound, coughing from the dust, he gazed around himself in horror at the scene of desolation before him.

"Holy God in Heaven!" he gasped. "What the (bleep) happened?"

[RACHEL02189]

Those would be the first word out of my mouth too :eek:

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Holy cow! I hope this story ends well, for all of the characters! I'm not a blonde, but I am, and will be until the day I die, 100% supportive of Criss and those who have and who are backing him up. There are just no words to describe the day I met the family. Even though it was a couple minutes and seconds each separately with the four of them, it was truly worth it. I want to give a huge shout out right now to Criss, Costa, JD, Dimitra, Hammie, and all their close family and friends. I thank you all for letting us Loyals be part of Criss' magic, for it has inspired and touched every single person it came in contact with, myself included.

[Veritas]

Leslie crawled out from under her desk, pushing aside her overturned chair and other debris. She slowly pulled herself up onto her feet and looked around at the ruins of the dispatch room. Chairs, papers, broken lighting fixtures, and computer monitors lay scattered all over the floor. The windowpanes were cracked, cracking or shattered in their warped frames. The only source of light came from what little daylight could get through the entryway.

Leslie picked her way through the destruction to the door, using her cell phone display window as a makeshift flashlight. She tried the door, but it wouldn't budge. She tried harder to pull the door open, but the doorframe was so bent out of shape that the door itself was stuck. Frustrated, but not discouraged, she decided to break a window to free herself. She looked around for a suitable battering ram and chose a sturdy office chair to swing at one of the panes. She swung the chair with all her might at the glass, then again and again, but only succeeded in creating a concave dent in the wire mesh reinforced safety glass. Exhausted, she sat down on the chair and wept. Oh, Goddess, help me in my hour of need! she prayed.

The Goddess quickly answered by way of the emergency generators kicking in, turning on the few light fixtures that survived the quake. Leslie sat up, startled. Blessed be the Goddess! she said to herself. She is still with me!

Leslie tried to call for emergency help on her cell phone, but got no signal. The EMS station was a dead zone, she remembered. She always had to go outside to make a call in the past; besides, personal calls were against regulations. Maybe the computers were running. She stumbled back to her usual post, set her chair back up, and sat down at her terminal. To her great relief, it was functioning again. She waited while the system rebooted itself, but was overwhelmed with the calls for help on her screen. She was alone, no help from anyone, not even that lazy Evelyn (Goddess knew what happened to her, she thought), and thousands were calling her to help them. Leslie drew a deep cleansing breath, steeled herself, and picked up the headset. "Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?" she spoke into the tiny microphone as calmly and as professionally as she could.




Criss pulled off the bandanna from his head and wrapped his bleeding arm with it. Around him, people were wandering aimlessly in the streets, seeking help from anyone who was still walking. Car alarms blared and whooped incessantly, mixing in with the fire and police sirens. Smoke and dust swirled in the air, burning his throat and lungs, making him cough endlessly.

A point of reference, that was what he needed. Some landmark still standing; a street sign, a building, a statue--anything to offer some direction. He strained to look past the veil of dust and smoke lingering in the air. He could barely make out the outline of the Strip. Then, suddenly, like a lighthouse on the shore, the apex light of the Luxor Hotel broke through the haze. The emergency generators must have come on, Criss thought. If the light was on, then the Luxor must be still standing. He turned to the people milling around him.

"Follow me!" he shouted, choking on the dust. "This way! Stay together! Hold hands if you have to, but stay together! The Luxor is this way! Just follow the light up there!"

He turned to his cameraman, Kevin. "You got any spare cable we can use as a guide rope or something?" he pleaded.

"If I can find the equipment truck, I can get you some," Kevin answered.

Criss nodded, and Kevin went in search of the truck. Meanwhile, Criss herded the survivors together in a group. "Everything is going to be okay," he assured them. "You see that light up there? That's the Luxor hotel. We can go there for help, but we all got to stay together. If anyone is hurt, let me know."

"We got a man down here," someone called out, "and his head is bleeding."

Criss could make out the form of someone lying on the pavement. As he walked closer to it, he saw it was the skateboarder whom he had asked to be a volunteer for one of his card tricks. Criss knelt down beside the bleeding man.

"You okay, dude?" he asked.

"Oh, Geez!" the skate rat groaned. "What the (bleep) happened, dude?"

"We had an earthquake," Criss answered.

Skate Rat looked up at Criss disbelievingly. "An earthquake?" he echoed. "In Vegas? This ain't LA."

"Hey, take it easy, dude," Criss said as he pulled out another bandanna from his back pocket and bandaged the skater's head. "What's your name?"

"Marc," the skater replied. "My homies call me Shredder."

"Hey, Shredder," Criss smiled. "You're gonna be okay. We're gonna get you to the Luxor and get help, okay?"

Shredder nodded as he struggled to stand up. "Hey, man, where's my board?" he asked, looking around. "I can't leave without my board,"

"Never mind your board, dude," Criss said impatiently, "we gotta get going."

"No way, dude," Shredder protested. "I paid good money for that board, and I ain't leaving it behind."

Shredder stumbled through the haze, searching for his precious skateboard. Kevin, the cameraman, arrived with a long length of electrical cable. "Will this do?" he asked Criss.

Criss uncoiled the cable. "Yeah, it's perfect," he said. He turned to the group of survivors. "All right, everyone, listen up! Everybody grab hold of this cable so you don't get lost. We're going to make it to the Luxor as best we can."

The survivors groped for a section of the cable while Criss tied one end of it around his waist. Kevin hoisted a large portable flourescent lamp on his shoulder so as to light the way. Criss looked back at the long line of survivors behind him, and suddenly the awesome responsibility of guiding so many people to safety fell on him like a lead weight.

Dear Jesus, he prayed. Help me guide these people safely to the Luxor. I need You now more than ever. We all do.

"Are you ready?" he shouted to the survivors tethered to him.

"Yeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!" they all shouted in return.

"Then let's go!"

Over buckled streets, past overturned, burning cars, and through the rubble of ruined buildings, Criss and his band of survivors bravely made their way through the maze of destruction that was once the fabled city of Las Vegas, clinging to the length of cable for dear life, with only the apex light above them as their guide.




Vivi DiLano still lay pinned underneath the shelving unit in the ECRU workshop. She had no breath left to scream for help anymore; her throat burned for water, and the unit pressed down on her body, making it difficult if not impossible to breathe.

So this is how you die, she thought. In a workroom underneath a shelfcase. Alone. Oh, God, please send someone to help me! I don't want to die like this!

She felt a wave of dizziness overcome her. She did not fight it; indeed, it seemed a welcome relief from the pain and suffering to fall into unconsciousness. She felt herself floating above her body, soaring upward into the clouds, free from the prison of her trapped body. Was this death, she wondered? It wasn't so bad as she thought it would be. It was actually kinda nice. Leave all your cares behind, just soar above the clouds, free as a bird. She wasn't sure if she was in Heaven yet, but it felt close enough.






"What the hell happened?" Dan Roskowitz demanded as he picked himself off the floor of the examining room. He felt no pain anywhere, and saw no superficial injuries, but he felt a bit dizzy from having tumbled off the exam table when the whole room started shaking all of a sudden. Regaining his bearings, he stood upright. His eyes fell on the slumped figure of Dr. Shyne next to the cabinet. Roskowitz reached over to help her up.

"Hey, Doc?" he called to her. "You okay, there, Doc?"

He pulled her up to her feet. Dr. Shyne moaned as she regained consciousness. Roskowitz guided her to a chair and sat her down. Dr. Shyne smoothed her hair back and looked up at him.

"Thank you," she mumbled, still reeling from the blow on the back of her head. "I think we had an earthquake or something."

"Well, something happened," Roskowitz said. "Damn near broke my hip falling off the table there."

Dr. Shyne could only give a dazed smile in return. There was a pounding on the door, and a male voice calling out "Dr. Shyne! Dr. Shyne! Are you all right in there?"

Roskowitz walked over to the door and opened it. It was Dr. Fearon, one of the chiefs of staffs. "Is Dr. Shyne in there?" he asked Roskowitz.

"Yeah, right over here." Roskowitz allowed Dr. Fearon entry into the exam room. "Got conked on the noggin pretty good there," he added.

"I'm all right, Mike," Dr. Shyne said, nodding her aching head. "A little ibuprofin and I'll be good to go."

Dr. Fearon knelt beside her. "The hospital is mobilizing for incoming injuries," he said to her. "We're going to need some staff to work out in the DMF. Do you feel up to going out in the field, or staying here in the ER?"

"I can handle the DMF," Dr. Shyne said to him. "I attended the training seminar, rememeber?"

Dr. Fearon smiled. "Good. They're packing up all the equipment as we speak. They'll be in A-Wing."

"A-Wing," Dr. Shyne repeated. "Got it."

Dr. Fearon turned to Roskowitz. "You'd better get on home," he said. "Or head for shelter."

Roskowitz looked anxiously at Dr. Fearon. "Is it really bad out there?" he asked fearfully.

"Bad?" Dr. Fearon drew a deep breath. "Bad is an understatement."





The Disaster Medical Facility, or DMF, was designed by BLU-MED Response system as a rapidly deployable portable hospital to respond to large numbers of patients in cases of bioterroist attack or natural disaster. A freestanding modular structure, it was constructed to hold a fifty bed ward and was equipped to support advanced level medical care, including trauma and surgical services. It provided the clean, controlled environment and the constant temperature needed for the treatment of patients, whether in the Nevada desert in summer or the mountains in winter. Nevada was the first state to have such a facility; the NHA successfully tested it in 2004, and were pleased with the results. (1)

Now, in the wake of the earthquake, the DMF was to come into use for the first time. Within an hour after the quake stopped, the blue, orange and white modules were hooked up to truck cabs and hauled to Sunset Park, the only area wide enough to accomodate them. With military precision the beds in the ward were being assembled and lined up, the surgical supplies were bing unpacked and stored, the large generator was started and wired into the modulars' circuit boxes, and the plumbing hooked up to the huge water tank, courtesy of the Municipality of Las Vegas, yet it would be another twenty-three hours before it would be fully operational. It was the best they could do under such short notice.

.................................................. ...............
{(1) "Portable, durable disaster hospital gets first test in civilian use, offers preparedness for bioterrorism attack" NHA, 10-21-04.
.................................................. .............





Whether it was due to its deep foundations or its pyramidal structure, the Luxor Hotel and Resort sustained mimimal damage after the quake. Being the largest building in the immediate area still intact, FEMA and the Red Cross turned it into an emergency shelter for the victims. Felix Rappaport, the President of the hotel, rose heroically to the occasion, calling all hotel staff, merchants, sales clerks, casino dealers and croupiers, parking valets, and everyone else who worked in the hotel into the Grand Ballroom for an emergency meeting.

Rappaport outlined the procedures: To conserve the emergency generators, all non-essential facilities, such as the fountains, the overhead screens, and the slot machines were turned off, he ordered. Kitchen staff was to prepare basic meals for the victims, using foam take out containers--no dishes, as the water supply had been cut off. Maintenance was to inspect for any gas leaks, water main breaks, and to improvise sanitation facilites. Housekeeping and bell attendants were to supply bedding and help the Red Cross with setting up bunks in the Grand Ballroom. Any worn linen was to be used for first aid. Blood donations would probably be needed, so if anyone could donate, they were encouraged to do so as soon as facilities were set up. Anyone with any Red Cross training was requested to step forward.

One of the senior housekeepers stepped up, as did the lifeguard from the pool, the desk clerk, and, to everyone's surprise, Costa Sarantakos. Rappaport looked at him bemusedly.

"I didn't know you had any Red Cross training," he said.

Costa flashed his certification card. "Got it a few days ago," he replied.

"Good," Rappaport said. "You're gonna need it." He turned to the others. "Now, I know that you are all worried about your families," he said. "But I'm calling on you to help out here, because we're going to be receiving a lot of victims pretty soon. If you think you can help, I encourage you to do so. If you want to find your families, then you are free to leave. But more than likely, they'll end up here anyway, so you might as well stay put. If you have a job to do, do it; we're all counting on you to help. If you don't have anything to do, ask your supervisor or stay the hell out of the way. The only way we're going to survive this is by working together. You know what to do, so let's roll up our sleeves and get to work!"

Rappaport's words were greeted with a round of applause. Felix ran his hand through his hair. In all of his years in the hospitality industry, he never encountered anything like this. Granted, he had been trained in emergency procedures, like evacuating guests in case of a fire or a bomb threat, but never on a scale such as this. At least he had the means to help some of the victims of the quake. He was fairly certain there would be other shelters set up in the area.




"Name?" the FEMA supervisor droned.

"Costa Sarantakos."

"Any medical training, Red Cross, first aid?"

Costa showed his card. "I'm certified."

The supervisor handed Costa an ID badge."You're number twenty-three, report to the first aid station in Room C. Next!"

Costa, now Volunteer Number Twenty-three, headed back to the first aid station in Room C. How sadly ironic, he thought, that he should be working in the very banquet room where only three short years ago, he and his family had celebrated their mother's seventieth birthday. Cellophane-wrapped syringes and packages of gauze lay on the same sideboard where his mother's birthday cake had stood. The giant dining table had been replaced by cots, and the leather dining room chairs now lined up along side the wall and beside small tables with pressure cuffs and stethescopes. Sadly ironic, indeed.

"Twenty-three!" he heard a voice snap at him.

Costa jolted out of his maudlin thoughts and back to reality. A box of latex gloves was thrust into his hands. "You're over there," said someone whose face he didn't recognize but whose hand pointed to a table, a chair and a cot in the middle of the room. "Anything you can't handle, call for the supervisor."

Costa walked over to his assigned station in a daze. Certified only a few lousy days ago and now he was working in this makeshift MASH unit, treating injuries he had only seen in the Red Cross pamphlet. God, he prayed, help me.

He looked around the smaller banquet room set up as an emergency hospital by the Red Cross, hoping to find whomever was in charge to report to duty. Glancing by the delivery entrance, he spotted his instructor, Dwight Wyman, clipboard in hand, checking off inventory.

"Mr. Wyman?" Costa called out.

Mr. Wyman looked up. "Oh, hi, there," he said. "You're..."

"Costa," he said. "Costa Sarantakos. I was in your training class."

"Right, you were," Mr. Wyman recalled.

"And now, I'm here to help," Costa said confidently.

"Good," Mr. Wyman said, "I'm glad. We're going to need it." He gave Costa an armband with the Red Cross emblazoned on it. "We have to set up our facilities here, then we treat the victims." He smiled grimly at Costa. "Let's see how well I trained you."




Criss stumbled over the wreckage of a small restaraunt as he led his charges to the Luxor. The dust had settled somewhat, but the smoke still impaired his vision. The light over the Luxor shone brighter now; he was almost there. Only a few feet more, only a few feet...

A loud crash broke through the gloom as Kevin, the cameraman, stumbled over some rubble, sending the giant lamp flying and shattering onto the pavement. Criss rushed to his aid.

"You okay, man?" he asked.

"Oh, son of a (bleep)!", Kevin cursed. "The lamp--it's busted!"

"Never mind the lamp," Criss said to him. "We're almost there. Just keep following the light overhead."

"Everything all right up there?" someone shouted.

"We're fine!" Criss called back. "We're almost at the Luxor, everybody! Just keep holding on until we get there!"

He turned to Kevin. "You gonna be okay, bro'?"

Kevin nodded, exhausted. "Yeah, I'm good," he coughed. "Let's keep moving."




Vivi DiLano did not know how long she had been unconscious. She could not move her left arm enough to look at her watch, and she couldn't see the clock on the shop wall from where she lay, and the shoproom had no windows, so it was too dark to see anything anyway. Was it day? Was it night? If only she could call for help...

Her cell phone! It was clipped to her waist, and if she could just move her right arm to get it, she could phone for help. She wiggled and twisted her arm, gradually manovering her hand to her phone at her side. It didn't feel damaged, she thought. That was a good thing. She fumbled the phone out of its clip and with the skill of a contortionist bent and twisted her arm up to shoulder level, clutching her lifeline in her hand.

She looked at the display window. It was still working, even in this enclosed space. Vivi thanked God and the cell phone salesman who sold her that enhancement chip to improve her reception even in elevators. Fighting off another spell of unconsciousness, with great concentration she pressed nine-one-one. Please, someone answer, she prayed.




"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" Leslie spoke mechanically.

"Help me!" gasped a voice in her headset. "I'm trapped under a shelf in my shop! I can't breathe!"

Leslie tried to track the call, but it was a cell phone call, impossible to locate. "Where are you located?" she asked.

"The ECRU shop on Flamingo and Vegas Avenue," came the reply. "It's a big white building. I'm on the second floor."

"All right, I'll send someone as soon as possible." Leslie told her reassuringly. "Can you give me the street address?"

"7078 Flamingo. Please hurry!"

"We'll get someone there, don't worry. Just hang in there."

"Thank you."

Leslie disconnected the call and sent the data to the EMS. She could only hope that they would receive it in time. May the Goddess be with that poor girl, whoever she is, she prayed.





JD had been assigned by FEMA to escort uninjured victims to the shelter in the Grand Ballroom, making sure that they were reasonably comfortable in whatever space he could find for them, and the injured to the Red Cross station. It wasn't much, but it kept his mind off Criss enough to keep him from getting sick with worry.

Christopher, where the hell are you? he thought. You've survived everything else. You gotta survive this.

The Grand Ballroom was filling up fast, the number of victims spilling out into the atrium. Many of the hotel guests stripped the beds from their suites to accomodate the growing number of people swelling the ranks of the suddenly homeless. The sundry shop exhausted its supplies of over the counter pain relievers and antiseptics, toiletries, disposable diapers, snack items and whatever else was needed. JD fetched, carried, and comforted everyone he encountered, but his mind was still focused on his brother, Criss.

A woman came in, carrying a small girl-child of about three years old whose head was bleeding from a long gash along the scalp. She was howling in pain and terror, while her mother looked around desperatly for someone to help her. JD came to her rescue.

"Please help my baby here!" the woman pleaded with JD. "She fell and cut her head and--"

"Okay, okay, ma'am," JD said to her. "Just follow me, and your little girl will be taken care of."

He guided the mother with the injured child to the Red Cross station in Room C, where a motherly volunteer tended to the little girl's head gash. JD, meanwhile, spotted Costa at his station and walked over to him. Costa looked up from the man whom he was treating for a bleeding arm.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Costa asked JD.

"You seen Christopher yet?" JD asked.

"No, I ain't seen him yet," Costa answered, shaking his head.

JD lowered his head in despair. "Hey, man, don't worry about him," Costa assured him. "I'm sure he's fine, okay? He's nothing if not a survivor. He's probably in another shelter or something."

JD nodded, still not convinced. Or he's buried under a pile of rubble, he added mentally. "I gotta get back," he said to Costa. "You got work to do."

"Everything's gonna be okay, JD," Costa told him. "Just keep an eye out for him, and let me know if you find him."

"Yeah, sure." If you find him, he thought. If. JD made his way to the atrium, crowded more than ever with survivors. The Luxor was a big hotel, but even it could not accomodate the entire city of Las Vegas under its roof. Weary, he sank onto the side of the silenced fountain, burying his face in his hands. Dear God, please help me find my brother, Christopher, he prayed.




Our top news story: A six-point-nine magnitude earthquake struck metropolitan Las Vegas early this afternoon. Seven people are known to be dead, with hundreds injured. The quake destroyed nearly twenty miles of the city, disabling water and electric power, and disrupting all transportation services. Many of the city's landmarks along the famous Strip have been damaged or destroyed altogether...

"Marie!" Chaunte shouted from the bar. "Come over here quick!"

Marie looked around from her tables. "What's the deal?" she said.

Chaunte pointed to the large plasma television mounted over the bar. "Look!" she cried.

Marie watched in horror as scenes from the Las Vegas quake played out before her disbeliving eyes. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed.

"They said seven people were killed," Chaunte told her. "You don't suppose...Criss?"

"No," said Marie firmly, shaking her head. "You mustn't think that! We can only hope for the best. You got to think positive, okay? For all we know, Criss is still alive and well. He's survived everything else, so he'll survive this. Now, let's get back to work before Tom sees us."




Nini had never felt so useless in her life. She didn't know the first thing about first aid, her cooking skills were minimal at best, and she gagged at the sight of blood. All she could do, she thought, was to return to the MindFreak store and wait.

She waded through the stream of incoming victims flowing through the atrium into the Grand Ballroom. They reminded her of those old World War Two newsreels of refugees trudging through the muddy streets of war-torn Europe, with expressionless faces like the living dead. She wanted to help them, but she didn't know how. There was nothing for her to do but mind the store.

The store itself was a shambles. Clothes lay in disarray like a teenager's bedroom. The glass-encased jewelry counter was smashed. Only one light fixture was still working. Sighing heavily, Nini began to set things to rights, picking up clothes, righting the display tables, heaving the light fixture from the glass jewelry case and leaning it in a corner. There was a broom and dustpan in the back, she recalled. She could use it to sweep up the broken glass. She went into the back room and found the broom and dustpan, still hanging on their respective hooks, incredibly. This small miracle made Nini smile, offering a bit of comic relief in a time of tragedy. Whole buildings had come crashing down, but this single broom with its tiny dustpan still hung in there. Ain't life a crock? as her great-grandmother used to say.

Nini picked up the broom and dustpan and went back into the store. Suddenly, she froze. Behind the sales counter a skinny man with both arms sleeved with colorful tattoos was breaking into the cash register. He pounded on the keyboard, tried to jimmy open the cash drawer with a screwdriver, cursed under his breath, then tried again.

Nini felt her fear turn into outrage. "Hey!" she shouted. "What the hell are you doing? Get away from there!"

The looter turned to face her. "(Bleep) you, (bleep)!" he snarled.

Nini raised the broom and swung it squarely on top of the looter's head, sending him buckling to the floor. "I said get away from there!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The looter rose, rubbing his head, then lunged at Nini, grabbing the broom handle with both hands. He and Nini struggled in a desperate dance for dominance with the broom between them, crashing into the walls as they fought. By some stroke of timing, Nini managed to trip the looter with her foot, sending him sprawling to the floor. Unfortunatly for her, she was still holding onto the broom and so landed on top of him. The looter pushed Nini up, over and onto her back, pinning her underneath him. Tossing away the broom, he looked down on her, breathing heavily. Nini looked up at him, terrified beyond reason.

"Let me go!" she shrieked. "Let me go, you (bleeper)!"

The looter grinned evilly at her, then struck her sharply across the face. "You think you're so tough, don't you, (bleep)?" he sneered at the sobbing woman below him. "Don't you? Huh? Well, I can play rough, too!"

Nini beat at her captor with her fists while he fumbled with her clothes. Nini screamed at the top of her lungs. Suddenly, miraculously, the weight on her body lifted. Nini looked up and saw two unifomed officers pinion the looter's arms behind his back and slap the cuffs on him. That was the last thing she remembered before everything went black...

[Smurf]

Great Chapters :) hope everyone will be ok , can't wait to read more :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

I second Smurf! :)

[RACHEL02189]

me three

[Veritas]

Okay, here's a quickie, but I got to go to work...
**************

Dr. Adams surveyed the damage done to the NEDA station. It was mimimal at best, given the advance preparation they had taken. The computer terminals had been screwed to the desks, which in turn had been bracketed to the floor. All file cabinets had been similarly attached to the walls with molly bolts and half-inch thick steel brackets. Everything was still intact, save for a few framed photos and other personal items which had tumbled to the floor. The emergency generator had activated as programmed, and the computers were rebooting on the desks.

It finally happened, he thought. The Big One has struck Sin City, and he had been there when it happened. The building in which the NEDA station had been built to withstand a tremor no higher than a six on the Richter, but from what he read on the seismograph, it had been closer to a seven. The little three-point-five tremor had only been a warning, a sneak preview of coming attractions. No one, not even Dr. McKinsey Adams, could have predicted such a disaster. The only question remaining in his mind was if there would be aftershocks--and when.




"Hello?"

"Brandi? It's Vivi," gasped a voice on the other end.

"Vivi!" Brandi Somers shouted frantically. "Are you okay?"

"No," Vivi groaned. "Listen, I'm in the ECRU shop, and I'm trapped under a shelf. I can't move, I can't breathe, and I think I'm gonna die."

"Ohmigod! Vivi! Do you want me to call nine-one-one?"

"I did that already. They're not here yet. What's it like outside, do you know?"

"Well, I'm in the shelter here at the Luxor," Brandi told her. "It's pretty crowded here. Vegas is like a total wreck, you know? The Luxor's probably the only building that's still standing. I was outside when it happened."

"Oh, God, I can't breathe anymore," Vivi gasped. "I think I'm gonna pass out again!"

"Hang in there, Vivi!" Brandi encouraged her. "Help is on the way. You're gonna be okay, hon. Just hang in there, okay?"

No response.

"Vivi?"

Silence.

"Vivi, are you still there? Answer me!"

Nothing. With great reluctance and even greater sorrow, Brandi flipped off her cell phone.





Nini groaned as she opened her eyes. She didn't know how long she had been unconscious, nor where she was at that moment. She did see a familiar face looking down at her, a man's face. Her head throbbed where the looter had struck her, and she felt something refreshingly cold on the side of her face, numbing the pain.

Costa. It was Costa who was beside her, holding an icepack to her face. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

Nini nodded, aggravating her headache as she did so. "That man," she moaned. "He tried to rob the cash register. I tried to stop him."

Costa shushed her. "It's okay, hon," he whispered. "He's in custody right now. There's been a lot of looting around here and outside. You were lucky he didn't kill you."

"I think he tried to rape me," Nini rasped.

"Well, he's going to be facing serious jail time for that, too," Costa told her. "Now, you just take it easy and get some rest."

"Okay," Nini mumbled as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

Costa rose to his feet. His instructor, Dwight Wyman, approached him. "What's her injury?" he asked.

"She was attacked by a looter in the MindFreak outlet store," Costa replied. "(Bleeper's) in custody right now."

Dwight shook his head sadly. Costa gritted his teeth in suppressed anger.

"What the hell is it with some people?" he wanted to know. "Instead of helping their fellow man, they take advantage of them instead. Robbing, looting, assaulting...God!"

"Well, disasters have a way of bringing out the worst in people," Dwight explained. "I mean, I've worked in areas that were hit by tornadoes, floods, earthquakes, and hurricanes, and there were always those who grabbed anything of value and took off with it. You know, there was looting even after Hurricane Katrina, despite the floodwaters deep enough to drown a man. I bet there was looting during Nine-Eleven as well."

He laid a hand on Costa's shoulder. "But, keep in mind," he continued, "disasters also bring out the best in people, too. That's why we're here. Just keep doing your job, and let the law handle the looters."

Costa nodded. Dwight smiled at him. "You're doing fine, Costa," he said.

Costa smiled back. It was refreshing to hear his own name instead of being referred to as Number Twenty-three. It made him feel human again. Yes, he would go on with his work. It was what he trained for, after all.

"Costa!"

He turned around and saw JD standing at the door. "It's Christopher!" he cried. "He's back!"




Caked with dust and coughing from the fumes, Criss stumbled into the crowded atrium, his cableline of survivors in tow. Those who recognized him through the grit and grime cheered and called out his name. Some reached out to him as he collapsed onto the floor, gasping and wheezing for breath. Fumbling fingers untied the cable around his waist; a bottle of water was forced down his throat, choking him even more. Water came up his nostrils as he coughed uncontrollably.

JD fought his way through the crowd and knelt down beside him. "Chris!" he shouted. "Christopher! You okay?"

Criss nodded wearily. "The people," he gasped. "People behind me--"

"We'll take care of them," JD said. "Come on, we gotta get you some help."

He hoisted Criss up to his aching feet. "Come on, make way!" he shouted to the mob milling about. "My brother needs help!"

Exhausted to the point of unconsciousness, Criss allowed his brother to carry him to the Red Cross station, oblivious to those around him who were reaching out to him with outstretched hands, shouting words of comfort and encouragement to him.

"C'mon, Criss, you can make it!"

"Criss! Thank God you're all right!"

"Oh, God, Criss! Are you okay?"

In the Red Cross station in Room C, Costa trotted over to his injured brother and embraced him, letting tears of joy and relief fall unashamedly. "Thank God you're all right!" he quavered.

JD dropped Criss onto a chair. Costa undid the bandanna around his arm, then pulled on yet another pair of latex gloves to treat his injury. Criss dozed in the chair as Costa washed the wound with a bottle of water, but the sting of antiseptic jolted him awake again. "Ow! Son of a (bleep)!" he cried out.

"Take it easy," Costa told him firmly. "It's just a little antiseptic, that's all."

"God!" Criss exclaimed. "That hurt like a (bleeperbleeper)!"

Costa finished cleaning the scrape on Criss' arm and bound it with gauze. Criss admired his brother's handiwork. "Nice job," he complimented. "That Red Cross training really did come in handy, after all."

Costa nodded his thanks. Criss stood up. "Well, I'd better go back up to my suite," he said. "I wanna check on Hammie, see if he's all right."

"Uh, Christopher?" JD stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. "All the elevators are out of order, and the FEMA guys haven't given the all clear to go up there. It could be dangerous."

"But Hammie--"

"I'm sure Hammie's fine," JD assured him. "No one's allowed up on the upper levels until FEMA says it's okay. That includes you. For once in your life, think about your own safety. Stay put until the all clear, okay?"

"(Bleep) what FEMA says!" Criss exploded. "I'm going up there if I have to walk every flight of stairs in the whole damn hotel!"

With that, Criss stormed out of the room. Exasperated, JD followed his headstrong brother. Once Criss got an idea into his head, he knew from long experience, there was no talking him out of it, whether it was one of his demonstrations or rescuing his beloved cat after an earthquake. JD could not help but wonder what it would take to knock some sense into him, short of a right hook to the jaw or a baseball bat over the head. He doubted even either of those would stop Criss from doing the things he was famous for.

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Hoping Hammie is okay! Great writing as always, Veritas! And by the way, if you'd like, you have my permission to use this curse phrase I came up with: Son of a MindFreak Greek! :)

[RACHEL02189]

JD could not help but wonder what it would take to knock some sense into him, short of a right hook to the jaw or a baseball bat over the head

I wonder how many times JD really wanted to try that :rolleyes:

[Veritas]

Hoping Hammie is okay! Great writing as always, Veritas! And by the way, if you'd like, you have my permission to use this curse phrase I came up with: Son of a MindFreak Greek! :)

Thank you. Very original phrase, I must admit!

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) I hope Hammie is ok , Can't wait to read more :) loving the story :)

[Veritas]

Criss crawled up the last flight of emergency stairs leading up to his suite, coughing up the last of the dust stirred up from the quake. The elevators were still out, and climbing the entire thirty stories of the Luxor Hotel was an excruciating ordeal, even for someone as physically fit as himself. As soon as he reached the top floor where his suite was, he collapsed onto the landing, rubbing his aching limbs with his dirty hands. "I made it," he said to himself, panting. "I made it."

Fighting off drowsiness, he entered the foyer through the emergency door (the keycard system still worked, as FEMA needed access to each of the floors to search for survivors and assess the damage), and then into his suite. Never in his life had he ever been so happy to be home. He knew he had some bottled water in the fridge in the kitchen, and his bed was calling his name. He longed for a shower, but wasn't sure if the plumbing was working. First, however, he had to find Hammie.

Criss looked around his suite. His collection of awards had toppled to the floor, and a standing lamp on an overturned side table was broken, but everything held up pretty well as far as he could see. "Hammie?" he called out, searching the suite for his cat. "Kittykittykitty! Where are you? Hammie? You okay?"

"Miawww!"

Criss saw the tip of Hammie's tail under the sofa. He squatted down and peered underneath it. "Hey, Hammie!" he cooed as he reached under the sofa to coax his cat out from his hiding place. "How's my boy, huh? Come on, it's okay." He hooked his hand around the cat's sleek body and gently pulled him out. "There you go." He nuzzled his beloved cat next to his dirty, dusty face. "Thank God you're all right," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "Come on, let's get something to eat and go to bed."

He found some bottled water in the fridge, filled Hammie's water dispenser, then opened a can of cat food, thanking God that it had a pull-tab lid so he wouldn't have to use the can opener. He fed the contents of the can to Hammie, who devoured it ravenously, then went in search for food for himself. All he could find was a take-out container of cold pasta salad from Maggiano's. Well, it was food, anyway, he thought. He set the container and another bottle of water on the counter, then turned on the sink to wash his hands. Cold water dribbled from the tap long enough to rinse off the grime, then it stopped abruptly. Criss realized that there'd be no shower for him tonight, or any night until they got the water running again, and God knew when that would be.

He sat down at the counter with his meal before him. Childhood memories of family dinners floated back into his mind: of saying grace before meals, of all the vegetables of which he had turned up his nose but his father insisted he eat or he could not leave the table, and of his own fussy attitude toward his mother's cooking which he now regretted. How he wished now to be back in New York, with his mother and the rest of his family, eating pastitsio, spanakopistia, moussakas, and other Greek dishes he had spurned in the past but would have given his soul to be able to gorge on at this very moment. Why do we appreciate things only after they are gone? he wondered. One day, I'm living the high life, the next I'm living like a refugee, eating leftovers and unable to so much as take a shower.

Criss lowered his head more out of sorrow than reverence. "Dear God," he prayed, "thank You for guiding me safely back to the Luxor--me and the others who followed me. Bless this food and keep us ever mindful of those in need."

The irony of that last statement struck a chord within him. "Help us, dear God, for we are suffering--all of us, the whole city of Vegas," he continued to pray. "Heal those who have been injured, and bless those who have lost loved ones in this disaster. Amen."

He looked at the take-out container of pasta salad. The lettuce was wilted, the dressing had separated and the cheese had clumped together, but food was food, he thought. No sense ordering room service--there wasn't any. He picked up the plastic fork packed inside the container and began to eat. Later he'd go downstairs and join the other survivors, maybe try to cheer them up with some magic. He had no Red Cross training like Costa, but it was the best he could offer, a bit of diversion from the trauma of the day.





"There it is, white building on Flamingo and Vegas. Girl's supposed to be trapped up there under a shelf, second floor."

"Okay, let's go in."

The two firefighters trudged up the stairs to the ECRU workshop, burdened by their heavy gear. Every available firefigher, EMS technician, and ambulance driver had been vertical since the quake hit. No sooner than one emergency was resolved than another came over the radio from the only dispatcher still functioning at her post, sending them off again without so much as a bathroom break. Weary but undaunted, they slogged on, dousing fires, plugging gas leaks, searching for survivors, rescuing anyone still breathing, and transporting the injured to the DMF in Sunset Park as best they could, medivacing them by helicopter or by any other means available. They had a job to do, and they were going to see it through, earthquake be damned.

They picked their way through the debris in the demolished workshop. "Over there!" one of them said, pointing to the fallen shelving unit where an unconscious Vivi DiLano lay, still clutching her cell phone. The firemen lifted the unit high enough to free her, then dragged her to safety.

"Is she still alive?" one of them asked.

The other checked for vital signs. "She's still alive, no sign of internal injuries," he said. Tilting her head back, the fireman resustitated Vivi with his own lungs while his partner assembled a breathing apparatus to a small oxygen tank.

"Unit Twenty-seven, we have a woman here, about twenty-one, unconscious, pinned under a shelving unit. Flamingo Road and Vegas Avenue. Over."

The second fireman strapped the oxygen mask to Vivi's face. Vivi stirred and opened her eyes, relieved to be breathing again. The fireman looked down at her.

"You're going to be all right, ma'am," he said. "We'll get you to a hospital as soon as we can."

Vivi smiled through her mask. "Thank you," she whispered.




Night was falling. Save for the car and building fires and a few hotels and other buildings with emergency generators, the fabled Las Vegas Strip lay in total darkness, its neon glow dead from loss of power. Rescue workers searched for survivors with Klieg lights and powerful police-issue flashlights. Traumatized survivors huddled together in shelters, sleeping fitfully if at all, still haunted by the nightmare of the day's disaster.

Leslie Fanning had been on duty for over twelve straight hours, seven of them alone, trapped in the dispatch room, handling dozens of calls for help that came through the system. She had not eaten since the beginning of her shift earlier in the day, and the need to relieve herself became a crippling agony, but she stayed at her post, forcing herself to go on. Only when her bowels and bladder began to call nine-one-one to her brain did she break away and use a plastic lined wastepaper basket for a makeshift toilet. Tying up the plastic bag so the room wouldn't smell, she returned to her desk, put on her headset, and answered the latest round of calls.

By the twelfth hour, Leslie began feeling faintheaded from lack of food. Then she remembered the granola bars she had cached in her desk drawer; eating on duty was against regulations, but Leslie disdained the sugary snacks in the break room vending machine, so she packed her own wholesome, natural snacks to sustain her through long shifts and overtime. And this is overtime on steroids, she thought.

Opening the drawer, she saw only four bars lying there. Well, she'd have to make them stretch as long as she could. She pulled one out, unwrapped it, and nibbled slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible. Goddess only knew when she herself would be rescued. Meanwhile, she had to help all the other victims of the quake whose names and numbers filled the monitor screen. As much as she wanted to help them all, she could handle only one call at a time.

Leslie turned on her headset. "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"




Nini stumbled out of the first aid station in Room C, dazed and confused. Should she go back to the store? No, the doors were shut and locked, with a guard standing by. Should she go home? Did she even have a home to go back to?

The lobby was jampacked with survivors and victims, huddled in blankets, trying to sleep. Babies cried, a few people cursed at them to shut up. Nini picked her way over the sea of humanity flooding the floor of the atrium.

"Nini!" she heard a familiar voice call out to her. "Over here!"

It was Hadley Grace, her friend and dancer in Criss' show, waving to her from somewhere in the middle of the room. Nini tiptoed over the scattered sleeping bodies to where Hadley was sitting. "I saved you a spot," she said.

Nini almost fell over trying to embrace her. "Had! Oh, thank God! It's been a nightmare! Some jerkfaced looter tried to rob the cash register in the store, then when I tried to stop him, he tried to rape me!"

"You okay now?" Hadley asked her.

"Yeah, I guess," Nini replied. "They nailed that (bleeper) just in time." She slumped onto Hadley's shoulder. "I don't know if I'll ever be okay again," she sighed. "I don't know if any of us will be okay."

"We'll be okay," Hadley assured her. "Remember what Criss Angel always said? What doesn't kill us makes us stronger."

"Well, I don't feel very strong right now," Nini retorted.

"You're just tired," Hadley told her. "Try to get some sleep, okay?"

Nini lay on the floor, curled up in the hotel blanket with Hadley. She wondered if she could ever sleep again, after what happened. It had all been too much for her--for everyone, she amended. Her life had never been easy since her parents abandoned her to the care of her great-grandmother when she was a child. It had not eased up when she came to Las Vegas looking for work. Now, just when she thought things were finally going her way, disaster struck, in more ways than one. How could she sleep after what she had just been through?

Her eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off into adrenalin-drained slumber, too tired and too traumatized to even dream.





Criss dampened a bath towel with what little water he could get from the tap and wiped himself down as best he could. It wasn't as refreshing as a shower, but it had to do for the time being. At least he was no longer caked with concrete dust. He pulled off his dirty clothes and flung them into the hamper with the damp, filthy towel and staggered to his bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, ready to doze, but was rudely jolted awake by the sound of his cell phone going off. Drawing an irritated sigh, he wrenched himself perpendicular again , grabbed his phone and flipped it open.

"Yeah, what is it?" he mumbled irritably.

"Christopher?" his mother's voice came across from the other end.

Criss snapped to full alert. "Oh, hey, Mom," he said, flustered. "Oh, God, I didn't know it was you at first. I-I mean--"

"Are you all right?" Mom asked anxiously. "I heard about the earthquake over there; I called to see if you were all right."

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine, Mom," Criss assured her. "We're all okay at this end. Costa's been working his tail end off in the Red Cross station, and JD's been helping out some, but we're just fine, so don't worry."

"Good," his mother said, relieved. "Are you coming back to New York anytime soon?"

"No, why?"

"Well, if Las Vegas is destroyed, you need a place to live until they rebuild, don't you?"

Criss grinned. "No, I'm good," he told her. "The Luxor's still standing. In fact, I'm in my suite right now, with Hammie."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Bless the woman, Criss thought. Always thinking of others, especially her family. "No, you're safer there, Mom. The streets are torn up, and I don't think there will be any incoming flights for a while. We're good to go here."

"Well, can I send anything to you? Food, medicine, clothes, anything?"

Criss couldn't help but admire her persistance. "I'm fine, Mom," he insisted. Then, as an afterthought, he told her, "If you really want to help, you can organize some sort of relief effort through the church or something. There are a lot of people here who are worse off than I am. I'm sure they'd appreciate it."

"I'll do that," she said. "But you must lend a hand yourself, Christopher. They need your help as well, you know. You're big and strong enough to do your part in the relief effort; you need to go out and work along with your brothers. Don't shut yourself up in your hotel room--you go and make an effort to help those poor people down there. Don't let being a celebrity blind you to those in need."

Like I need reminding, Criss thought. "Mom, I never let being a celebrity blind me to anyone's needs, you know that," he protested. "I just guided a bunch of survivors here to the Luxor just after the quake hit. I tied a cable around my waist and told them to follow me. Now the whole lobby is so jammed with survivors, you can't even move without bumping into someone. And with the power out, I had to climb the emergency stairs just to get to my suite, and now I'm so tired, I could drop off just sitting here talking to you. Not that you're boring me or anything, it's just that I'm just so dog-tired right now."

"Hmm. Well, you get some sleep, darling," his mother told him. "You have a lot of work to do tomorrow, all right?"

"Okay, Mom. Good night. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I love you more, Mom. 'Night."

He flipped off his phone and flopped down on the bed again, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. His room was pitch-black from the power failure; no neon glare from the Strip below illuminated the suite, not even a streetlight, just the faint flickering glow from the building fires. No electronic billboards blared their messages, no loud club bands thumped out a back beat to the pulse of the city; not even a slot machine jingled and hummed in a casino. The blatting of car alarms triggered from the tremors had finally died down due to loss of power from dying car batteries. Even the wail of fire truck sirens had ceased. For the first time since its founding in 1905, Las Vegas was as silent as the desert surrounding it.





Downstairs in the Red Cross station in Room C, Costa lay on one of the cots, dead to the world, drained of all energy from his non-stop shift. He barely had had time to eat, let alone take a break, scarfing down a prepackaged sandwich from the deli between emergencies and washing it down with bottled water. In the ninth hour after the quake, his body screamed "Enough!", his brain went into shutdown, and Dwight Wyman found him slumped in a corner of the room, exhausted.

So there Costa lay, on a regulation Red Cross folding cot in the Red Cross station, sleeping so soundly that nothing short of a pistol shot could wake him. Dwight, seasoned veteran that he was, remained awake and alert, taking inventory of their diminishing supplies. It was only the first day of the disaster, he thought, and already half their stock was depleted. Stations across the state of Nevada were promising to send more, but in light of the fact that the roads were impassable, either by the quake or by state police roadblock, it was doubtful they could get through in time. All he could do was wait and make do with what they had.

Dwight looked at Costa asleep on the cot. Just a few short weeks ago, the latter was in his training class, awkwardly giving CPR and mouth-to-mouth to his female partner. Today, Volunteer Number Twenty-three had survived his baptism of fire, performing his duties like a pro, not a word of complaint out of him. Dwight let him sleep. He was going to need all the rest he could get, he thought. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.





Leslie sat asleep at her post, her head pillowed on her folded arms over the keyboard of the computer terminal, the headset still in her ear. The calls had finally stopped coming in, to her relief. The granola bar she had been nibbling on had sustained her throughout her twelve-hour shift, as well as the half-bottle of water Evelyn had carelessly left behind her when she disappeared before the quake hit. Leslie owed her negligent co-worker that much, at least.

She had once again tried to call for help on her cell phone, but still no luck. She had tried to contact the other EMS dispatch offices via her computer, but received only "Unable to forward" messages in return. Had they all been wiped out in the quake? she wondered.

The emergency generator in the building still delivered enough power to keep the system running, but how long would it last? A day? A week? Or only a few more hours, Goddess forbid? She had activated Sleep Mode to conserve power when the calls dwindled down, just to be sure. Then Leslie herself succumbed into her own sleep mode as exhaustion overpowered her.

Beep--Beep--Beep! Another emergency coming through jolted her awake. The computer monitor glowed back to life. Shaking off her drowsiness, she answered the call.

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" she rasped mechanically.

"Oh, thank God! I tried and tried and tried to get through, but the line was always busy!" came a frantic woman's voice. "Listen, I'm trapped in the basement of my home with my baby! Can you get anyone at all to come get us out? We don't have any food or water or anything down here!"

Leslie looked at her monitor. The address was right there, so that meant the land lines were working at least. "All right," she said, "you live at 32944 Alamo Drive, right?"

"Yes! Yes! That's right! We're in the basement!"

"All right, ma'am, I'll send someone out to you as soon as we can. It's gonna take a while, because we're so backed up with emergencies, but I'll do what I can to get someone there to free you and your baby."

"Thank you, whoever you are!" cried the grateful woman.

"Leslie," she said.

"Leslie," the woman repeated. "I'll never forget you! Never!"

"Thank you, ma'am," Leslie said.

"Evonne."

"Thank you, Evonne." Leslie whispered wearily.

"Gee, you sound really beat," Evonne said concernedly.

"I've been here alone for twelve straight hours," Leslie told her, "handling every emergency call on the only working computer here in the city. I'm trapped here with only three granola bars and a quarter bottle of water, and the woman who was supposed to be working with me disappeared on one of her unauthorized breaks just before the quake hit."

"So, you're trapped like me," Evonne said.

"Yeah," Leslie concurred. "But at least you have your baby for company."

"An eighteen-month-old isn't much company," Evonne pointed out, laughing a little. "I just managed to get him to sleep."

"What's his name?"

"Chandler Dale."

"That's a nice name."

"Thanks. Listen, I know you probably got a ton of calls coming through, so I'll let you go," Evonne said. "Just hang in there, and when they come to get us out of her, I'll tell them about you, okay?"

"Thanks, Evonne. And blessed be."

"Blessed be what?" Evonne asked, bewildered.

Leslie realized she was not talking to a fellow Wiccan. Thinking as fast as her exhausted brain could function, she said, "Blessed be you and yours. And thanks for the chat."

"Sure," Evonne said, "If you're not too busy, you can call me if you need some company. I think you got my number already."

"I got it here on the monitor," Leslie said. "And I'll get someone out to help you and Chandler."

"You're a doll, Leslie," Evonne said. " 'Bye now!"

" 'Bye," Leslie disconnected the phone and got on the mike. "Attention all units! We have a woman and baby trapped at 32944 Alamo Drive. Cross street, Cactus and Brush. 32944 Alamo Drive."

A long pause, then, "Squad Thirty-seven, acknowledged," came the reply.

At last, Leslie sighed with relief. Hang in there Evonne and Chandler, she mentally told them, help is on the way.

[RACHEL02189]

I love your stories Vertias :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Now all that needs to be done is to, son of a Mindfreak Greek, get the city back on its feet again! :) Loving the story, thanks for this, Veritas :)

[Veritas]

One swing of a tire iron to the plate glass window, and Leron Wilkins was in the electronics shop with no alarm and no one to stop him. He surveyed the damage around him. There had been a good deal of damage on the sales floor, but the stockroom should have some undamaged merchandise, he figured. The way they packed stuff these days, you could drop them off a ten storey building and they wouldn't even get scratched.

He stuffed a handful of iPods into the spacious pocket of his cargo pants, then some flash drives, then helped himself to some high-end cell phones from the shattered counter, estatic as kid in a very expensive toy store. With his van parked out back, one of the few places still level enough to drive on, he could load up on DVD players, plasma TVs, stereos, computers, and Lord knew what else. Take them across the state border, sell them in Phoenix or even LA, and he'd be rolling in cash.

His cargo pants stuffed to capacity with smaller items, Leron turned his attention to the stockroom. It was pitch black in there, but he could make out the back entrance. Kicking it open, what little light there was streamed in weakly, just barely enough to see within a small perimeter. Leron got back into his van, started it up, then turned it so that the headlights were shining into the stockroom. He killed the engine, leaving the lights on, then got out of the van and got to work.

To his delight, he saw a hand truck parked in the corner. Just what he needed! He grabbed the handles and gleefully pushed it to the shelves containing cartons of DVD players. He loaded a few cartons onto the hand truck, wheeled them to the van, and loaded them inside. Next came a load of portable CD players. Damn! he thought. This is too (bleeping) easy!

Now it was time for the heavy items. There was a stack of nineteen-inch plasma TVs still on one upper shelf, miraculously undamaged. Leron moved his trusty handcart into position and gradually wriggled the box on top of the stack to remove it.

His last conscious thought was of the ground shaking beneath his feet, and the stack of TVs crashing down on top of his body, along with everything else on the unit, with all the force of a giant foot stepping on him. Tumbling backward, his head struck the concrete floor, shattering his skull. The stack of TVs crushed his thin body, his broken ribs puncturing his lungs like nails in a balloon. When the aftershock wore off, Leron Wilkins lay dead, buried underneath a pile of flat-screen televisions.




Up in his suite, Criss felt the tremors shaking his bed. He tried to rise, but the quake knocked him back down again. He clung to his mattress like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a liferaft, screaming for God's help at the top of his lungs. He heard glass breaking and furniture falling to the floor. Then a deafening explosion rocked the suite as the xenon gas lightbulbs in the apex exploded, shattering the prismlike glass surrounding it. Criss covered his ears with his hands, terrified out of his wits.

Then all was still again. Criss lay on his bed, hyperventilating, sweating profusely, trembling in every limb. "Oh, God!" he panted, "Oh, God! Oh, God!"

Escape. That was what he had to do. He had to get out of the suite and get downstairs before the whole damn building caved in on him. Still shaking, he rose from the safety of his mattress and staggered to the living room. The scene that greeted him filled him with horror. Jagged cracks streaked across the slanted windows like lightning bolts. Furniture was overturned or knocked out of place. Somewhere he could hear Hammie yowling in distress.

"Hammie!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

"MIIIAAAOOOOWWWW!" came the reply from underneath an upended armchair. Hammie was trapped underneath the cushioned chair, imprisoned on all sides by the seat, back and arms. Criss flung the chair aside to free him. Hammie bolted away, bounding onto the window ledge, then leaping down again, frantic with fear. Criss scooped up the frightened animal and stroked him gently, trying to calm him with soothing words like an infant.

Clutching his cat to his chest, Criss made his way through the shattered remains of his suite to the front door. The doorframe had cracked and warped in the aftershock, and it took a lot of effort to open it, but open it he did, and he carefully stepped over debris to the emergency stairs to begin the long descent to the ground floor.




Costa felt himself thrown from his cot when the aftershock struck. In the darkness, he couldn't tell where he was or how to escape. All he could do was ride out the quake from where he was lying on the floor.

"God!" he screamed. "Help me! Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhddd!"

He could hear the screams of the survivors in the lobby. In his panicked mind, all he could think about was his mother back in New York. Mom! Mom! his brain kept repeating over and over again, the image of her freeze-framed in his mind's eye.

Then the tremors stopped. Instinctivly, Costa looked around, but saw only darkness. He felt his memory rebooting itself, and his paralyzed limbs reasserted their power again.

"Dwight?" he called out. "You okay? Dwight?"

He heard a moan from nearby. "Geez!" he heard Dwight say aloud. "I thought that last one was bad, but this!"

Costa fumbled through the darkness. "Dwight?"

"Oh, hey, Costa," Dwight mumbled, still dazed. "You still here?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," Costa replied. "We had another earthquake."

"It was an aftershock from the last one," Dwight explained. "They're usually worse than the first."

"Oh, great," Costa moaned dejectedly.

"Find a flashlight and let's get back to work," Dwight ordered. "We might have some more injuries out there."




"Out there", the terrified survivors clung to each other in blind terror. Babies and children, not to mention many adults, howled and cried in the wake of the aftershock. Felix Rappaport, the CEO, emerged from his office where he had been sleeping and tried to call for order. His suit was rumpled, his shirt soaked with sweat, and he had a five o'clock shadow on his tired face, but he was still in charge of the hotel and made sure everyone knew it.

"Everybody!" he shouted, "please try to remain calm! Everybody, please! Calm down! Everything is going to be all right! Just stay where you are! No one will get hurt! Everybody, just calm down!"

Nini and Hadley clung to each other like scared little girls, huddled in their blanket. Nini looked at her friend, tears streaming down her face in black mascaraed streaks.

"How long do we have to suffer like this?" she wailed. "When is this going to end?"

Silence was all Hadley had to give.




Our top story: Another earthquake has rocked the Metropolitan Las Vegas area around seven AM this morning, hampering rescue efforts from the previous tremor yesterday afternoon. The death total has now reached twenty-two, with hundreds more injured. FEMA advises all residents in surrounding areas to avoid all freeways leading into the city.




Vivi sat up in her bed in the DMF ward, grimacing with pain from her fractured ribs. Around her lay forty-nine other victims of the quake in varying stages of injury. To her left lay a cornrowed rapper-type with his leg in a brace, sound asleep. To her right was someone she couldn't make out as male or female due to the severe burns from head to foot. He or she seemed to be awake, so Vivi decided to make an effort to start a conversation.

"Hi, there," she called out softly at first, so as not to wake the man on the right.

No response. "Hey!" she said, a little louder this time. "Over here."

The disfigured form on the bed moved his or her head in Vivi's direction. A clear plastic mask pressed against the person's face to protect it from infection, with only a small oval aperature around the mouth to allow for speaking or eating. Vivi fought her initial feelings of revulsion and forced a smile.

"Hi," she said.

A moan which sounded like "hi" came back in reply.

"I'm Vivi. What's your name?"

"Aaaammm..."

"Ann?"

"Nooo, Aaammmbehhh."

"Amber?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, nice to meet you, Amber," Vivi replied with feigned enthusiasm. She wasn't sure if she should continue talking to this poor girl, so badly burned she couldn't even speak. She decided to try again.

"You feel like talking? If you don't, I understand, okay?" she said.

Amber lifted her scarred, plastic-encased head. "Yooouuu taaalllk," she moaned.

"Me? You want me to keep talking?" Vivi asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Well, okay," Vivi shrugged. She rambled on about her internship at ECRU, the complex preparations for Fashion Week (without revealing the creations, of course, as the designs were top secret), how she had been alone in the workshop when the quake hit and of being trapped under a shelf for "forever" as she put it. She revealed her near-death experience while she was pinned underneath the shelf unit, and the really cute firefighter who resusitated her.

"I got airlifted to this place," she went on. "I thought it was a regular hospital at first, but then they told me it was a special mobile hospital they set up in Sunset Park. Do you know you and I are the first patients to be staying here? It's like, we're making history, you know?"

Amber didn't move. Vivi couldn't see her eyes, so she assumed they were closed. I must have bored her to death, she thought. She must have fallen asleep when I was talking to her. Must have been the painkillers they gave her. God knows they knocked me out when they gave me some.

A medical assistant walked over to Vivi's bedside. "Hey, how ya doin'?" he greeted her jovially. "I'm Luis, and I'm one of the MAs here in the DMF. I came here to check up on you; so how's the ribcage?"

"Sore as hell," Vivi replied. "I'm just happy to be breathing again."

"True that," Luis returned. "So what happened, anyway?"

"Well, I was in the workshop, working on a dress for Fashion Week, and a shelving unit fell on me when the quake hit," she explained.

"Fashion Week? You a designer?"

"Trying to be," Vivi replied. "Right now I'm just an intern at ECRU."

"ECRU?" Luis gave a low whistle. "Classy."

"Yeah," Vivi nodded. "We were right in the middle of getting out our new line, Un--" Vivi clamped her hand over her mouth. "I'm really not supposed to talk about it. It's supposed to be secret."

"Why is it so secret?" Luis asked as he readujusted the IV in Vivi's arm.

"You kidding? Clothing designs are as easily ripped off as music on the Internet," Vivi told him. "That's why our workshop is in a plain building without any windows. I even had to sign a security agreement not to reveal anything that goes on in there."

"Didn't know the fashion world was so paranoid," Luis said, resettling the blanket on Vivi's bed.

"You don't know the half of it," Vivi retorted.

Luis moved to Amber's bed and stooped over to examine her. Vivi craned her neck to watch. "I think she's asleep," she told him.

Luis rose, shaking his head sadly. "Yeah, she's sleeping," he said, "never to wake up."

Vivi was stunned. "She's dead?"

Luis pulled the sheet over Amber's charred head and pressed the help button for assistance. Vivi could only watch helplessly as two white-coated representatives from the morgue wheeled a gurney into the ward, lifted the bedsheeted Amber onto it, then quietly wheeled her out again. Luis went on with his rounds in the ward.

Vivi could only stare at the empty bed beside her. I must have bored her to death, she remembered thinking, but she didn't mean to do it literally. Her last words, you talk, had been to her and her alone. No messages of love to her family, no regrets of past indiscretions, just the simple request to hear a human voice. Her throat constricted, her eyes burned with tears. In all her life, she had never seen anyone die before. Deep down, she knew that after this moment, her life would never be the same.





Criss sat down on the stairs to rest, still clutching Hammie. His leg muscles ached unbearably, and in the darkness he had no idea where the hell he was. It had been an endless descent into a deep, black void, the handrail his only guide.

The few memory cells in his tired brain still alert enough to function recalled that the signs beside the emergency exit doors were embossed to allow them to be "read" in case of a blackout. Criss looked around for the door on the landing. A tiny sliver of dim grey light gave him a hint of its location. Criss groped toward the door, then felt around for the sign. His fingers ran across the raised figures on the metal plaque, making out a large two and a zero next to it. The twentieth floor, he concluded. He was on the twentieth floor. Only twenty more floors to go.

Hammie squirmed and meowed impatiently in Criss' arms. Criss stroked his sleek head. "It's all right, Hammie," he cooed. "We're almost there. Just twenty more floors to go. Just hang in there."

He felt around for the railing and continued his descent. God, how he wished the elevators were working again!





Seven-thirty AM. Leslie had been at her post for over twenty-two hours straight. Another hour and a half, and she'd be starting another shift. She nibbled on another granola bar and scavenged the drawers for more bottled water. No luck. Her throat was drying up to the point where she was beginning to lose her voice. Oh, Goddess, she prayed. Send someone to help me.

The second quake had shaken up the building worse than ever just half an hour ago. Leslie had thrown her arms around her computer, her one and only link to the outside world, to protect it from damage. When the tremors stopped a few minutes later, she was still clinging to it like jetsam after a shipwreck. She came to her senses and realized it was still miraculously humming.

Then the calls started coming in again. "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?" she rasped through a sandpaper throat.

She received and sent, received and sent, until a warning that the emergency generator was about to go down. There was just enough time to send out a final dispatch before the power and Leslie herself stopped functioning.

"Attention all units!" she rasped hoarsly over the mike. "We have a dispatcher trapped in the EMS dispatch office with no water and only one and a half granola bars to live on! Station Five, first floor, Civic Center drive. Over."

The monitor went blank. The mike went dead. It was over. Leslie removed her headset and got up from her chair to stretch her legs. Did anyone hear her last message? she wondered. In the pale grey light she stumbled over the debris to try the door again. It didn't budge. Sighing, she cleared a space on the floor to lie down, either to sleep or to die from dehydration, starvation or the next quake if there was one.

Her last thoughts before sleep overcame her was of the James Cameron movie, Titanic, with Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, of the scenes in the telegraph office. The telegrapher frantically signalling for help from all the ships on the ocean until the power went out--she could relate to that. Did he die, or did he make it to the lifeboats? She couldn't remember. But he had stayed until the very end, as did she. She felt herself sink into blissful oblivion, no calls, no beeps, nothing. Peace, only peace.

She was still lying there when the firefighters broke into the station to rescue her, four hours later.

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Wow! Loving every chapter, and hoping that this story ends on a happy note for all those deserving of it! :)

[RACHEL02189]

Keep it coming girl :) :)

[Smurf]

Loving the story :) Can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

After a dizzying downward spiral of twenty floors, Criss had finally made it to the ground floor. Weak from the exertion, he stumbled, spaghetti legged, to the emergency door, throwing himself against it in an effort to open it. Nothing. He tried again, shielding Hammie with his hands. Again, no response. Then he remembered that it opened on the inside and pulled on the door handle with his remaining strength. A shaft of sunlight nearly blinded him as the door finally yielded. He staggered out into the corridor, dropping Hammie as he tumbled to the floor, too exhausted to go after him.

Hammie trotted away, glad to be back in the light and grateful to be free to walk around again. He sniffed the air for food, sorting through the confusing mixture of scents, mostly human. He trotted back down the corridor, afraid of the mass of humanity spread out on the floor of the atrium. The guard posted at the entrance of the corridor leading to the MindFreak production office failed to notice the small cat padding by his feet, right under his nose.

The quake had shattered the giant glass windowpanes, creating a hole big enough for Hammie to slip through without injury. Water spilled from a plastic bottle offered him a much-needed drink, and a discarded turkey sandwich in the wastebasket served as nourishment. The leather sofa in the waiting area was still intact, so Hammie leapt onto it and made himself comfortable.

A tired and worried JD entered the office with his brother, Costa. "I dunno, man," he groaned. "I haven't seen him since he went up to get Hammie. After the second quake, I'm not sure what happened to him."

Costa looked down on the sofa. "Well, there's Hammie there," he said, pointing at the contented feline curled up on the seat cushion.

JD stared at Hammie, astonished. "If Hammie's there, then Christopher must have made it downstairs," he reasoned. "Check the emergency stairs."

The two brothers raced down the corridor to the emergency exit. Criss still lay on the floor, nearly unconscious. JD and Costa knelt down beside him and turned him over. Criss groaned a little, trying to regain consciousness.

JD patted Criss' face. "Christopher" he said, "hey, little brother. Come on, man, wake up."

"Huuuuhhh? Whhhaaa?" Criss moaned incoherantly. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hallway," JD answered him. "Can you stand up?"

"Dude," Criss replied, "I can't even feel my legs! I just got through climbing up and down thirty flights of stairs--in the dark!"

"Come on, Cos," JD said, "we're gonna have to carry him."

The two men lifted Criss by the arms and legs and carried him into the production office. Once there, they set him down on the nearest sofa, lifting his legs up and onto the cushions. JD fetched a bottle of water from somewhere in the office, cracked it open with a single twist, and put it to his brother's lips to drink. Never in Criss' memory had water tasted so good. He drank deeply, savoring the refreshing liquid soothing his parched throat. I'll never take water for granted again, he vowed to himself.

Criss turned his head to the sofa opposite his and saw Hammie there. "Hey, Hammie," he rasped. "We made it, didn't we, boy? Yeah. Yeah, we made it down all right. Didn't we?"

Hammie blinked and turned his head away in typical feline indifference. He had food in his stomach and a cushion to sleep on, and that was all that mattered to him.




Leslie woke up in seemingly familiar surroundings. It was daylight, the Goddess be praised, and the familiar smell of incense wafted into her nostrils. She was lying on a futon on the floor of--whose house was this again? She looked around the room. A tapestry of arcane symbols hung on the longer wall across from the window. A wooden bookshelf stood in one corner, filled with those same Wiccan works she herself had read. She realized that it was the house of one of her fellow coven members, but who?

"Blessed be, sister," the comforting voice of Oak Tree Mother spoke behind her.

"Mother?" Leslie sat up and turned to the side. Yes, it was Oak Tree Mother, kneeling down beside the futon with a cup of tea in her hand. "Oh, blessed be, Mother! Thank the Goddess you're all right!"

"Thank the Goddess you're all right, too," Mother said. "Here. I made you some tea."

Leslie took the earthenware mug of tea gratefully and sipped it. "The Goddess bless you, Mother," she said, breaking into tears. "But, how did I get here? I mean, last thing I remember was that I was in the EMS dispatch office."

"You were found by some firemen," Mother began, "and taken to a portable hospital in the park. I was there to tend to Del and Rainsong. The baby was born a couple of weeks premature, but they say he'll be all right."

"They had a boy?" Leslie smiled wearily. "Goddess be praised."

"Yes, well, I saw them bring you in," Mother continued. "and the ward was already filled to capacity, so I volunteered to take you home with me. The firemen praised your efforts, Sunsinger. They said you went above and beyond the call of duty."

"I really had no choice in the matter, Mother," Leslie pointed out. "I was trapped in there, and Evelyn, who was supposed to be working with me, disappeared before the first quake hit. I don't know what happened to her."

"Oh, your co-worker," Mother muttered uneasily.

"You know what happened to Evelyn?" Leslie asked.

"Well, from what the firemen said, they found a woman's body outside the building. She had been crushed by something falling onto her."

Leslie was stunned but not surprised. "She must have gone out for a smoke," she guessed. "She was always going out for something or other."

"Probably," Mother concurred. "But the important thing is that you are all right, and so are the victims who called you for help. If it hadn't been for you, there would have been many more deaths. The Goddess bless you."

She kissed Leslie on the forehead. "Now," she said in a more matronly tone, "finish your tea and get some rest. You've earned it."





Rescue efforts continued throughout the week. No more tremors were recorded, though NEDA kept a vigilant watch on the seismograph for the southern region of the state. The quake had nearly split Las Vegas from the rest of Nevada, and the danger of flash flooding from Lake Meade was ever in the forefront of FEMA. Sandbag barriers were erected in strategic points to stave off furthur disaster.

Water restrictions were put into place: the famous Bellagio Fountains were shut off and drained for the sake of public health and safety. Plastic lined buckets served as toilets, due to sewer damage underground; the stench of raw sewage lingered in the air for days on end. Bottled water was rationed carefully; any violation was punishable by a one-hundred dollar fine or two weeks in jail. Meanwhile, municipal workers labored round the clock to repair ruptured gas lines, water mains, sewage and waste treatment plants, and to restore basic electrical services. Costs for repairs ran into the billions of dollars; many claimed it was more expensive than restoring New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

FEMA and the local ASPCA arranged the total evacuation of all animals in the metropolitan area, from the Circus Circus elephants, tigers and other exotic animals to the smallest household pets. A special shelter would be set up in North Las Vegas in the old Expo Center. They called for volunteers to help out with the evacuation and subsequent care of all the creatures transported there. Animal lovers by the dozens signed up to lend a hand.

When told about the animal transport, Criss dug in his heels, refusing to give up Hammie. "He's safe with me!" he protested. "He doesn't need to be taken to a shelter! I can take care of him right here!"

"Criss, we barely have enough food for ourselves," Felix Rappaport argued. "There's plenty of pet food at the shelter, and he'd get good medical care as well. Besides, it's a health issue."

"What health issue?" Criss demanded. "Hammie's got all of his shots; he's perfectly healthy!"

"It's only for a while, Criss," JD assured him. "Once the city's back on it's feet, you'll get him back."

Felix laid a hand on Criss' shoulder. "He's right, Criss," he said gently. "It's all for the best. This animal transport has the mayor's support, and FEMA's making it mandatory for health and safety reasons."

"(Bleep) FEMA!" Criss exploded. "I risked my ass getting Hammie down from the suite, and now you want me to give him up? It's like asking me to give up my only child!"

"Criss," Felix said sternly. "It's a cat, not a child. Now I know how much you love him, but you gotta look at it realistically. The whole city's torn up, there's no sanitaion, and we can't have your cat going to the bathroom all over the place. He'll be in a cleaner, safer environment with professionals to take care of him. So, please, Criss, for Hammie's sake and the people out there, put Hammie on the transport."

A large animal carrier was bought in, with a fully filled out identification card attached to one side. "It's only for a while," JD repeated. "You'll get him back soon."

Criss stood by helplessly as JD took Hammie from his arms and put him in the carrier, shutting the mesh door behind him. He watched as the ASPCA volunteer picked up the carrier and took it to the van waiting outside. Criss felt his feet move, following the volunteer taking his beloved cat away. As the carrier was set down on the cracked pavement while the doors of the van were opened, Criss knelt down and peered inside the carrier for one last look at his Hammie. "I'll come back for you, Hammie," he said, his voice breaking with emotion. "I swear to God I will."

"Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Angel," the ASPCA volunteer assured him warmly. "Hammie's going to get the best care we can provide. He'll be back soon, we promise."

He picked up the carrier and set it into the van along with all the other carriers containing licensed pets, strays and performing animals from various Vegas shows. Criss quickly dug into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, fished out a few hundred dollar bills, and gave to the volunteer. "Here," he said, tears streaming from his eyes. "Make sure that Hammie gets the best." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "and all the other animals, too."

The volunteer took the money graciously. "Thank you so much, Mr. Angel," he said. "And don't worry, Hammie will be all right."

The doors slammed shut, then the van drove off through the recently cleared streets on its way to North Las Vegas. Numb with shock, Criss stood there, watching the white van with his cat inside disappear over the horizon. Only when JD put his arm around his shoulder did he break down and weep.

[Veritas]

The next morning, Mayor Oscar B. Goodman had called for all able-bodied citizens to volunteer in rebuilding the city in a State of the City address, appealing to their civic pride, humanity and sense of duty. Those with special skills, such as construction workers, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, and the like, were to report to the Municipal Center as soon as possible. Anyone with medical training were to report to the nearest hospital or Red Cross station. Fire brigades were to be organized, makeshift day care centers were to be set up in churches and schools. Neighborhood watches would assist the police in patrolling the area for looting and other criminal activity. "Let's roll up our sleeves and get to work!" Mayor Goodman cheered encouragingly.




Criss could not remember ever having stood in line for so long, not even to see Return of the Jedi when he was in high school. But, there he was, lined up with hundreds of other "able-bodied citizens" to do his part in the restoration effort. No special privileges, no exemptions, no celebrity perks. After the quake, Criss Angel, master illusionist and Vegas superstar, was just another member of the walking wounded, another survivor among thousands of survivors waiting his turn to be assigned whatever duty they gave him.

He bore no resentment about it. He accepted it, not graciously but matter of factly. It was something to do at least, he figured. He hoped against hope that they would assign him to the animal shelter so that he could see Hammie again. The heartwrenching sight of his beloved cat being hauled off in that plastic cage to God knew where by order of FEMA replayed in his mind's eye over and over again. He's going to be fine, they had assured him. He'll get the best care we can give. Deep down, however, Criss just couldn't believe it. Visions of cramped cages, reeking of animal waste, rose up before his eyes, like those puppy mills he had heard about. He could see Hammie now, locked in a wire cage, feebly trying to paw his way out, a look of abandonment in his green-grey eyes...

"Next!" barked the municipal registrar.

Criss snapped back to reality, realizing it was his turn to go up and volunteer. Shaking the visions of Hammie out of his head, he stepped forward to the registrar.

"Name?" the registrar droned apathetically.

"Uh, Criss Angel."

"Is that your legal name?"

"Uh, yeah, it is."

"You have any construction skills, engineering, medical training?"

"Well, no, not really," Criss replied hesitantly.

"You have any disabilities, heart condition, back problems, or in any other way unable to do any heavy lifting?"

"No, sir."

The registrar scanned a stapled set of papers for a minute or so. "Okay," he droned, "report to Section F, Room 27A, Municipal Building." He pushed a sheet of paper at Criss along with a cheap plastic pen. "Sign here, please."

Criss signed, too stunned to read the paper he had just put his name on, and handed it back to the registrar, who in turn gave him a sheet detailing his new duties. "You're good to go," he said. "Next!"

Criss walked away from the registrar's table. He felt as though he had fallen from grace. A week ago, people fawned all over him, ushering him to the best tables in the finest restaraunts in Vegas, catering to his every need if not his every whim. Yes, Mr. Angel, we'll get right on it, Mr. Angel, what car will you be driving today Mr. Angel? Now, suddenly, he was a nobody, a nameless face in the crowd. That registrar didn't give a damn who he was, much less cared.

With a sinking heart he glanced down at the sheet given to him: Angel, Criss, Volunteer Number 132. Section F, Debris and Waste Disposal.

Criss' spirits sank even lower. Debris and Waste Disposal? What the hell was that? If it was debris and waste disposal at the animal shelter, he wouldn't have minded. With a heart as heavy as his feet, he trudged to Room 27A to report for duty, realizing he really had no choice in the matter. FEMA ran the city now, it seemed: what they said, went. We can't let you go back to your suite until we give the all clear. We gotta take your cat to a shelter because of health and safety concerns. We're assigning you to Debris and Waste Disposal because we said so. It was as if the city had been taken over by a foreign power, stripping him of his rights. If this is what Mom went through when she was growing up in Greece during the war, he thought, no wonder she came here to America.





Debris and Waste Disposal Volunteer Number 132, formerly known a Criss Angel, passed through the equipment line with his fellow conscriptees as FEMA supervisors methodically issued their work gear: neon orange and green safety vest, yellow hard hat "to be worn at all times," they warned, a pair of heavy-duty work gloves, a plexiglass face shield, a pair of filter masks, and an ID badge attached to a long black cord to be worn around the neck. Tools were to be issued at the day's work site and returned at the end of the shift, the supervisors instructed.

Due to transportation problems and many if not all homes being "unsafe", DWD workers were assigned bunks in the Municipal Center according to their numbers, fifty to a room. Numbers 101 to 150 were assigned the auditorium. Criss carried his gear and located his bunk, somewhere in the middle, and threw himself onto the stiff, steel-springed mattress. He could hear someone taking the upper bunk from the squeaking of the bedframe and springs, someone bigger and heavier than he. Criss hoped that whoever was up there wouldn't come crashing down on him while he slept.

The workers were barely settled when the supervisor assigned to their "team" came in for "orientation". Criss listened half-heartedly as the supervisor barked out the daily schedule and rules to be followed: out of bed at five-thirty, breakfast in the cafeteria at six, work assignments at six-thirty to which everyone was to report promptly, and no exceptions, break at nine-thirty, back to work at nine-forty-five, lunch at twelve-thirty to one, shift ending at six PM, dinner at seven in the cafeteria, lights out at nine. No smoking due to possible gas leaks at any time. No alcoholic beverages allowed. No urinating in the streets--use the portapotties for health reasons. If at any time a worker was unable to work that day, he was to report to the supervisor before the beginning of the shift. Any violations of the rules would result in dismissal from the team; any looting would result in criminal prosecution.

"Rest up," the supervisor told the men in the auditorium. "Tomorrow is the first day of work. Be ready."

Grudging assent and mumbled curses were all the reply the supervisor received. Criss sank down in his bunk again, his spirits lower than they had ever been.

"Sounds like the slammer," said a voice above his head.

"Damn straight," Criss replied, not even bothering to look up.

The bedsprings squealed as Criss' bunkmate leaned down to look at him. "You do time, dude?"

Criss raised his head, seeing the face of the man above him, a heavy face with a shovel-like jawline and a crooked nose from what he guessed resulted from one barfight too many. The man's hand, a huge paw with lettering on each digit, clung to the frame of the bunk. His thinning blonde hair was tightly pulled back in a braided queue and bound with leather thongs.

"No," Criss replied, "I never did any time in prison." Then, with a hint of mischief, he added, "But I did escape from a jail cell once."

Shovel Jaw swung down from his bunk. Criss saw a huge bear of a man standing before him, with huge brawny arms sleeved with tattoos up to his broad shoulders and beyond.His leather vest was covered in biker patches, and his jeans were practically shredded. Criss stared at him with trepedition. I should have kept my mouth shut, he thought.

"How the (bleep) did you do that?" Shovel Jaw asked incredulously.

Criss drew a deep breath and related his jail escape from Pioche, Nevada, for his TV show. Shovel Jaw studied him carefully.

"You know," he said, "I thought you looked familiar. Yeah, you do that crazy-assed (bleep) on TV, don't you?"

Criss nodded. "Yeah, that's me all right." he confirmed. Please don't kill me! he mentally pleaded.

Shovel Jaw held out his huge, paw-like hand. "Name's Shane," he said. "Shane Tobey."

Criss grasped it, relieved. "Criss Angel," he said.

Shane sat down beside Criss. "So, what the hell are you doing on the crap crew?" he asked.

"Hell if I know," Criss replied. "My current streak of bad luck, I guess. I just stood in the volunteer line and they sent me here." He turned to Shane. "You?"

"Me? Ah, the parole board sent me here," Shane replied. "They cut me a deal--work on the crap crew, get off early. That is, if I don't (bleep) it up by looting anything or (bleep) like that."

"What were you in for?" Criss asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Assault and battery," Shane replied. "Got into a fight with some (bleepbleeper) in a bar somewhere in Reno. Cut him up really bad with a bottle. Got out six months ago."

Criss prudently decided not to press the matter furthur. "So," he said, changing the subject, "where you from, originally?"

"New Mexico. I was kinda all over, you know--bounced around the foster care system after they took me away from my mother."

"Gee," Criss said sympathetically. "That's too bad."

"Ah, don't get all weepy about it," Shane told him. "She was pretty (bleeped) up on booze, among other things. I ain't seen her in thirty years. Don't care to, either."

Criss couldn't help but compare Shane's mother with his own, but soon realized that there was no comparison between his loving, self-sacrificing mother and the sorry excuse of a parent Shane had been stuck with. When it came to mothers, Criss had the luck of the draw, while Shane had come up snake eyes.

They talked on through the afternoon, Criss telling Shane about his show and all the work that went into it, his family history, and his early attempts to practice magic, and Shane telling Criss about his nomadic life on the road on his Harley, finding some semblance of stability and "family" life with the Iron Coffins, a local motorcycle club. Shane laughed uproariously when he heard about Criss' pyrotechnic experiment that resulted in his mother's brand new carpeting getting torched. Criss, for his part, listened disbelievingly to Shane's stories of biker rallies and the copious amounts of beer he and his "brothers" drank. One member had turned the trunk of his Buick into a rolling cooler by lining it with vinyl tarps and filling it with ice and enough beer to float an aircraft carrier, he told him. Eventually, the conversation turned to the earthquake.

"Where were you when the quake hit?" Criss asked Shane.

"Home," he replied. "I'm in my room, watching TV, and I get up to get another beer, then all of a sudden my legs just buckled under me. I'm like, Hey, I can't be that drunk! I only had two beers! And then I realize it's not me, it's the room! We're having an earthquake, you know? Damndest thing I ever experienced, swear to God."

"I was outside doing card tricks," Criss said. "I just got this skateboarder to pick a card, then all unholy hell breaks loose, you know? I was just a few blocks from the Luxor, so I got my cameraman, Kevin, to get some cable so we could use it as a safety line. I tie one end around my waist and told everyone to follow me. Well, to make a long story short, we made it back okay."

"Card tricks, huh?" Shane said, smiling through crooked teeth. "I gotta decka cards. Think you can do something with them?"

Criss shrugged indifferently. "Probably," he replied glibly.

Before Shane could dig out his deck, it was suddenly announced that dinner was being served in the cafeteria, so Criss and his new friend trooped out of the auditorium together, still chatting about their lives before the earthquake, and their plans for the future.




Leslie had received word from Morton, the supervisor, that it would be another week before the dispatch station would be up and running again due to the power failure and the damage to the building. She could qualify for a week's unemployment pay, he told her, and if she had nothing better to do, she could come over to the station to help with the cleanup efforts with the rest of the staff. Leslie agreed, sparing herself the long wait at the volunteer registrar's office in the Municipal Center as well as doing her part in the relief effort. Only when she arrived at the station did she realize the full extent of the damage done by the quake, and the task she had before her. Shards of broken glass were scattered everywhere, lighting fixtures dangled from their wiring if they hadn't fallen to the floor altogether. Computer monitors lay demolished under desks, caked in masonry dust. It looked hopeless. Goddess give me strength, she prayed.

First order of business, Morton ordered, was general cleanup--throw everything that was broken into the dumpster, no matter what it was. Clear everything out, then sort what can be salvaged, he said. So, with a long-handled dustpan and a broom found in a storage closet in the lounge, Leslie began sweeping the floors, shuttling to the dumpster and back with a dustpan full of piles and piles of dust, glass and other litter. She stirred up so much dust that she sneezed constantly, so much so that she resorted to wearing a dust mask she found in the utility closet. Her co-workers hauled broken computer monitors, splintered furniture, larger pieces of broken glass, fallen light fixtures, pieces of broken ceiling tile--anything that wasn't nailed down went outside to be sorted and either salvaged or disposed.

Meanwhile, Leslie swept and swept, removing barely half a pound of dust and litter in her dustpan at a time. It was like digging out the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon. She had just emptied another pan full of dust outside the main entrance when she saw what looked like a bloodstain on the concrete walk leading up to the main entrance, much of which had been buried under the heavy awning when it fell from its supports. A closer investigation revealed that the awning had been moved at some point, then let fall again, as if it had been lifted up only long enough to free the person underneath it.

Leslie stared at the bloodstain. Could it have been Evelyn? she wondered. She often stood outside under the awning for a quick smoke every now and then, she recalled, and they both had been on duty--or, rather, Leslie had been on duty while Evelyn had been goofing off as usual--when the quake hit. It had to have been Evelyn, she reasoned. She couldn't think of anyone else who had been on duty that day in the dispatch office. Leslie felt her resentment toward Evelyn turn to pity. Poor Evelyn, she thought. I hope the end was quick and merciful.

[RACHEL02189]

Debris and Waste Disposal.

IN OTHER WORDS PICKING UP TRASH AND CLEANING PORT A POTTIES YUCK!!!

[Veritas]

Trash, yes. Portapotties need to be cleaned by a professional with the proper equipment.

[Carebear353]

I love this story and cant wait to read more

[Veritas]

"Hello?" Vivi said over her cell phone.

"Hey, girl, how ya doin'?"

"Brandi!" Vivi suddenly brightened. "Hey, what's up. girlfriend?"

"Just called to see how my BFF was doing, that's all," Brandi replied. "I mean, last time you called, you were trapped under a shelf or something. Girl! I was worried sick about you after that! I thought you died, you know?"

"Yeah," Vivi said, "I almost did. In fact, I had one of those near-death experiences, where you float out of your body and through this tunnel of light--it was too (bleeping) wierd!"

"You ain't hurt too bad, are you?"

"A few cracked ribs, but nothing major. I got out of the hospital a few days ago. I got exempt from volunteer duty because of it."

"So, where you at now?" Brandi asked.

"I'm sheltered in some church basement somewhere with a hundred other people," Vivi answered. "It's really starting to smell down there! I had to come outside just to talk to you. Where you at?"

"Home," Brandi replied bluntly. "My folks heard about the quake on the news, and they drove all the way from Ely to come and get me. I lost a lot of my stuff, but you know me--so long as I got my cell phone, I can survive anything!"

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you got home safely," Vivi said. "It's still going to be a while before I get to return to my apartment. I just hope it hadn't been too badly damaged, you know."

"Veev, it's not the damage you should be worrying about," Brandi said seriously. "It's the looters. People helping themselves to other people's stuff, no matter whose it is. You got renter's insurance?"

"Yeah, it was part of the lease."

"Good. You gonna need it when you get back," Brandi told her. "But just remember--no matter how much stuff you lose, you still got your life, okay? You can get a new stereo or a new TV, but you can't get a new you."

"Thanks, Bran. Talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure. Later, 'bye."




Dr. Melinda Shyne watched as the army transport helicopter airlifted the last few patients from the DMF unit in Sunset Park to Carson City. It was over. Soon, the unit would be dismantled and taken back to whatever storage facility it came from and she would return to her nomal practice at the hospital. After two weeks of nonstop emergency treatment of the dozens of injured victims, she had been granted a two-day leave to rest by the chief of staff and a service commemdation from the hospital board. The hospital itself was up and running again, thanks to the Army Medical staff and Corps of Engineers. The latter promised electical power would be restored to the city by the end of the week at the earliest for essential services only, then to full power by the following weekend. Life was finally returning to normal.

Or was it? Would life ever be the way it was before the quake? she wondered. Could it ever be the same? She anticipated a yet undetermined cases of PSTD from traumatized survivors, mostly children. Vegas itself could be rebuilt, but how could you rebuild your life after such a disaster? There were survivors of Hurricane Katrina who still hadn't fully recovered from the trauma of that massive hurricane. The shock of suddenly losing your home and everything you held dear, the guilt of having survived while loved ones were lost in the disaster, the indignity of huddling in a makeshift shelter somewhere, possessing nothing but the clothes on your back and whatever you happened to be carrying in your pockets, and the rage you felt against God, nature and the federal government whom you felt betrayed you because help didn't arrive soon enough, or was insufficent for your needs--no, Dr. Shyne thought, there was no such thing as "normal" anymore.

The city of Las Vegas would be rebuilt. She was confident about that. It had too much money invested in it to let itself turn into a ghost town; every casino, hotel, resort, club, bar and theater was insured to the hilt for hundreds of millions of dollars. In time, the lights would glow again along the Strip, and the slots would be spinning in the casinos, the dancers would be strutting their stuff under the spotlights just like before, and the booze would once again be flowing from behind the bars. Like the legendary phoenix, Sin City would rise again in all its decadent neon glory.

But it was the people for whom she worried. How had the disaster changed them? For better? For worse? Having survived a tornado or two in her native state of Nebraska, she knew from experience that natural disasters bought out the both the best and worst in people; they either helped their neighbors in distress or helped themselves to their neighbors' possessions (the memory of some unscrupulous character making off with her mother's cherished antique jewelry box from the ruins of their house after the last big twister she had experienced still rankled her). Psychiatry was out of her league, of course, but Dr. Shyne knew she would have to deal with the physical aftereffects of other people's mental and emotional uphevals.




Two hours and forty-five minutes used to be considered a "tight" schedule by television standards when taping his show, MindFreak, but shoveling and clearing rubble from the streets of Las Vegas under the hot Nevada sun made that same time frame an eternity for Criss. As he mechanically bent and rose, bent and rose, scooping up endless piles of broken masonry, glass and concrete, Criss thought about his family, his friends, his production crew and anyone else he knew. No sooner than did the image of one face fade than another would randomly take its place: His brothers, JD and Costa; his mother, for whom he thanked God was safe in New York; Jennifer, his assistant; Dave Baram, his manager; Gerard; Bro; Hammie; Penn and Teller; his cousin, George; Tami Lee; the production office staff; The Amazing Johnathan; Vince Neil; Tommy Lee; Flava Flav; Jeff McBride...

What happened to them, he kept asking himself as the faces of those he knew and loved floated before his mind's eye. Where were his brothers? Did George remain in New York with his mother? What happened to his staff? Did any of them get hurt, or worse, killed? And what about his friends? Did they escape? Were they even in Vegas when the quake hit? And what about Hammie? Were they taking good care of him at the animal shelter in the Expo Center? His overburdened mind swirled with grief and anxiety while his body kept slogging away doing cleanup.

In the past, he hardly had a moment to himself; he was always on camera, his life played out before an audience of millions. Despite the presence of the other DWD workers, the supervisor, and the National Guardsmen patrolling the streets, Criss felt an overwhelming sense of lonliness, of isolation. No cameras recorded his miserable task, no one approached him for an autograph--in fact, it seemed no cared who he was, or rather who he had been. He felt his sense of identity eroding with each passing hour, his famous name supplanted by a three digit number: 132.


The airhorn blared at exactly nine-thirty, announcing the morning break. The DWD crew threw down their tools and made a beeline for the "roach coach", the refreshment truck stocked with a motley assortment of prepackaged food and coolers filled with bottled water. Criss waited until everyone was gathered behind the truck, then quietly slipped through the glass doors of the Luxor.

It was cooler than outside. There was that, he thought. Darker, too. And quiet--too quiet, as they said in the movies. The once immaculate carpeting was littered with paper wrappers, drink containers, and forgotten items of clothing. Geez! Criss thought. You'd think they'd have cleaned it up by now.

He felt his way past the silent production office, locked up tight to prevent theft of the computer equipment and other valuables, up a flight of emergency stairs, to the President's office. He tried the office door. To his surprise, it was open. He entered cautiously, peering around every corner for trouble.

"Who's there?" a voice from the executive office sharply demanded.

"Felix?" Criss called out.

"Criss?" Felix bolted out of his chair and all but hurdled over his desk. "Oh, my God! Is that you?"

He stopped in the doorway, staring at his star performer, covered with dirt and grime from head to foot and wearing a yellow hardhat and safety vest, with disbelieving eyes. Criss, for his part, saw his friend and employer looking disheveled and unshaven, his tailored blue business suit rumpled as if it had been slept in for two weeks. The two men embraced each other like long lost brothers, tears of joy and relief cutting through the dust on their faces.

"Oh, God, Criss!" Felix cried. "Thank God you're all right!"

"God, Felix!" Criss sniffled, "I am so (bleeping) glad to see you again!"

Felix succeeded in releasing himself from Criss' grasp. "Come on in," he offered. "I got some water."

Criss accepted gratefully. "I can't stay long," he told Felix. "I gotta go back to work in another ten minutes."

In the office, Felix gave Criss a couple of Wetnaps to wipe his face and hands. "I've practically taken a bath with these things," Felix joked.

Criss wiped himself off with the alcohol-dampened paper tissues as best he could. He longed for a shower; he would have even settled for a bucket of water to dump over his head. Felix handed him a blue plastic bottle of Dasani water. "It's not very cold, I'm afraid," he said apolgetically. "Power's been on and off all week. We're just down to the basics here."

"It's fine, Felix, really," Criss told him as he swallowed mouthfuls of water to wash away the dust in his throat. "It could be (bleep)-warm, and I wouldn't give a (bleep). I'm just glad to have something to drink."

"So, what happened to you?" Felix asked as they sat down together on the leather sofa.

"I 'volunteered', meaning I got drafted, into working in the Debris and Waste Disposal Squad," Criss replied with a twinge of bitterness, "otherwise known as the crap crew. Meaning I got to sweep up all the (bleep) from the quake lying around, including pieces of the Luxor light. They got me bunked in the Municipal Center with forty-nine other guys. I got an ex-con biker sleeping in the bunk above me--don't get me wrong, he's not such a bad guy when you get to know him, but he snores like a bull!"

He rubbed his hands over his face, smearing leftover grime all over it. "I don't know how I am going to survive this, Felix," he sighed wearily. "I'm willing to do my part to help the city, but God! This is killing me!"

Felix put a sympathetic arm around Criss' dust-caked shoulders. "You're strong, Criss," he said encouragingly. "You can make it. We're all going through a rough patch right now. We just gotta hang tough, that's all. I recall a certain magician I knew once who said 'What doesn't kill me makes me stronger'. You remember that, don't you?"

Criss smiled a little. Felix patted him on the back, sending up little dust eddies into the air from his clothes. "We'll be back on our feet again soon, Criss," he said. "We just have to take this one day at a time. Keep working at what you're doing, and before you know it, the Luxor light will be burning again--with you in it!"

The distant blare of the airhorn cut short Felix's little pep talk. Criss rose from the sofa. "I gotta get back to work," he said. "I get a lunch break at twelve-thirty. Maybe I'll see you then?"

"I'll be here," Felix promised him. "Now you'd better go before they report you AWOL or something."

Criss hugged Felix good-bye and dashed out of the office, running down the stairs and out the glass doors, hoping no one noticed his absence or his violation of entering a building. His fellow DWD crewmates had already picked up their tools and working again where they had left off. So far, so good, Criss thought. He found his snow shovel and had just begun scraping the pavement of Luxor light glass shards when he felt a heavy hand crash-land on his shoulder. Criss whirled around and came face-to-face with his bunkmate, Shane Tobey.

"Where the (bleep) have you been, man?" he demanded. "The super's (bleeped) off at you, thinking you ran off or something."

"Hey, man, I had to take a leak," Criss alibied.

"For fifteen minutes?"

"Long line at the portapottie," he lied again. "You ain't gonna turn me in, are you?"

"(Bleep) no!" Shane spat. "I don't rat on no one! It ain't none of my business, but the super wants a head count at twelve-thirty. That's gonna cut into our breaktime, you know that?"

Criss sensed a feeling of impending doom. "Look, dude, I'm really sorry I screwed up the lunch break, okay? It won't happen again. I'm sure they'll let me off easy this time. It was an honest mistake. What's the worst they can do to me, anyway?"




At the base of the Luxor, Criss, Shane and the other DWD workers scooped up shards of that very same apex light from the ground with snow shovels and tossed them into the back of a battered Ford pickup. Criss could not help remembering that moment of glorious triumph when he levitated in the light of the Luxor before thousands of astonished people. How hot did it burn again? Seven hundred degrees? Eight hundred? He could not now recall the temperature, but he did remember how bright it was, even with the special protective goggles he had to wear to keep from being blinded by the light. For that one night of all nights, he truly felt like an Angel from heaven.

Now, as he tossed fragments of that memory into the back of the pickup, he never felt so low. The Angel had fallen to earth to labor with mortals among the ruins of the once glorious city of Las Vegas. He stole a glance through the glass doors leading into the lobby. It was dark, it was deserted, but it was still home. He wondered if Felix Rappaport was still in there. Or was he forced into exile like Criss himself? The overwhelming urge to dash inside and look around possessed him. He checked his watch, one of the few possessions he had been allowed to keep since joining the crap crew. Break time would be soon, giving him fifteen minutes to run in, look for Felix, then return to work. DWD rules prohibited workers from entering buildings for safety reasons, but for Criss, it was an acceptable risk.


A loud blast of the airhorn jolted him out of his meditations. Lunch time, and this time he did not dare run into the Luxor--the super wanted to take a headcount because of his little indiscretion. Criss dropped his shovel and trod with leaden feet to the roach coach, praying that his disappearing act earlier that morning would not result in a DWD beatdown.

The super stood before the chrome-plated catering truck, clipboard in hand, his face grimmer than usual. Beside him was the only female on the site, his assistant whose name Criss had never found out. In fact, he didn't know the names of any of the other DWD crewmembers except Shane; they had all gone by their assigned numbers. He wondered if any of them knew him by name; he was famous enough, and with fifty other people, chances were that some of them recognized him.

"Listen up!" the supervisor shouted. "We had a member go missing during morning break, in violation of the rules, so from now on, we do a head count before and after each break period!"

A collective groan from the crew, punctuated with a few chosen expletives. Criss' gut clenched in trepadition. This was his fault, he said to himself. If he hadn't gone into the Luxor, this wouldn't have happened. Granted, he had fibbed a little, telling Shane that he had gone to the portapottie, but the truth had a way of revealing itself. If the super ever found out that he had entered a building against the rules...

"One-oh-one!" the super shouted.

"Here!"

"One-oh-two!"

"Here!"

"One-oh-three!"

And so on and so on. Before the supervisor reached the one-twenties, Criss' patience had worn thin. He was hot, he was dirty, he was hungry, and now he was growing angry. By the time the super reached one-twenty-two, his pent up rage had reached the boiling point. At last, he could hold it back no longer. "We're all here, dammit!" he shouted. "Let's just get something to eat already! We're starving!"

The supervisor lowered his clipboard. The other workers stared at him, surprised yet secretly proud that one of their number had the won-tons to stand up to the super like that. Criss pushed himself to the spot where the supervisor stood and faced him squarely. "Just because someone goes off to take care of a little 'personal business' doesn't mean you have to take it out on the whole group!" Criss protested. "We're not on a chain-gang! We're here because we want to be here! We volunteered because we wanted to do our part in the relief effort! Yet you're running this whole operation like a prison! You know, each and every one of us can walk off this site, and there wouldn't be a goddam thing you could do to stop us!"

Cheers and throaty howls rose from the workers. "Damn (bleeping) straight!" someone shouted.

"So, if I were you," Criss continued, "I'd cut the bull(bleep) and open this truck so we can all get something to eat!"

The workers shouted their agreement. The supervisor eyed Criss suspiciously. "What's your number, mister?" he demanded.

"My name," Criss stressed, "is Criss Angel. I'm not a number. I am a man, a human being, just like the rest of these guys. Someone may have put you in charge here, but just remember one thing: there's only one of you, but there's fifty of us! You do the math."

"Are you threatening me?" the supervisor demanded.

"Threatening? No." Criss replied. "I'm just telling you the truth, that's all. Now, are you going to open this truck up, or will I have to do it myself?"

"Open up the (bleeping) truck already!" came an angry shout from the crew.

"Yeah!" yelled another. "We're starving here!"

"Hey, Criss!" shouted a third. "Do us all a favor and make that (bleeper) disappear!"

Laughter and cheers greeted that last remark. "Yeah! Permanantly!" another concurred.

The female assistant supervisor, who had been standing silently all the while, pulled out the key for the truck and proceeded to unlock it. The supervisor saw what she was doing and made a move to stop her. "No one opens this truck until I say so!" he snapped at her.

The assistant supervisor looked at him in annoyance. "Listen, Mel," she said, unintimidated by his attitude. "These men have worked their toches's off all morning! They're hungry and they're tired! Either you feed them or you and I will both be facing a lynch mob!"

She unlocked the truck sides, revealing the day's prepackaged menu. "Come and get it guys!" she called out.

Criss pushed the supervisor aside and helped with the distribution of the midday meal to the famished workers, the latter's outraged protests for everyone to adhere to protocol falling on deaf ears.

Shane stepped up for his ration, flashing his crooked teeth in an ear-to-ear smile. "That took real cojones to do what you did, Criss," he said as he gathered his sandwich, his bottle of water and package of sugar cookies. "But you'd better watch your back around that guy. He's the type that if you get on his (bleep)list, he'll make your life hell. I've been there. I know."

"I can handle him," Criss said confidently.

"All the same," Shane warned him, "watch your back. Catch you later, okay?"

"Yeah, later."

Shane left to go eat. Criss sat down on the ground next to the truck beside the assistant supervisor. The supervisor was nowhere to be seen. Criss took a swig of water. "So," he said, wiping his mouth. "What's your name?"

"Officially, I'm FEMA Assistant Supervisor Goldfarb," she replied. "But you can call me Rachel."

Criss extended a hand. "Hey, Rachel, I'm Criss."

"Oh, I know who you are," Rachel said, shaking his hand. "I've caught previews of your show. I have to admit that I don't have the courage to watch all the mishegana stunts you do!"

"All the what stunts I do?"

"Oh, sorry," Rachel apologized, smiling in embarrassment. "I have this annoying habit of using Yiddish words. It's what I get for growing up Jewish."

"Hey, I don't mind," Criss said. "It's a lot better than, well, a lot of words I use--you know, the four-letter variety that gets bleeped out on television."

Rachel giggled a little. "So, how did a big name star like you end up working on the DWD Squad?"

Criss thought about it for a moment. "You know," he said finally. "I've been asking myself that very same question for the past two days." He laughed. "Actually, I just stood in the volunteer line and got drafted into it. How about you?"

"FEMA sent me here, same as Mel," she replied. "I haven't any engineering skills to help with the actual rebuiling effort; I'm more Human Resources. So, I became Assistant Supervisor to Mel over there."

Criss jerked his thumb toward the trailer. "Seriously, how can you stand working for that (bleep)hole? I mean, that guy's got an iron rod shoved so far up his--what did you call it again?"

"Toches?"

"Yeah, tookus. He's got one so far up there it's gone right into his brain! What is his problem, anyway?"

"Mel's the Type-A sort," Rachel said. "Everything's got to be by-the-book--his book. Do it my way, or the highway, that sort of thing. I know he can be a real schmuck at times. It took a lot of chutzpah to stand up to him like you did." She laid a hand on Criss' arm. "Listen," she said. "If he gives you any more grief, you come to me, okay? Even FEMA's got guidelines on how to conduct themselves. He oversteps his authority, he gets called to the carpet by the higher-ups. Fershtay? I mean, got it?"

Criss laughed. "I fershtay," he said, nodding.




"All right," the Red Cross volunteer said to JD. "Hold onto the bandage and raise your arm up and keep it up until I tell you to lower it."

JD held up his arm, pinching the square of gauze taped to the crook of his elbow. Donating blood wasn't so bad, he thought. Oh, yeah, sure, he had been a little apprehensive about it, but now it was all over and he had come through just fine, no problem. After this, he would go home to his wife and daughter and take it easy. Tomorrow, he would start work on repairing the house.

He made a mental to-do list in his head: Replace the windows, spackle the cracks in the wall, patch up the ceiling, put up some new light fixtures, replace some water pipes. Oh, and dry out the basement that had flooded because of the broken water heater. Maybe he should get one of those new tankless heaters; they were pretty pricey, but the few people he knew who had them swore up and down they practically paid for themselves. Definatly worth looking into.

Lynn had been shopping on the Internet (they had a wireless laptop computer with a solar panel battery for power) to replace some of her dishes, glassware and other wedding gifts that had been destroyed in the quake. He still remembered how distraught she was when she saw her grandmother's soup tureen lying in pieces on the floor. They had never used it, but it was a priceless antique as far as she was concerned. Even the ladle had irreparably broken in two. It would take a lot of hunting around on eBay to find a replacement, if one could be found at all.

Little Dimitra (though she wasn't so little anymore--she was in high school now) had shown more resiliance. Not bothering to waste time with grieving over the loss of material possessions, she took stock of what she had left and was a huge help in restoring order while he, her father, had been stranded at the Luxor after the first quake. She helped pick up the pieces, store what was still salvagable, and even chased off a would-be looter with a broom. Gutsy girl, he thought.

Looter. With a broom. JD recalled one of the outlet shop clerks being attacked by a looter when she fended him off with a broom when he tried to rob the cash register. He could not recall her name, but the guy was busted right there in the shop. The clerk had been pretty beat up from it; she had one hell of a shiner on her face. From what he heard, the creep had tried to rape her, pinning her down on the floor and tearing at her clothes just before the cops showed up. It had made him worry about Lynn and Dima. He had wanted to go back home to check up on them, but he found himself conscripted into service by the Red Cross and FEMA to assist the deluge of survivors. When the second quake occurred, his worry about his family's welfare doubled, if not tripled. And it wasn't for his wife and daughter, but his brother, Christopher, who had been out doing street magic when the first quake shook up the city. JD had almost cried with relief when he saw his youngest brother come stumbling in with other survivors and the cameramen who had followed him that day. He was dusty, he was bleeding, but he was alive. Where was he now, he wondered.

The Red Cross volunteer returned to his gurney. "Okay," she said. "Now, slowly sit up and try to stand on the floor. Do you feel dizzy or anything?"

"Nope," JD replied, "I'm good"

The volunteer escorted him to the snack table, where a place setting of a Dixie cup of orange juice and a plate of cookies waited for him. JD thanked her and nibbled on the partially stale wafers, still thinking about his family.

"Penny for your thoughts," he heard Costa's voice behind him.

JD turned his head. "Hey, Costa, how ya doin'?" he greeted him happily. "Where you been all this time?"

"Well, after my hitch in the hotel, they sent me here for blood donation delivery," he replied, sitting down beside his brother. "I gotta run units to all the hospitals in the area, even as far as Reno and Carson City."

"All the way up to Reno?"

"Yeah, a lot of victims were airlifted there. Reno's got one of the best burn units in the state." He picked up a cookie. "Mind?"

"Hey, help yourself," JD said. "So, when's your next run?"

"As soon as we get enough units," Costa replied. "Then I gotta run up to St. Mary's. They got the most casualties there. Wanna come along for the ride? I'd like the company."

"You think they'd let you?"

Costa shrugged. "So long as the units get delivered, I don't think they'd mind. It's not that far. In fact, I could drop you off at your house on the way back."

"Sounds like a plan," JD agreed, downing the last of his orange juice. "By the way, you know where Christopher is?"

"I'd been too busy here to find out," Costa replied.

"He said something about volunteer work," JD said, "but he didn't say what kind."

"I'm sure he's okay," Costa assured him. "Maybe we'll run into him on the way to St. Mary's."

"Hmm. Possible," JD grunted.

A voice from the loading dock called out Costa's volunteer number, claiming he was good to go. Costa rose from his seat. "Gotta go," he said.

JD rose and followed him to the back of the station, where a white Red Cross van sat waiting for them, a single crate of units sitting in the back of it. Costa took his MapQuest directions to St. Mary's from the volunteer who had just loaded the van with its precious cargo and climbed into the driver's seat. JD pulled himself into the passenger side and slammed the door behind him.

"Okay," Costa said jovially. "Let's roll."

[RACHEL02189]

I'm surprised Criss didn't slug the guy. Criss does have some resient when it comes to keeping his temper under control

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Can't wait to read the rest of this story, Veritas! It's awesome :)

[Smurf]

Great Chapters :) i hope Criss gets hammie back , Can't wait to read more loving the story :)

[Veritas]

Nini wanted to go home.

Lying on her cot in the basement of the First Episcopal Church with forty other survivors, the wails of babies and toddlers piercing the stifling air around her, Nini yearned for home, for the comfort and safety of her great-grandmother's house back in California. She missed the smell of fresh-baked cookies in the kitchen, the stories Nana used to tell her about her youth growing up in a small town in Central California, safe from the San Andreas Faultline, and the friends she had left behind when she was accepted to UNLV. Not since her very first semester had she been so overwhelmed with homesickenss.

But as the writer, Tom Wolfe, said, "You can't go home again". Nana had passed away before her second term, the friends with whom she had grown up had gone their separate ways, and the house with the smell of fresh-baked cookies in the kitchen had been sold. She couldn't go home again--there was no home to go to anymore.

She touched the side of her face where the looter had struck her. The swelling had long since gone down, as did the pain, but a blotchy greenish discoloration still remained. "You're lucky he didn't break any bones," the Red Cross volunteer who had treated her had said. "You should heal all right without any scarring."

But that volunteer who packed her face with ice didn't consider the scarring inside her heart, she thought. The memory of that looter hovering over her, sitting on her chest, suffocating her with the weight of his body and clawing at her clothes, still haunted her. He would have raped her if not for the police charging in like the calvary and hauling him away. She had passed out after that, waking up in the Red Cross room, her face aching from the looter's blow. Her first conscious thought after waking up was how much she wanted her Nana to come and get her, take her away from that horrible place and bring her home, but Nana was gone, and she was alone. Home was a small studio apartment just off campus, with a single bed, a small TV and a table for both eating and studying. Even that little hole-in-the-wall was more comfortable by comparison than this cramped, crowded church basement with children crying at all hours. Nini could only hope it would still be there when they gave the all clear. God! How she wanted to go home!






Vivi stepped cautiously over fallen debris as she made her way to the ECRU workshop. She mentally congratulated the architect who had designed it as she climbed the concrete stairs to the second floor; the building had held up rather well, considering the two quakes that had rocked it. There was some cracking in the walls, and the stairs were askew, but it was still standing, thank God. It wouldn't take much to repair it. Probably be back in business in a week from the looks of it.

The workshop, on the other hand, was a shambles. Clothes, furniture, bolts of expensive fabric, tools, sewing machines, all in disarray. The dressmaker's form wearing the wedding dress Vivi had been working on lay on the dusty floor like a headless corpse, its sequins scattered everywhere. Vivi sighed heavily. This was supposed to be the showpiece of the collection, the piece de resistance. Now it looked like a secondhand gown in a thrift store. Sadly, she stooped over and set the form upright. Maybe it could be drycleaned before Fashion Week?

She looked around the workshop. The rack containing the collection was still standing, but now it was in the far end of the shop instead of in the finishing area; it must have rolled there on its casters durning the quake, she thought. The image of that rack of dresses skating around the shop during the quake made her giggle. She stepped over to the rack, unzipped the protective plastic cover and counted the dresses still hanging there, heaving a huge sigh of relief that they were all still there. No one had looted them.

Well, since she was here, she figured she might as well get to work cleaning the place up. The shelving unit under which she had been trapped was still horizontal on the floor, too heavy for her to lift, so she would have to work around it. There was still no electric power, so she would have to make hay while the sun shone, as her grandfather used to say.

Her grandfather. Her family back in Pioche. Her parents and grandparents were all dead, but she must still have some relatives living somewhere. She had severed all ties with whatever familial relations she once had to become the hottest new fashion designer, forsaking her little one-horse town for the bright lights and the glamor of Las Vegas. She had looked down on them all as small-town hicks, while she, in her sophistcation, dreamed of the high life, of champaign in crystal flutes, of her name equal if not surpassing such fashionaries as Versace, Guitton, and Vera Wang. When she landed the internship with ECRU, she saw it as the first step toward greatness. Instead, she had nearly died in a workshop, alone.

She had been a fool. Vivi DiLano was a facade, a fraud. She was no fashionista, she was just plain old Genevieve Delano from Pioche, Nevada. All her life she had been living in a fashion magazine fantasy world, reaching too high and too far, ignoring those who had really cared about her while sucking up to those who didn't even know she existed. Now that fantasy had been literally shattered to pieces. She had watched a girl, burned beyond recognition, die before her eyes in the DMF. She had seen people pick over the ruins of their homes for anything worth saving after her release. She had seen the once fabulous Vegas Strip sagging and crumbling under its own weight, its neon glow extinguished like her dreams. Suddenly Fashion Week didn't matter anymore.

Bursting into tears, she threw down the broom she had just pulled out of the storage closet and headed for her apartment to pick up whatever pieces of her life still remained. Vivi DiLano was dead, killed by a falling shelf during the Las Vegas earthquake. Genevieve Delano, on the other hand, was alive and well, and going home.




Leslie had just dumped her umpteenth scoop of dust and debris when Morton called her into what was left of his office. Relieved for the break from cleaning, yet curious as to what her supervisor wanted, she set down her trusty broom and dustpan and walked down the newly cleared corridor to his office.

Bright sunlight from the cracked window illuminated the small office. Leslie stepped in. "You wanted to see me, Morton?" she asked.

Morton waved her in. "I was going over the incoming call list during the emergency," he began. "From the looks of it, you were on duty for twenty-two straight hours--alone."

"That's right," Leslie confirmed.

"And you handled every single call that came in to the station, is that correct?"

"That's right," she repeated.

"Evelyn was supposed to be with you on that shift," Morton said. "Where was she?"

"Out taking a cigarrette break, as usual," Leslie answered with a tinge of bitterness. "She was always running off for some reason or another, you know that."

Morton nodded. He had prepared Evelyn's performance review himself, and it did not reflect satisfactorily on her. "I think she was crushed by the awning out in front when the quake happened," Leslie continued. "I saw bloodstains on the sidewalk."

"Probably," Morton concurred. "So, I suppose the question of Evelyn's performance on duty is moot. But I do want to say one thing--that I am extremely proud of your handling all those calls during the emergency. You really went above and beyond. Thanks to you, a lot of people were rescued, and a lot of lives were saved, because you remained at your post and did your job. When we get back on our feet again, I'm promoting you to assistant supervisor."

Leslie was elated. "Oh, thank you, Morton!" she exclaimed. "Thank you!"

"No," Morton said, shaking his head. "Thank you."




The airhorn blasted the end of the long workday for the DWD. "Quitting time!" someone shouted. The crew stored their tools in the equipment trailer and boarded the shuttlebus back to the Municipal Center for a sponge bath and dinner. It had been only the first day on the job, but to Criss, it felt like a week. Muscles he didn't even know he had ached. The face and filter mask he had worn failed to keep the dust from getting into his lungs; he could hardly breathe without coughing.

At the Center, every worker was given a plastic pail of barely half a gallon of water, a guest-sized wafer of soap and a rag. They were instucted to strip, kneel on the tile floor of the men's room, soak the rag, wipe down, soap up, then use the rag to rinse off. Any remaining water was to be returned to the supervisor. Conservation of water was essential, it was stressed. They could rinse out their underwear and socks, but they had to shake out the dust from their clothes outside. This whole procedure made Criss feel like a POW, or worse, a concentration camp inmate. It was all he could do to fight the temptation of dumping his bucket over his head as he wiped himself down with his rag. Still, it felt good to be clean again.

Dinner consisted of cold meatloaf sandwiches and bottled water. No one spoke while they ate. After dinner was "recreation time", but not a single man felt like shooting baskets in the gym or much of anything else for that matter; they all retired to their bunks in the auditorium. Criss lay on his bunk below Shane, his eyes closed, too tired to move even a finger.

Thank You, God, for getting me through this day, he prayed. I don't know how long I have to be here, but give me strength to make it through tomorrow at least.

"Number 132!" he heard a sharp voice call out loudly. "Report to the office immediatly! Number 132! To the office!"

Shane looked down at him from above. "That's you, dude," he reminded him. "Better go or they'll screw us all over again!"

Criss swore under his breath and wrenched himself from the semi-comfort of his bunk. Now what? he wondered. He stumbled to the supervisor's office near the entrance, preparing for the worst. What could be worse than what I'm doing now? he asked himself. If they kick me off the crap crew, I'd consider that a lucky break!

He leaned in the doorway of the supervisor's makeshift office. "Okay, I'm here," he said wearily. "What the hell do you want?"

"What I want," said Supervisor Mel, sternly, "is a full accountability of your actions today. Where did you go earlier this morning? And I want the truth, mister! Own up!"

Criss squared off with the super, the flimsy metal desk between them. "You really want to know?" he sneered.

"I believe that's obvious," the super sneered back.

"I went to find a friend of mine in the Luxor Hotel," he explained. "And I'd go back there in a heartbeat given the chance."

"You entered a building without authorization?" the super asked accusingly.

"I had authorization," Criss argued. "I live there, and that's all the authorization I need."

"I don't like your attitude, mister!" the super snapped.

"I'm not too fond of you, either," Criss retorted.

"Well, if that's your attitude, then turn in your gear and get the hell off my crew! We don't need your kind around here!"

"Fine!" Criss spat angrily. "I'll find something else to do around here!"

"You can't do anything around here!" the super shot back. " 'Cause you violated the regulations, and that's going on your record! They're not going to let you volunteer for anything else after this!"

"So?" Criss shrugged. "I'll create my own volunteer effort. I'll help in my own way. I don't need to bust my ass for you people!"

"Yeah?" the supervisor sneered. "Good luck with that!"

Criss stormed out of the office, a free man at last. He burst into the auditorium and scooped up his safety gear from under his bunk. Everyone stared at him, puzzled. Shane looked down from his bunk.

"So, what's the deal?" he asked.

Criss gathered his hardhat, vest, gloves, and safety equipnment haphazardly in his arms. "I got fired, that's the deal," he replied. "I'm out of here!"

"Lucky you," Shane said. "Gonna miss you, though."

Criss halted in mid-scoop, letting his gear fall back onto his bunk. "Really?"

"Yeah, I was really starting to like you," Shane told him. "Especially the way you stood up to Mel."

"Hey, you could come with me," Criss suggested.

"Nah, I'm stuck here," Shane grumbled. "This is part of my parole, remember?"

"Oh." Criss gathered his gear again. "Well, if you get a chance, you can look me up at the Luxor when they get it going again. Maybe I can find you a job or something. Big guy like you, you'd be a big help doing a lot of heavy lifting or whatever."

Shane smiled through crooked teeth. "I'd like that," he said. "Thanks."

"No prob."

Criss picked up his gear and headed out the door, his former workmates wishing him the best of luck. One crewmember handed him a dirty slip of paper he found on the floor and the stub of a pencil he had saved from somewhere and asked for an autograph. Criss set aside his bundle and happily obliged, feeling like his old self once again if only for a moment. The crewmember thanked him, and Criss picked up his gear and left the auditorium.

In the hallway, he saw Rachel standing there, waiting for him. "I came to get your gear," she said. "Mel's orders."

Criss smiled, handing her his bundle. "I hope you don't have to work for that..."

"Putz?"

Criss laughed a little. "If that means what I think it means," he said, "then, yeah."

"Don't take what Mel said seriously," Rachel told him. "This whole fercockt project isn't even high on the list of priorites as far as FEMA is concerned. It's just civilian volunteers pitching in to help. He can only report FEMA workers for violations."

"I'm not going to let Mel or FEMA or anyone slow me down," Criss said. "And neither should you. I think they should have made you supervisor instead of just an assistant. At least you know how to deal with people."

Rachel made a Mona Lisa smile. "You know," she said, showing a more vulnerable side, "You may be this meshegena magician, but I think you're a pretty nice guy." She leaned conspiratorially towards him. "But don't tell my mother," she whispered. "She's been nagging me to get married again since my divorce. I so much as look at a man, she starts with the matchmaking."

"How long you been divorced?" Criss asked.

"Officially, about three weeks now."

"Your mom doesn't waste time, does she?"

"No."

Criss drew a deep breath. "Well, I'd better get going before Mel throws me out on my ass. So, I guess this is good-bye."

Rachel smiled more broadly. "I prefer...shalom."

"I heard of that word," Criss said. "What's it mean, actually?"

"It can mean both hello or good-bye," she replied. "But in fact it means 'peace'."

Criss smiled and held up two fingers. "Shalom," he said.

"Shalom," Rachel responded. "Now you'd better make yourself scarce. If Mel sees you still here, he's gonna plotz."

She turned and walked away, carrying the bundle of safety gear. Criss laughed again. That was the great thing about Yiddish, he thought. Even if you don't know the language, you still know what they're talking about. "Plotz," he said aloud, laughing. "Mel's gonna plotz if he sees me. I hope he plotzes a brick if he does."

Criss left the Municipal Center, still laughing over Rachel's use of Yiddish words. It was the first comic relief he had experienced since the quake. Laughter was indeed the best medicine, he thought as he walked down the street to the Luxor. What was the word she had used to describe the DWD project? Percockteh, fercockteh, something like that? He made a mental note to look up Yiddish on the Internet--that is, when they reconnected it. He was still unsure about the power situation.

The honking of a car horn drew his attention. Criss turned and saw a white van with the Red Cross on the front driving up to him, and...was it? Yes! It was! It was his brother, Costa, in the driver's seat, waving at him.

"Criss!" Costa shouted. "Over here!"

Criss ran up to the van, meeting it halfway. "Costa! Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "Am I glad to see you!"

He noticed JD in the passenger seat. "JD! Oh, God, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you guys again!"

"Where the hell have you been?" JD demanded. "Get in here before we lose you again!"

Criss happily climbed into the van through the back. "How'd you guys find me, anyway?" he asked.

"Pure dumb luck," JD replied. "We were just coming back from delivering a shipment of blood to St. Mary's and saw you." He gave Criss the once-over. "You look like hell. Where you been?"

"On the DWD," Criss answered with a deep, exhausted sigh.

"The what?"

"Debris and Waste Disposal," Criss explained. "Ay-kay-ay the crap crew. I just got my ass fired."

"How come?"

"The supervisor was a real (bleep)hole, and I told him so. I slip into the Luxor for just a few minutes to see Felix, and he wanted to do a head count before and after each break time. He was holding up lunch, so I told him what he could do with his head count. Then he started ragging me about 'unauthorized building entry'. I told him the only authorization I needed was the fact that I live there, and he told me to turn in my gear and leave."

"So, now what are you going to do?" JD asked.

"I'll think of something, don't worry," Criss assured him. "If they can't find me something else to do, I'll make something up. In the meantime, I'm hungry--you guys got anything to eat around here?"

"How about I take you to my place?" JD offered. "We still got enough food to get us through. And you can bunk down in the living room until it's safe to go back to the Luxor."

Criss' heart overflowed with gratitiude. "Dude, I so totally owe you."

"Hey," JD shrugged. "That's what family's for."

"Hey, Costa," Criss said, turning to his other brother. "What about you?"

"Me? I'm still doing my hitch with the Red Cross," Costa replied. "I got a cot somewhere at the station. I'm good."

"So, we'll drop off the van, and then head on home, okay?" JD told Criss.

"Sounds like a plan," Criss agreed. "After today, I could sleep for a week. That couch is calling my name, I just know it! You sure Lynn won't mind?"

"Criss," JD said. "You're family. And it's only until you can get back to the Luxor. It should be soon, from what I heard. A lot of families are returning to their homes already. Besides, I need your help with the repairs."

"No prob," Criss said. "Hey, I'll do whatever you want. I mean, anything beats hell out of working on the crap crew."

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) I'm glad Costa and JD found Criss , Can't wait to read more :)

[RACHEL02189]

The brothers are back together again :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

"The Boys are back in town, the boys are back in town, the boys are back!" Yes! I truly hope things continue to look up for our boys (Criss, Costa, JD) and all the rest!

[Veritas]

The long, difficult, seemingly endless restoration project wore on. The rumble of earthmovers and backhoes could be heard throughout the metropolitan area. FEMA crews and volunteers labored long and hard to clear the streets of debris. The Army Corps of Engineers inspected Hoover Dam for any potential damage the quake might have caused, as well as assisting in restoring the sewer system and water works.

Construction crews came in by the truckload to rebuild, repair and restore the hotels, casinos, apartment buildings, and any other structures which survived the tremors. Those that didn't faced the wrecking ball and the bulldozer. Dozens of dumptrucks rolled down the Strip, loaded with the crumbled remains of fallen buildings to be pulverized into concrete or returning for yet another load.

Exactly one week after the Las Vegas earthquake, it was announced that McCarran Airport was back in service, with outgoing flights for non-residential victims throughout the metropolitan area, regardless of their departure dates. By military truck, by shuttle bus, or even on foot, thousands of stranded touists made their way to McCarran with what few possessions they could carry, relieved to be going home at last. The terminal was filled to overflowing with departing passengers, many camping out on the floor as they waited to board the planes to take them away from the ravaged city.

Those who remained behind stayed in their designated shelters, unable to return to their homes until FEMA gave the all clear. The Luxor had been finally cleared out, the survivors having been transported to FEMA-assigned shelters with some assistance from the National Guard. With no electricity save from the emergency generators to power only the basic services, the giant black pyramid stood silent and deserted like its ancient predecessors in Egypt, its crystal apex shattered beyond repair.

The partial restoration of electric power by the end of the fourth week after the quake gave the besieged citizens cause for celebration. Mayor Goodman urged conservation of energy in order to avoid a power surge which could trigger another outage. All citizens were instructed to unplug any and all non-essential apppliances and/or sensitive electronic devices such as computers, microwave ovens, and televisions to prevent damage both to the equipment and the power grid. The notice seemed unnecessary to the citizens--most of their appliances and electronic gear had been destroyed in the quake anyway.

During the rebuilding process, another wave hit Las Vegas, not as devastating, but in time became troublesome: the media. Hoards of newscrews, reporters, cameramen, and photographers descended upon the city like an invading army, demanding interviews from the first people they laid eyes on, thrusting microphones into the faces of anyone wearing a hardhat or a safety vest, capturing every dust-clouded moment on tape or film for "on-the-spot" coverage, even going so far as intruding on people's privacy as they pressed for "personal stories" in public shelters and private homes. Rachel Goldfarb could hardly turn around without some nosy journalist demanding her point of view of the quake or for up to the minute reports of the cleanup process. Mel had holed up in his office trailer, refusing to see anyone without a FEMA identification card or a badge. Even the DWD crew couldn't avoid the media's constant presence; some welcomed the break from the routine to vent their feelings, others brushed the reporters aside with a brusque "I got work to do.". FEMA supevisors and the National Guard were constantly chasing camera crews and news reporters off the premises for "safety reasons", as they put it.

After dodging yet another persistant journalist on the worksite, Rachel sought refuge in Mel's office trailer, slamming the door behind her and leaning against it, exhausted and relieved to have some semblance of privacy. "Oyyyyyy!"she exhaled. "Don't those shemegge reporters have a war in Iraq to cover?"

Another knock on the door. Rachel groaned aloud and whirled around to answer it. "If they don't have a badge," Mel told her, his nose still buried in paperwork, "don't let 'em in."

Rachel flung the door open in a fury, ready to give whomever had the tenacity to disturb her both barrels of Yiddish and English expletives, but stopped short when she saw Criss Angel standing there, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Hi, Rachel," he said.

Rachel was surprised. "Criss? What are you doing here?" she asked, stunned.

"Oh, I just dropped by to return my ID badge," he explained. "I was still wearing it when I left, so..."

"Come in," Rachel said, stepping back to allow him entry. "Good to see you again."

"Who is it?" Mel demanded bluntly.

"Volunteer Number 132," Criss replied with a twinge of sarcasm.

Mel looked up, a mixture of surprise and anger on his face. Criss held up his badge. "I came to return this," he told him.

Mel motioned to the In basket on his desk. "Put it in there and leave," he ordered, returning to his paperwork.

Criss tossed the badge into the bin. "Nice to see you, too, Mel," he said with feigned friendliness.

Mel's head jerked up like an angry bull. Criss kept smiling. "Peace out," he said, flashing two fingers. Then he turned and walked away from the irritated supervisor. Rachel couldn't help but laugh a little.

"You know," she said to him as he stood in the doorway, "if you looked up chutzpah in the dictionary, your picture would be there."

Criss laughed. "Probably," he retorted. "I'd better clear out of here before Mel plotzes. See you later."

Rachel gave him a smile and closed the office door. Criss turned away from the trailer and looked around himself, watching his former workmates slaving away in the cleanup effort, shoveling rubble, sweeping up broken glass, tossing trash into the pickup trucks. Pangs of guilt began to needle him; he wished he hadn't been so hasty in leaving the DWD crew, but what choice did he have? Stay and have Mel ride his ass all day for every little infraction? There must be something he could do...

The airhorn blast announced lunch. The crew tossed down their tools and filed to the roach coach. Shane Tobey, his former bunkmate and head and shoulders taller than the rest of the crew, spotted him immediatly.

"Hey, Angel!" he bellowed jovially. "What's up?"

"Hey, Shane!" Criss trotted over to him. "Good to see you again, dude!"

They exchanged handshakes and shoulder hugs. "How ya been, bro?" Shane asked.

"Pretty good," Criss replied. "You?"

"Ah, hanging in there," Shane answered with a resigned shrug. "Mel's going around with a bug up his ass for two weeks now. They got someone to take your place--he's okay, but kinda standoffish, if you know what I mean. What have you been doing lately?"

"Well, helping out my brother in fixing the house, for one thing," Criss told him. "And I go to the Red Cross center to cheer up the patients there, especially the kids. Do a little magic for them, stuff like that."

Shane nodded. "Yeah, we could all use a little morale boosting around here," he said. "Care to join us for lunch?"

"Don't mind if I do," Criss agreed. "That is, if the bug up Mel's ass doesn't go any deeper because of me."

Shane and Criss sat down at one of the flimsy picnic tables set up beside the roach coach that was filling up rapidly with workers. "Hey, guys," Shane said, "you remember Criss Angel, don't you?"

"Hey, Criss," they greeted him. "Nice to see you again, dude."

"Hey, Criss," one of the workers, an African-American man with cornrowed hair under his hardhat, called to him. "How about turning this--" he held up his prepacked sandwich "--into a Porterhouse steak!"

Criss looked at the plastic triangle with the chicken-salad sandwich sealed inside. "Sure," he replied, "but what's to stop me from eating it?"

The crewmen laughed. A worn, battered box of playing cards came sliding across the table to where Criss sat. "Show us some magic, huh?" someone demanded, the rest of the crew cheering encouragement.

Criss took up the box of cards, opened it and removed the deck. He deftly shuffled the cards, tossing one in the air and catching it, impressing the crewmembers. "He play poker?" someone asked.

Criss fanned out the deck. "Okay, Shane," he said. "I want you to pick out a card, but don't let me see it."

Shane picked out a card from the middle, and looked at it. Queen of Hearts, he noted. "Now," Criss instructed, "I want you to place it back in the deck, face down."

Shane did so. It all seemed pretty standard so far. Criss reshuffled the deck, then held up the cards for all to see, then suddenly tossed up the whole deck into the air. The cards fluttered down like confetti. Criss quickly reached out and randomly snatched one of the falling cards and held it up for Shane to see. "This your card?" he asked.

Shane stared at it incredulously. The card Criss held in his hand was the Queen of Hearts. "Damn!" he exclaimed. "How the (bleep) did you do that?"

The crew applauded, equally astonished. Criss thanked everyone and began gathering the cards scattered on the ground. Normally he would have left the cards he used in his tricks for others to pick up, but these were someone else's cards, and he just couldn't let them get lost. It wasn't right.

The crew went on with their lunch, their weary spirits lifted by that simple card trick. The few who had seen Criss perform on the street or on television related their experiences to the others, commenting on how this trick blew their minds, or that stunt made them cringe, or when Criss did this or that and it was like Wow! How the hell did he do that?

Mel, the supervisor, stepped out of the refuge of his office trailer to see what all the commotion was about. The minute he saw Criss, his irritation rose past simmer to almost boiling. Criss idly flicked the cards in his hands from one to the other. The crewmembers were almost amused seeing the expression on their super's face, turning crimson with each passing moment.

"I thought I told you to clear out of here!" he stormed. "This area's for FEMA workers only! And the same for that food you're eating! You're not on this jobsite anymore, so get lost before I report you!"

"Ah, lighten up, Mel," Shane said to him. "He's just visiting."

"You keep out of this!" Mel snapped. "You're on parole, remember? I can have you sent back up if you give me any grief! And as for you, Mr. Hotshot," he snarled, staring Criss in the face, "you think you're so great, do you? Huh? You couldn't last a day on a real job! What are you doing now, huh? Slumming around doing card tricks while real men are busting their tails doing their part in the relief effort! You know what you are, do you? Huh? You know what you are? You're a wimp, that's what you are! Can't do any real work so you (bleep) around doing stupid card tricks instead! You think you're a magician? Why don't you make yourself disappear? (Bleeping) wimp! Get outta here, I don't even want to look at you!"

"You want me to disappear?" Criss asked calmly.

"Yes, please," Mel demanded.

"Okay." Criss picked up a heavy canvas tarp used as a cover for one of the forklifts and stood on a concrete berm. He spread the tarp out in front of him, lowered it, raised it, lowered it again, raised it again, then tossed it into the air. It fell to earth with a flump. Criss was nowhere to be seen.

The workmen cheered. Mel stood there, dumbfounded, his lower jaw almost to his chest.

[RACHEL02189]

Criss always knew how to make an exit and can someone pick mel's jaw off the ground thanks :cool:

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Foreman Mel is a Grade A Putz!

[Smurf]

Another great chapter :) Criss certain knows how to make a an exit :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

By the end of September, the Las Vegas Sun was back in publication, releasing its first issue since the earthquake. It was smaller than usual, barely twelve pages, but it would be preserved by survivors and their familes for generations to come, stored in cedar chests, file boxes and scrapbooks, in library archives and historical museums. It consisted of a full color spread of the devastation, a map of the extent of the damage, shots of survivors in shelters and next to the ruins of their homes, and stories of both courage and cowardice ("Heroes and Zeros" ran the headline). It gave the official death toll of the quake: thirty-seven. It was also in that first release that the story of Leslie Fanning's twenty-two hour solo dispatch shift was recorded, and of Criss' cable lifeline which led the small band of survivors to the Luxor.

Most treasured of all were the editorial cartoons printed on the back of the paper from all over the country:

(Wayne Newton looking over ruins of Las Vegas, the welcoming sign lying on its side) "Mother Nature...you're killin' me!"

("Vegas Vic", the neon waving cowboy, with panicked expression on its face) "HEEEELLLLPP!"

(The Luxor Light shining brightly over the ruins of the Las Vegas Strip after the quake) GUIDING LIGHT.

(Looters smashing windows and stealing whatever they can get their hands on) Hitting The Jackpot in Vegas.

(Leslie Fanning alone at computer terminal in dispatch station) Las Vegas Lifeline.

(Criss Angel bravely leading survivors with cable tied to his waist) Guardian Angel.

(Citizen from Las Vegas talking to Katrina survivor) "God! Now I know how you feel!"

YouTube, MySpace, and personal blogs were filled with first and second hand accounts of the Las Vegas Earthquake, recorded on videotape, cameraphone and every type of camera available, from cheap disposables to professional models such as Nikon. Everyone who were willing to tell their story did so with visuals to back them up.

As the city slowly but surely rose from the rubble and ashes, a feeling of optimism was in the air, like a gambler convinced of a sure thing. "It won't be long now," became the mantra if not the unofficial city motto as construction workers rebuilt the hotels and casinos, the homes and apartment buildings, the streets and the sewers. Citizens made crude jokes about the stench of raw sewage from broken sanitation lines ("Hey! I think I smell the pizza I had last Friday!" or "Don't light up!"). They watched as a huge boom crane lifted "Vegas Vic" back into position, capturing the moment on their camera phones and camcorders, cheering loudly as the beloved icon of Las Vegas for half a century was finally back in the saddle, ready to wave his cheery neon hello once again.

But there were a few shadows behind the sunshine. A rumor of neon gas released from the broken lights of the Strip poisoning the air made the rounds on the Internet. Case of suffocation and other forms of horrible death, whether founded or unfounded, leapt out of monitors all across North America, accompanied by frantic warnings to stay out of the Vegas valley until furthur notice. Who would give that notice, and when, was never stated. Online auction sites such as eBay were constantly on the lookout for items placed for bid originating from Las Vegas or surrounding areas. The general public was warned against buying anything secondhand from anywhere in the Southwestern part of the United States because those items could have been looted from after the quake, especially jewlery and electronics.

Saddest of all were the stories from the rescue workers and volunteers who found the dead bodies of those who didn't escape in time. One particularly heartwrenching tale told of a DWD worker in the eastern part of the city who was clearing away the ruins of a house when he overturned a mattress lying on the floor and found the body of a little girl clutching a dead kitten. "You couldn't print my reaction," he later stated to the press.

Yet in spite of all the setbacks, the restoration went on. Little by little, bit by bit, Las Vegas was coming to life, and with it, a sense of community among the survivors. Social barriers had crumbled like the city itself; people who hadn't even known who lived next door to them rushed to help their neighbors in restoring their homes. They gathered food and supplies and distrubuted them from churches, schools and rental halls. They even went so far as to form neighborhood watch groups to prevent looting.

The communal feeling spread to the entertainment section of the city as well. Those venues which had survived the quake held fundrasers for the victims: stripclubs, bars, nightclubs, theaters, comedy clubs and even casinos whose slot machines were still running. Celebrities were photgraphed helping out with the relief effort, either out of genuine concern or simply to create photo-ops for themselves. Socially conscious types, however, angrily denounced it as blatant exploitation; they accused them of being publicity hounds at the expense of those who had suffered. "If they really want to help," they stormed from their soapboxes, "they should give out of their own overblown bank accounts instead of posing in hardhats pretending to care!"

In spite of the skeptics and naysayers, it became a civic duty for Las Vegas performers of every stripe to devote time and money to the relief effort, and no one was more aware of that duty than Criss Angel. Aside from cheering up the injured at the Red Cross station where his brother, Costa, worked, he reviewed his own personal finances and donated a generous, "undisclosed" (as the press put it) sum for the restoration of the city. He went on a "personal tour" of the different crews working on the city, performing magic for them and spending a day at most helping them with their work. By the end of the month, he had helped pour concrete; shovel asphalt onto the streets; put up drywall in a house; fed cereal to a child with two broken arms in the hospital (by levitating the spoon); gave blood despite the nail gun injury to his hand; did a card trick for a couple of National Guardsmen who were totally freaked out when the card selected appeared in the back pocket of one of them; gave his shoulder for a traumatized survivor to cry on in a church shelter; and generally boosted the morale of the whole city. He had told Mel, his former DWD supervisor, he would help in his own way, and he had kept that vow. Who needed FEMA when he had his own creativity to fall back upon?




"Mr. Rappaport?"

Felix looked up from his paperwork on his desk. "Yes?"

"My name is Serena Luciano," Nini introduced herself. "I came back to see if the MindFreak store was open again. I used to work there until the earthquake."

Felix smiled. "Well, glad to see you came back, Serena," he said, "but stores won't be officially open until at least another month at the most. You can, however, go in and straighten things up if you really want to help. A lot of staff has gone missing since the quake, unfortunatly."

"That's too bad," Nini said sympathetically. "But I'd be glad to help out around the hotel if you need me. My classes at UNLV won't resume for another two weeks, and I got a lot of downtime until then."

"Okay, then." Felix pulled out his master keycard. "Let's see if this thing still works."

Nini and Felix walked to the MindFreak outlet store. The huge windows were still boarded up, waiting to be replaced. Around them, the screech of power saws and the banging of hammers echoed throughout the atrium. Tall steel scaffolding towered above their heads as workmen replaced broken ceiling fixtures and patched holes and cracks in the walls. Below, what remained of the hotel staff swept the floors of debris and dust.

Felix slid his keycard into the computerized security access system installed in the service entrance of the MindFread outlet store. Luckily, it granted access to him, and he and Nini entered the store's back storage room.

"Well, here you are," Felix said. "If you need anything, you know where my office is."

"Thank you, Mr. Rappaport," Nini replied graciously.

"You're welcome, and good luck." Felix turned and left, closing the door behind him. Nini looked around the shop. Nothing had changed; it looked the same since she was last here, right down to the broken broom on the floor where the looter attacked her. The cash register was still on the counter. Nini wondered if the hotel took the cash out of the drawer that day. They probably did. She knew the looter had been unsucessful in getting it--she had made sure of that. Besides, she had the key that day.

The key. Where was the cash drawer key? Nini tried to remember. She usually stuck it in a small drawer under the counter where they kept all the odds and ends the cashier needed. She reached under the sales counter and opened the drawer and rifled through its contents. Scissors, stapler, roll of register tape, but no key. Well, maybe accounting took it, she figured. After catching that looter in the act, she was fairly sure that Mr. Rappaport took measures to secure all assets from theft. But just to be sure...

She picked up the phone, hoping it was still working, and dialed the President's extension. To her relief, it worked.

"Felix Rappaport here," came a terse voice.

"Hi, Mr. Rappaport. It's me, Nini."

"Who?"

"Nini Luciano, from the MindFreak store. You let me in just a few minutes ago, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," Felix said, suddenly remembering. "Anything wrong?"

"I just want to know if you took the cash from the cash drawer on the day of the quake, that's all," Nini explained. "Because when I was last here on the day of the earthquake, I caught some guy trying to break into it. I tried to stop him, but--"

"Waitaminit, waitaminit," Felix stopped her. "That was you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, I was told about a shop clerk who beaned some looter in the MindFreak store with a broom," he told her. "You were the girl who--"

"Well, yeah, but--"

"Well, that was awfully brave of you, young lady," Felix said, "taking on a thief like that. But you should have used the silent alarm instead of risking your life like that."

"Mr. Rappaport, the power was out at the time," Nini argued. "And the thief was right behind the counter--I couldn't get to the button."

Silence on the other end of the line. "Point taken," he said. "But, anyway, in answer to your question, I made sure that all assets were secured in the safe on the day of the quake: all cash registers were emptied, all valuables were turned in--everything. We even took the keys to the cash drawers."

Well, that explains it, Nini thought.

"That looter you saw was the first one we arrested, so I ordered security to take precautions. So, I guess I have you to thank for it; if not for your quick thinking, every shop in the Luxor would have been cleaned out. I guess that makes you a hero."

"Well, gee," Nini mumbled, unsure if she should be proud of herself or not. "Thanks, I guess. Or, you're welcome. Whatever."

"So, I'll let you go and get to work," Felix said. "Have a good day."

"Yeah, same to you." Nini hung up the phone. Her lowered eyes fell onto the broom she had used to defend herself against the looter, still lying where it had been tossed aside. She still could feel the pressure of the looter's body on her chest, his grubby hands clawing at her clothes, the explosion of pain on the side of her face where he struck her, and her throat raw from screaming, then the sudden release of air from her lungs as the guards hauled him off her, and then the spiraling into unconsciousness. No, she didn't feel like a hero then, and she certainly didn't feel like one now. The guards who rescued her--they were the real heroes, not her.

Nini stepped over and picked up the broom. Well, she figured since she was here, she might as well keep her word to Mr. Rappaport and get to work fixing up the place. The store's not going to clean itself, she thought.

Nini smiled. Another one of Nana's pet phrases. This house isn't going to clean itself, you know. Gotta buckle down and get to work. Yeah, Nana was right. It was time to buckle down and get to work. It was time for everyone to buckle down and get to work. The hotel wasn't going to restore itself, you know. Everyone had to do their fair share. Buckle down and get to work.

Nini began sweeping up the broken glass around the empty jewelry counter. What did she do with that dustpan? She looked around for it. There it was, right by the storage room door. She picked it up and swept the shards into it, then dumped it into the wastebasket by the counter. Working proved to be very effective therapy; it made her feel better about herself, gave her a sense of purpose. Within the hour, the floor was clean and the furniture had been put back into place. Nana would have been proud.

The shop suddenly became brighter. Nini looked up and saw the few remaining lights overhead glowing brightly. The power was back on! She poked her head out the door. Sure enough, the whole ground level was aglow with electric light. Elated, she dashed over to the computer terminal at the cashier's desk and turned it on. The monitor glowed, and the terminal hummed, but it took a while for the system to reboot itself. Nini didn't care. To her, it was a sign of things going back to normal.




During his impromptu "personal tour", Criss stopped by the Luxor hotel for several reasons: to entertain the work crew there, to see Felix Rappaport, to check on the progress of the hotel's restoration, and to see if he could go back to his suite again. He hoped the water was running again; neither he nor his clothes hadn't seen soap in a while. He took a discreet whiff under one arm. The stench nearly knocked him backwards. He hoped Felix wouldn't do the same when he hooked up with him.

Criss trotted up to Felix's office. The lights were on again, he noticed--that was a good sign. Maybe the elevators were working, too. He hoped so. It had been weeks since he slept in his own bed. The bunk in the Municipal Center had squeaked ever time he rolled over (and he rolled over a lot that one night he spent there), while the overstuffed sofa at JD's house nearly smothered him. He simply wanted to go up to his suite and just crash.

Criss knocked on the door of Felix's office. "Hey, Felix," he called in. "Everything okay?"

Felix looked up. "Criss! Come on in!"

Criss entered the office. Things had improved since the last time he had been there. For one thing, the lights were back on, and the computer terminal glowed with data just like before. Aside from the streaks of sanded spackling on the walls, the office looked as if it hadn't even been hit.

"So," Felix began. "You still on the...what did you call it? The crap crew?"

"Nah," Criss replied. "I got fired that evening."

"What'd you do?"

"For starters, I 'entered a building without authorization' as they put it," Criss explained. "Then I told that (bleep) of a supervisor where to get off because he wanted to do a head count before every break because I went missing and was unaccounted for."

Felix cringed, laughing. "You just weren't made for the nine-to-five, were you?"

"No, I guess not."

"So, what are you doing now?"

"I'm making personal appearances at a FEMA shelter near you," Criss told him. "I do magic here, help out there, pretty much winging it as I go along. It's kinda like my early days of doing street magic, you know?"

Felix nodded. Criss looked around over his head. "I see the power's back on," he noted. "Think I can go up to my suite again?"

Felix shrugged. "Don't see why not?"

"Good, because I can use a shower and a good long nap," Criss said. "The water back on, too?"

"Not on the upper floors, I'm afraid," Felix told him. "You can use the shower in the gym, though. I have."

"Oh, hey, thanks," Criss said. "I'd hug you, but you don't want to get too close to me right now."

Felix laughed nervously. "Uh, yeah, I'd say you smell pretty..."

Criss knew what he was going to say, and they ended up saying it together.

"...bad!"

They both laughed, then Criss turned to leave. "Well, I'll get myself cleaned up, so I'll catch you later, okay?"

"Sure thing, Criss," Felix said.

Criss took his leave, and Felix returned to work. Criss went to the gym Noting that the equipment was still standing despite the quake (even the barbells were still on their racks), he made a mental note to himself to resume training as soon as things got back to normal. But, first things first. The shower room was calling, and he was answering.

He peeled off his dirty clothes and tossed them aside, reeling from the smell of dirt, grime and his own sweat from them. Padding around naked, he found a fresh, clean towel from the linen room, grabbed a few small wafers of soap (one little sliver wasn't going to do it for him, he figured), a travel size bottle of shampoo, and headed for the first shower stall he estimated to be working. Would there be any hot water? He hoped against hope. He remembered the mayor's edict for conservation despite his desire for a long, luxurious hot shower. Well, he'd have to do his best.

He hung the towel on the hook nearby and stepped into the stall. He hesitated, crossed his fingers for luck, then turned the spigot. Warm water streamed weakly from the shower head. Criss stretched and writhed under it, letting it flow deliciously over his shoulders, down his back and muscular torso, down his hips and thighs all the way to his feet, the dirt and grime of almost four weeks of slogging through dust and rubble flowing down the drain. Criss groaned aloud with relief and ecstacy; he couldn't remember when a shower felt that good.

Save water, spoke the mayor inside his mind. Criss dutifully but reluctantly shut off the shower, peeled the wrappers off the tiny cakes of soap and lathered himself all over, using up every one of them. Then he dumped the entire contents of the shampoo bottle onto his head and scoured his scalp with his fingernails. The shampoo he used wasn't his usual brand, but he didn't care. He would have used baby shampoo if he had to. He could not remember the last time he washed his hair, though it had to have been sometime before the quake. Since then, it had been stuffed in a hardhat and bound in a bandanna. Just the simple act of shampooing was sheer bliss for him.

Criss turned the spigot on and rinsed off. The feeling of soap and shampoo flowing from his hair and skin, leaving a tingling sensation from top to toe, was gratifying. He felt clean again, not only in body, but in mind and spirit. He felt human again.

He turned off the shower, grabbed his towel and dried off. Then he looked at the pile of filthy clothes on the floor. Suddenly, he realized he had a problem: he very well couldn't wear those dirty things after taking a shower, but he couldn't go parading around the hotel naked, either. There were workers and volunteers all around. Oh, well, he'd just have to take his chances. Wrapping a white hotel towel around his loins, he poked his head out of the gym door to see if the coast was clear. No one around. Good! Criss clutched his towel tightly around his hips and made a dash for the elevators.

Around the bend, he heard voices--male voices, those of a couple of workmen coming down the corridor. Criss didn't want to expose himself to them, but he had no place to hide. He looked around wildly. There! The service door of the MindFreak outlet was open. In a flash, Criss was through the door and inside the shop. The workmen never even caught a glimpse of him as they passed. Criss drew a deep sigh of relief, leaning against the wall. He had just begun to relax when he heard a shriek. Startled, he whipped his head around and saw a woman standing there. Her scream had not even died down before he let out a yell of his own.

They stared at each other, shocked and embarrassed for both of them. The woman had gathered her wits long enough to speak.

"Criss?" she said. "Is that you?"

Criss nodded. "Yeah," he quavered. "Yeah, it's me. Who are you?"

"I'm Nini, remember? I work here, or rather used to before the quake." She looked down at the towel covering Criss' intimate parts. "What are you doing here in just a towel?" she asked.

"Oh, well, I-I-I was...well, you see, uh..." Criss stammered, then sighed in exasperation. "You got any clothes around here?"

Nini looked around nervously. "Well, we still have some stock up outside," she said, jerking her thumb toward the shop front. "You can go get some there." Noticing his bare feet, she added hastily, "And don't worry, I just swept up all the broken glass out there, so you'll be safe."

"Thanks." Criss padded out of the storage room to the shop front, still clutching his towel. Nini helped him locate a pair of jeans in his size, a black t-shirt, and a pair of combat boots. He had no underwear or socks, but he could get those once he was up in his suite. Criss ducked into a fitting room to dress; Nini couldn't help but feel a tiny bit disappointed as he did so; she had been secretly thrilled to see Criss Angel in just a towel and, in spite of herself, had wanted to see a little bit more underneath it.

Criss emerged from the fitting room, fully dressed and more like his old self again. All that was missing was the massive collection of bling that he usually wore: the huge, glittering rings, the "Believe" cross with his father's monogram on the base, the circle-A pendant, the handcuff chain, the square ear studs. Without them, he looked almost, well, naked.

"Thanks, Nini," he said. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back up to my suite. You know if the elevators are working again?"

"I don't know," she replied, uncertain. "I think so. I mean, I heard them testing them earlier. Now that the power's back on, you can try it."

"Thanks," he repeated. "It's just that I don't want to have to climb up thirty flights of stairs again." He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry to scare you like that," he said. "It's just that I didn't expect to see anyone around here, and, well, you know..."

Nini nodded understandingly. "I know."

"So, I'd best be on my way, now," he said, making his way to the back entrance. "I'll catch you later, okay?"

"Sure," Nini said. "Catch you later."

Criss made a hasty exit, relieved to be wearing clothes again--clean clothes, not the ones he had been wearing for almost a month, which were so filthy they practically stood up by themselves. He made his way to the elevators and again tested his luck when he pushed the UP button. To his surprise and relief, an elevator door slid open. Cautiously, he entered, then pressed the top floor. The doors slid shut, and he heard the familiar hum of the inclining elevator rolling up its tracks, as welcome to him as the voice of an old friend.

Halfway up, he suddenly realized he didn't have his keycard with him. In fact, he couldn't even remember what the hell he did with it. Did he have it in his pocket in his old clothes? Did he leave it at JD's house? He looked at the row of buttons alongside the elevator. It didn't even go up to the top floor where his suite was without his keycard to allow access; it only went as far as twenty-nine. Oh, God, I am so screwed! he thought miserably. I can't even get into my own room!

Maybe he could take the stairs, he thought. Maybe the door was still open. He doubted if looters could get all the way up there without getting caught by security. He'd have to risk it. If he couldn't get in, then he'd have to get Felix's master keycard to let him in, or have him make a new one. At least he didn't have to climb the mountain of stairs to get it.

The elevator stopped at the twenty-ninth floor, just as Criss suspected. That meant taking the stairs again. Well, it was only one flight this time, so he opened the emergency door and strode up the single flight to his floor. Criss pulled the doorhandle of the thiriteth floor emergency door.

Locked.

And the slot beside the door told him needed a keycard for access.

And if this door was locked, then...

He dashed down to the twenty-ninth floor and tried to open it. No response. Realizing he was trapped in the stairwell with no cell phone or any other means of communication, Criss pounded the door in fury, cursing himself for forgetting his keycard. Here he was, the greatest escape artist since Houdini, who had escaped from everything from handcuffs and shackles to cubes filled with cement, locked in the stairwell of his own home! How humiliating! He looked down the spiraling stairs and sighed with resignation. Well, there was only one way out of there and it was going to be long and hard.

Criss collected his nerve and began the long, slow descent down the stairs to the ground floor. Well, he thought, at least the lights are on.





By the order of the Mayor, Oscar B. Goodman, upon the reccommendation of the Las Vegas Municipal Fire and Police Departments, in appreciation for service above and beyond the call of duty, the City of Las Vegas wishes to commend

LESLIE BERNICE FANNING

for her service and dedication during the first twenty-four hours after the Las Vegas Earthquake, August 30, 2008.






Leslie wiped away tears of exhilaration as she stood behind the podium, choking on her acceptance speech, her newly received framed commendation clutched in her hands. Before her, an audience of firefighers, police officers, city officials, fellow dispatchers, and some members of the press applauded her.

"I-I don't know what to say," she sniffled. "I mean, I was just doing my job, that's all, you know? I had the only working computer in the entire building, and I was the only one there, and I couldn't leave anyway, because the door was stuck, you know?"

Laughter from the audience. "Anyway, I just want to say I how proud I am to have received this commendation, and will do my best to continue to serve the community. Thank you, and blessed be!"

More applause. Regina Johnson, however, stared suspiciously at her honored co-worker. Blessed be? she pondered, puzzled. From what I read in the Watchtower, that's how witches greet each other. Is Leslie a witch? Have I been working alongside a Devil-worshipping Satanist all along? She said she wasn't "interested" in Christianity; is that why?

I've got to find out, she decided. I got to know the truth about Leslie. If she is a witch, then it's up to me to turn her away from Satan before it's too late!

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Regina needs to leave it alone and get a lesson in respecting people for who they are and not judge them by religious preference! Congratulations Leslie! And Nini, please go to YouTube or aetv.com and look up MindFreak Naked Jail Escape (wink wink, lol)! Nice job, Veritas! Can not wait to read more! :)

[RACHEL02189]

That's one of my FAVORITE episode too bad they had to burl the good parts.

[Veritas]

Leslie sat at the crimson-draped table in her freshly restored apartment, shuffling her Tarot cards in her customary manner. It felt good to resume her life's rituals again. Twenty-two hours cooped up in the dispatch office handling call after call after call with no relief in sight--it had been madness!

She had stayed with Oak Tree Mother for the rest of the week, went back to the dispatch office to help with the cleanup, then finally returned to her own apartment, which, thankfully, had not been looted, although there had been some structural damage. The windows were broken, the walls had cracked to the point of collapsing, and her personal possessions lay scattered on the floor. With a light heart and a song on her lips, she had set things to rights.

Her "good" dishes were all broken, having fallen from the hutch in the dining area, but her personal computer had survived, being tethered to their power cords and secured with clips attached to the bottom of the desk. It had taken her two days to set things to rights. The broken items could be replaced, and she had renter's insurance to cover most of the damages. Indeed, she looked forward to going shopping to replace her damaged goods with the insurance check. Oak Tree Mother's shop on Flamingo was having a clearance sale on CDs, decorative items, earthenware, crystals and other Wiccan paraphenalia that hadn't been too badly damaged from the quake. So were almost all the stores in the Metropolitan area. If there was ever a bargain lover's paradise, post-earthquake Las Vegas was it.

The landlord had some contractors repairing the building for the past week, and her windows had just been replaced by some company from Reno. The power was back on, and the water was flowing again, though with warnings to conserve because all of the mains had not been fully repaired yet. It didn't seem to matter to Leslie. Whatever condition it was in, it was still home

Leslie was about to deal the three cards when she was startled by the entry buzzer from the intercom. She had always hated that door buzzer, so loud it made her jump whenever she heard it, even when she was expecting someone. You'd think they'd install something a little more subtle, or at least more friendly, she said to herself. She rose from her table and walked over to the intercom. She pressed the Answer button. "Yes?" she spoke into the intercom.

"Hi, Leslie," came a familiar voice. "It's me, Regina."

Regina? What's she doing here? Leslie wondered as she buzzed her co-worker in. Had she forgotten something at the dispatch office, and Regina was returning it to her? If so, what? No, that can't be it, she thought. She had everything with her from the station right here. But what was she doing here? If she was here to pass on her Jehovah's Witness literature, she could forget it...

A knock on the door. Leslie hesitated, then answered it. Regina stood there, armed with Bible and issues of The Watchtower and Awake!, confirming her worst fears. She wanted to slam the door in her face, but her mother's voice echoing from the back of her subconsciousness told her that would be rude.

"Hello, Leslie," Regina greeted her with a smile.

"Hi, Regina," Leslie returned the greeting cordially.

"I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind," Regina said, pressing forward.

"About what?" Leslie asked, standing firm.

"If I could come in, we can talk in private," Regina replied. "It has to do with something you said when you received your commendation from the city."

Leslie was puzzled. "What? What did I say to offend you?"

"Oh, it was not anything offensive, I assure you," Regina demurred. "I'd prefer not to talk about it in the hallway. Could I please come in, just for a few minutes?"

Leslie thought about it. "Five minutes," she said. "That's all you are getting, no more."

"Fine," Regina agreed.

Leslie allowed her entry into her apartment. She could feel her disapproving eyes sweeping the room, silently taking note of the Goddess posters, the row of Wiccan books, and the small card table with the Tarot cards still on it. She wished she had put them away before answering the door, but it was too late. She put on a brave face and offered some tea, which, to her relief, she refused. She offered her a seat on the futon couch while she sat in the chair next to her. Facing her on the sofa made her feel as though she was facing a panel of Inquisitors. She looked at the clock on the wall. Five o'clock. She had until five after to make their point and get out.

"So, what did I say that made you all upset?" Leslie asked, concealing her uneasiness.

Regina led the charge. "Do you remember saying 'blessed be' after your acceptance speech?"

Leslie shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

"Isn't that how...witches greet each other?"

"So? What's the big deal?" Leslie argued. "It's a friendly enough phrase. I've heard you use them often enough yourself."

"I never said 'blessed be'," Regina countered. "I said I've been blessed by God, and asked for His blessings, but never 'blessed be', period, like witches do." She leaned closer. "Leslie? Are you a witch?"

Here we go, Leslie thought. "I am a practicing Wiccan," she answered point-blank, "and I am proud of it. And let me say for the record, I am sick and tired of your constant proslytizing to me! I believe in the Mother Goddess, I revere Nature in all its forms, and I belong to a coven. I celebrate life unashamedly, I am not hung up on sexuality like you uptight Christians, and I claim the right to practice my beliefs as freely as you do without interferance according to the First Amendment! If you don't like that, there's the door! Just don't let it hit you on the backside when you're leaving."

"I'm not here to impinge on your rights, Leslie," Regina told her gently. "I'm here to save your soul from eternal damnation. The path you are following is leading you straight to Hell, with the fortune telling cards you got there, and the worship of pagan goddesses. I'm not doing this solely as a Christian. I'm doing this as a friend. If you saw a friend destroying her life with, say, drugs or alcohol, wouldn't you step in and try to help?"

"I am not a drug addict," Leslie insisted. "Nor an alcoholic. I am not destroying my life, I am living it as I see fit."

"You see?" Regina persisted. "You are in denial, just like an addict. You can't see that your pagan ways are hurting you. If you look deep down inside yourself, you'd find the emptiness that only Jesus can free you from. For once, face reality and turn away from these Satanic practices."

"Why don't you face the door and walk on out of here?" Leslie retorted. "I grew up in an overly 'Christian' household like yours. Church every Sunday, family Bible study ever evening after dinner, the guilt-trip sermons of how 'sinful' I was--the whole nine yards! I hated Sunday mornings so much it got to the point where I would feel like throwing up after breakfast, which, by the way, was always cold because my mother was such a stickler in keeping the Sabbath holy she wouldn't even cook! Everywhere I looked, it was judgement, judgement, judgement! Prepare for the Rapture! Jesus is coming soon! The Kingdom is at hand! Seek salvation!

"Do you think I felt God's love from all that? Do you? No! All I got out of it was an inferiority complex that took me years to get over. What good was going to church if you were doomed to go to Hell, anyway? Life sucked for me big time until I got into the Wiccan lifestyle. And do you know what? It was the most liberating thing that happened to me! First day I went to a coven meeting, I became a born-again pagan! In church, women were the root of all evil, the base temptress, Eve, conceiving children in original sin, and so were considered second-class citizens. In Wicca, women have power, because we're one with Mother Earth. There's no Heaven, there's no Hell. We are born, we live, we give birth, we die. Circle of life. No firey pit, no final judgement waiting for us; we're ruled by the cycle of the seasons and our own personal philosophy, not by ancient Scripture. We celebrate every passing phase of a person's life, from birth to death, with music and feasting. You people don't even celebrate your own birthdays! We celebrate the changing of the seasons, the solstices, the harvest, and the coming of spring, while you won't even acknowledge Thanksgiving! What do you people do for fun, anyway? If going around ringing doorbells and handing out pamphlets is your idea of a good time, then count me out, sweetie! At least Wiccans know how to party!"

Regina sat there in stunned silence after Leslie's diatribe. Then she spoke. "I'm sorry your church didn't offer you the spirtual guidance you needed, but that's no reason to turn away from God. We do celebrate life, but we do it without feasting or with material goods. We do have good times together. It's just that we are more aware of the Coming of the Lord, and it's our duty to spread the Word. Do you know why Las Vegas just had an earthquake?"

"Well," Leslie pondered thoughtfully, "I'd say it was because it was triggered by the shifting of tectonic plates under the earth's surface along certain fault lines, creating--"

"No, no, no!" Regina interrupted her. "We know what caused it. I asked why did it happen!"

"I believe I just told you."

"Leslie," Regina sighed, speaking like an exasperated parent admonishing a misbehaving child. "This earthquake we experienced was a warning, a sign from God that He's serious when he says He's coming back to judge the world. He struck Las Vegas because it's a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, a new Babylon. Sin City has been warned! It's up to you and others like you to turn away from these Godless practices and seek salvation! That's why I'm here, to guide you away from the darkness of paganism and back into the Light!"

"Regina," Leslie returned in the same tone, "you know the part that says 'You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free?'"

"Yes."

"Well, I discovered the truth a long time ago," Leslie said. "And I set myself free. I don't need you to tell me how to live my life, either in this one or the next. The quake was just a natural occurance, nothing more. What happened, happened, because it happened, that's it! No Divine judgement, no Second Coming, just the earth doing what it's been doing since the beginning of time. So, you go your way, and I'll go mine."

Regina rose to leave. "You walk in darkness," she said pityingly.

"And you have your head in the clouds!" Leslie shot back.

Regina held out an issue of Awake! "Here, at least read this," she offered.

"No, thank you."

"Please?" Regina pleaded. "At least look through it. You might find something in your life that's missing."

"What I'm missing is a quiet evening at home," Leslie retorted. "I'll see you at work tomorrow. Good-bye, Regina."

Regina withdrew the magazine. "Well, I tried," she sighed resignedly. "But, please, think about what I said, will you?"

"Okay," Leslie nodded, then paused for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. "Ummm--no!"

Regina walked to the door, but turned to Leslie for one last parting shot. "God is not mocked, Leslie," she warned her. "You're joking around, but your soul is in danger of eternal damnation. In the end, you'll see that I was right all along, and then it will be too late. Think about that!"

"Have a nice evening, Regina," Leslie smiled.

Regina left the apartment. Leslie heaved a huge sigh of relief and returned to her cards. So now Regina knew about her Wiccan ways. If she tried to "witness" to her at work, she could complain to Morton. But hold the phone! She just remembered that she had been promoted to assistant supervisor! Technically, she outranked Regina, and so could file a report on her if she did. Maybe she could pull her newly aquired rank and have her stop leaving those stupid magazines in the break room. It was worth a try.

But what was to stop her from harassing her at home, like today? Well, she would just have to stand firm, she guessed. She had already given her a piece of her mind five minutes ago, just as she had always wanted to. Regina was simply going to have to learn to be tolerant of other people's faiths. Even if it meant going over her head at work.




Criss lay in bed, exhausted. His legs felt like Jell-O after his third trip down the entire thirty flights of stairs. Forget the treadmill in the gym, he thought--he had had more than enough leg exercise for a lifetime! He had found his keycard in the pocket of his dirty jeans, along with his wallet and his watch which he had stuffed in there as he showered, then gratefully rode up the elevator directly to his suite, went in, stumbled to the bedroom and crashed like a felled tree onto the king-sized mattress. Memo to self, thought Criss, don't leave keycard in pants. Carry it with you at all times.

He dozed fitfully, oblivious to the whisperings outside the bedroom door. Then four little paws landed on his back. Startled awake, Criss turned over and saw his beloved cat standing on the bed beside him.

"Hammie!" He clutched the bemused feline tightly, kissing the delicate head, tears of joy trickling down his face. "How did you get here? Oh, God! I missed you so much!"

"Surprise!"

Criss looked up. Standing before him was his two brothers, JD and Costa, accompanied by Felix Rappaport. Criss wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and rose up from the bed, too happy to remenber how tired he had been.

"How'd you guys get in here?" he asked, "and when did you pick up Hammie?"

JD held up a finger. "One, Felix let us in with his keycard, and two," he held up a second finger, "sometime this morning. How ya doin', Criss?"

Criss sniffled, wiping his nose with his hand. "I'm fine, now that I got Hammie back," he said. "I so totally owe you guys, I really do! Thanks so much for getting Hammie back for me! I can't tell you how much I missed him!"

"We also came to bring you this," Felix said, holding a plastic shopping bag at arm's length. "You left these in the shower room."

Criss set Hammie down on the mattress and took the bag. The stench of his own filth hit him in the face. JD staggered back, coughing, the moment he caught a whiff of Criss' dirty laundry.

"I think you'd better wash them," Felix suggested.

"I think you'd better burn them!" JD suggested more strongly. "Should've called HazMat!"

Costa could only stand there and chuckle. Criss twisted the bag of clothes to cut off the smell. "Thanks, Felix," he said, "I'll take care of it."

"We got news from Mom," Costa told Criss. "She sent us each a 'care package'. Yours is outside."

Criss went into the living room and saw a foot-square box sitting on the table. Like a child on Christmas morning, he flew toward the parcel and began to tear it open eagerly. He spread open the flaps and pulled out the bubble wrap, tossing it aside heedlessly. Then he began to remove the contents: a six-pack of bottled water; a couple of pairs of clean CKs and a few pairs of clean socks ( both from his home in West Islip, no doubt); a couple of cans of cat food for Hammie; a tin of chocolate chip cookies; some deodorant; a bar of soap; a tube of sanitizer gel; a package of disposable razors; a plastic comb; a travel-sized toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste; a small first aid kit; and a lavender envelope with his name written in his mother's handwriting.

Criss tore open the envelope and read the letter contained in it.

Dear Christopher:

I have been praying for you and your brothers since I heard about the earthquake in LV. I know things are terrible for you over there, and since you suggested to me to do something about it, I am sending you these things to help you get through. I miss you very much, and I pray you are well. George is here in New York with his mother and is eager to go back to work for you. I know you are busy with the relief effort over there, but please call me when you get this package. Aunt Stella and Aunt Popi send their love and prayers to you. May God bless you and your brothers.

Love, Mom.


"Awwww, that was so sweet of her!" Criss gushed. "Hey! I gotta call her! Where's my phone?"

Costa jerked his thumb towards the bedroom. "It's in there," he mumbled.

Criss dashed into the bedroom, found his phone by the night stand, and phoned his mother.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom, it's me," Criss said.

"Christopher! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I got your care package, and I really appreciate it! You are the greatest! Thank you so much!"

"Is everything all right over there?"

"We're getting back up on our feet again," Criss said. "We got the power back on, and the water's almost working. I just had the first shower I ever took since the quake! I could have used that soap you sent, because I had to use the little bitty ones the hotel gives out! It took about four or five of them to get me clean!"

His mother laughed. "Well, I am glad you are all right. Are your brothers there?"

"Yeah, just a minute." He poked his head out of the bedroom door. "JD? Costa? Mom wants to talk to you!"

He tossed his phone to JD, who deftly caught it in midflight. "Hey, Ma, how's it going?" he said jovially.

Criss withdrew into the bedroom where Hammie lay curled up on the rumpled bedclothes. "Hey, Hammie!" he crooned. "How ya doin', huh? They treat you okay at the shelter? They feed you good, and clean out your litter box, and stuff like that? Huh?"

Hammie purred as Criss stroked him, feeling for anything out of the ordinary on the cat's sinewy body. No swellings that he could feel, no scarring on his paws from walking on a wire mesh cage. No ticks in the ears, no fleas under the fur. The eyes looked clear and bright, with no unusual discharges around the sockets. The claws could use some trimming, though. What did he do with that new PediPet claw trimmer he had just ordered? Must be in the drawer where he kept all of Hammie's grooming items. He picked up Hammie and carried him to the living room.

Meanwhile, Costa was talking to Mom on the phone. "Yeah, Ma, he's right here," Costa said, then thrust the phone to Criss. "Here, Mom wants to talk to you."

Criss shifted Hammie to his left arm while juggling the phone with his right. "Hey, Ma, what's up?" he asked.

"You know how long it will be before it's safe to come in to Las Vegas?" she asked.

"Well, I know a few of the airports are running full service again," he answered her. "But there's been more outgoing than incoming, and I know the roads aren't fully repaired yet. Why, does George want to come back to Vegas?"

"Not George," she said. "Me."

"You!?" Criss grew alarmed. "Ma, it's too dangerous right now, okay? I mean, I know you're worried about us and all, but I think you should hold off until the roads are passable again."

"You said yourself things were improving."

"Yeah, but not that improved! Look, Mom, just sit tight, okay? Once things are back to normal, you can come here, I promise."

"Listen," his mother said sternly. "I have worried myself sick over my three boys being over there, going through that earthquake, not to mention my only granddaughter and my daughter-in-law! George and I are coming over on the first plane we can get. I don't care how we get there, we will be there, God willing! Where we stay doesn't matter. I just want to see my family again!"

"Look, Ma--"

A dial tone hummed in his ear. His mother had hung up. Criss flipped his phone and stuffed it into his pocket with a sigh of despair. JD, Felix and Costa looked at him bemusedly. "Well, guys," Criss said, "looks like Mom's coming to Vegas."

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Another great chapter, Veritas!
Regina-give it up! You are harrassing a co-worker, who you will soon come to find out is a supervisior-you are likely to get fired! Please just stop with the religion!
Leslie-way to stand your ground, Regina should take lessons from you in respect!
I seriously hope our "Main Greeks" will all be okay!

On a real life note, I just wanted to take time out to recognize how awesome Criss and his mom and brothers and family (including Hammie and all those close to them) are. It is a Son of a MindFreak Greek to become exposed to the public eye, no doubt about it. I know I speak for myself and all the true Loyal worldwide when I say that we understand we are supporting genuine human beings. Had they not let us into part of their lives, there would be no Loyal, there would be no MindFreak or BeLIEve, there would be no works of art (both written, pictoral, and Madame Tussaud's Wax) in forever tribute. So I thank you Criss, and your entire family, for putting yourselves out here and letting The Loyal into part of your life. "Love Lives Forever"

[RACHEL02189]

two things:

Now we know where Criss got his stubborness from
I hate Regina I'm having a conflict of religion right now and my family is starting to act like Regina

[Veritas]

Oh? How?

[Smurf]

great chapters :) i'm glad Hammie is back with Criss :) can't wait to read more :)

[Veritas]

The first episode of MindFreak since the quake aired the second week of October, a two-hour episode dedicated to all the volunteers who helped with the relief effort. It consisted mainly of pre-recorded taped interviews with survivors, FEMA workers, municipal employees, and the few celebrities who remained to do their part; scenes of devastation, such as buckled pavement, buildings with whole sides missing, and various landmarks damaged or destroyed; and footage of those in the shelters and how they were coping.

Criss was shown helping with the heavy work and entertaining whomever he met, whether they were National Guardsmen, FEMA workers, Red Cross volunteers, or just ordinary people struggling to put their lives together. There was laughter, there were tears, there was hope, there was despair, there was anger, there was love--all that and magic, too. Criss couldn't do anything elaborate, of course, but with some sleight-of-hand and a bit of levitation, he lifted the disaster-weary spirits of his audiences all over the city.

Costa himself took time out from his busy schedule to put in his two-cents worth on the show. Still wearing his Red Cross cap, he related how he had been pressed into service just a week after receiving his certification. His interview served as the voice over for scenes of ARC workers doing what they did best: treating the wounded, drawing pints of blood, and tending to the needs of survivors. It was on that episode that he revealed the recurring nighmare that drove him to apply for ARC certification.

"It drove me nuts," he confessed. "I'd see these bleeding, dying people reaching out to me, begging me to help them, but I didn't know how. The whole city looked as if a bomb had hit it. I don't know if it was a warning, or a premonition, or what, but when I signed up for Red Cross training, the dreams stopped. But then, the real nightmare began..."

Criss sat in his usual darkened studio while the cameras rolled. "I am very proud of Costa for all he did for the Red Cross. I'm not into dream interpretation, but I think it really was a premonition, and I'm glad he acted upon it in a positive way."

There was also some scenes with his former DWD crew, with Supervisor Mel notably absent. "I lasted one day on the job there," Criss confessed. "Then I had a falling out with the guy in charge, and he kicked me off the crew. I'm all for doing my part, but I'd rather do it my way than be drafted into something I really don't want to do."

Criss' friend and former crap crewman, Shane Tobey, had also been interviewed, but he had used so many coarse expletives it was never aired. Assistant Supervisor Rachel Goldfarb, however, was more open about Criss' daylong stint with the crew.

"He really did his part," she said on tape. "He was out there with the rest of the poor schlubs, shoveling dreck off the sidewalks. He took a little potty break and Mel, the supervisor got all hot under the collar about it. Mel wanted to do a head count, holding up lunch, and Criss told him where he could get off, and he got kicked off the crew. Mel's good when it comes to engineering and all, but he's got a real people problem. Criss came back a few days later and did some card trick for the guys. Mel told him to disappear, and that's what he did--literally! Picked up a tarp, held it in front of him, and poof! Gone, just like that!"

Mel, on the other hand, could not be reached for comment.




"Nini?"

"Hadley!" Nini set down the stack of shirts and ran to greet her friend. "Oh, God, it's so good to see you! Where have you been?"

"Oh, Sis and I've been sifting through the pieces of our lives, getting things back in order," she said. "Marcie got out of the hospital three weeks ago, so I've been taking care of her."

"What happened? She got hurt in the quake somehow?"

"No, no. It's just that she developed some sort of virus from drinking contaminated water," Hadley explained. "She was pretty sick for a while, but she's okay now. She was so thirsty from all the dust flying around that she drank some water flowing from a pipe somewhere and got sick."

"Gee, that's too bad," Nini said sympathetically. "Glad she's all right, though. What about yourself?"

"Me? Oh, just been doing this and that," Hadley replied glibly. "The company's been performing a benefit for the quake survivors in Carson City. We managed to raise a couple of thousand dollars."

"Not too shabby," Nini commented.

"Yeah, well, I wish it could have been more," Hadley sighed. "But what about you? What have you been doing since the quake?"

"Well, just cleaning this place up," she replied. "Classes have started again. I may have to take some over again, because of the time constraints."

"Hmmm."

"Well, I got to get back to work," Nini said. "Maybe we can hook up after I get off?"

"Are any of the clubs open?" Hadley asked.

"LAX is set to open tonight. Maybe we can try there?"

Hadley smiled. "Sounds great. Eight o'clock do it for you?"

"Works for me," Nini replied. "And, Had?"

"What?"

"Thanks for stopping by. It really made my day."




The only incoming commercial flight landed that mid-October evening around six-thirty Pacific Time at McCarran Airport. JD waited inside the terminal, sections of which were still under repair were cordoned off with yellow warning tape. There was no valet parking available; it had taken him twenty minutes to find a space in the garage that had not been closed for repairs to park the Range Rover. He figured it would take another twenty just to find it again, drive out of the garage, and pull up to the entrance to pick up his mother and his cousin, George--if he was lucky.

Many of the roads had been repaired enough by now to make them passable, but the freeways and sections of the Strip were still a mess. Orange and white channeler barrels lined the streets, shifting traffic to only one or two lanes, slowing everyone down. Detours were everywhere, sending JD and other drivers into parts of the city he never knew existed. Mass transit was extremely limited, down to only a few buses a day, with two to three hours between them. More than a few cars overheated, and many more drivers as well. Road rage rose to near epidemic levels, and JD had witnessed a fist fight in the middle of an intersection after a driver had turned a corner at the same time a pedestrian was crossing the street, cutting him off. It got so bad that even he began to succumb to it; he found himself flipping off the driver behind him when he honked his horn after a light had turned green while he had been momentarily distracted by something on the radio.

Tensions were high off the road as well. Just the previous evening, JD had blown up at Lynn for spending what he thought was too much time on the Internet, shopping for replacement items.

"So what if you can't find another soup tureen like the one your grandmother had?" he had exploded. "Who gives a (bleep)? We never used it anyway!"

"It was a priceless antique!" Lynn had argued. "It had been in my family for four generations!"

"So what?" he had yelled. "We got a lot of other things more important than that to replace! Who the hell cares about a (bleeping) soup pot, anyway?"

"You don't care about how I feel!" Lynn had accused him, bursting into tears.

From there it went all downhill, ending with Lynn storming into their bedroom, sobbing. JD had thrown himself into his favorite chair, simmering with rage. All that fuss over a soup tureen they had never used in the first place, he had thought. Didn't Lynn realize that there were more important things in life than family heirlooms? Didn't she have any sense of priorities?

They didn't speak to each other in bed. They hardly spoke at breakfast. When their daughter, Dima, asked her mother what was wrong, she had muttered "Nothing," and drove her daughter to school. JD left for work as usual, with tiny needles of guilt starting to prick his conscience. Now, as he sat in the terminal, waiting to pick up his mother and cousin, he had come to the realization that he had been a total dipwad.

The gates opened, and the few passengers who were brave enough to make the trip to Las Vegas trooped out of the corridor. It was George who hailed JD first.

"Hey! How ya doin'?" he called out jovially, spreading his beefy arms for a quick bear hug. "Glad to see you're okay! How's everything?"

JD embraced his cousin happily. Seeing him again seemed to relieve the tension of the past six weeks. "Doin' good, George," he said. "Where's Ma?"

The small, frail figure of Dimitra Sarantakos materialized from the dark interior of the corridor. JD was so happy to see his mother again he wanted to sweep her off her feet and carry her away with him. Instead, he had to settle for a hug and a kiss. "How ya doin', Ma?" he greeted her.

"Good, good," she replied. "How are you doing?"

JD sighed, still needled with guilt about his blowup with Lynn. "As good as can be expected," he replied, "considering."

It didn't take twenty minutes for JD to come around with the car to fetch his mother and cousin--it was more like thirty-five. The line going out of the garage was longer than the one going in, and he had to dodge the construction areas to boot. By the time he got to the main drive where his passengers were waiting, his nerves were frayed to the point of breaking.

George heaved their luggage into the back of the Range Rover and climbed into the back seat, graciously allowing his elderly aunt the passenger side of the vehicle. Then came the frustratingly slow exit from the terminal, every car inching its way to the main gate to pay the toll before being granted freedom. Two lanes had to converge into single file, each lane alternating vehicles to allow a smooth transition. JD sat in the driver's seat, doing a slow burn, while his mother sat beside him, the personification of patience. George dozed in back, glad to stretch out in the roomy rear of the Rover after having folded himself into a near fetal position on the plane for three hours.

Suddenly, the car next to JD slingshotted into the space in front of him, cutting him off. Boiling with fury, JD stuck his head out the window and shouted a few choice words at the inconsiderate driver. "YOU SON OF A (BLEEP)! YOU (BLEEPING) CUT ME OFF, DAMMIT! WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING?"

Dimitra stared at her eldest son, appalled at this sudden outburst. "JD!"

"The (bleeper) cut me off, Ma!" he argued. "I had the right of way, and the son of a (bleep) cut me off!"

"Now, just calm down," his mother told him in her sternest maternal tone. "Everything's all right."

"Yeah, Jay," George chimed in from the back. "Just chill out, willya? It's no big deal."

"No big deal?!" JD exploded. "Some guy almost runs into me and you say it's 'no big deal'?"

"JD, what is the matter with you all of a sudden?" Dimitra demanded. "You never let things like this bother you before! Now here you are, all hot and bothered over a little thing like this! I had really expected better from you, I really did!"

JD leaned his head on the steering wheel, heaving a huge sigh. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's just that, well...this whole earthquake thing has everyone on edge, you know. No water, no electricity, not much food, just...I dunno."

He turned to his mother. "You picked a bad time to come here, you know that? You should have waited for a better time, like when the roads are better, and the house is fixed up better. You really picked the wrong time to come to Vegas."

"From the way you're acting," Dimitra said, "I'd say I came just in time."

The Range Rover inched to the toll gate. Halfway there, JD spotted a dark Jamaican man with dreadlocks down to his chest, waving cellophane wrapped bouquets of flowers in his hands. "Flowers for sale!" he sang out in his distinctive island accent, so tunefully one could almost hear the music of steel drums in the background. "Flowers for sale! Five dollars each! Flowers! Five dollars each!"

JD honked his horn, then rolled down his window again. "Hey!" he called out to the flower man. "Over here!"

The flower man trotted up to the Range Rover. "You want to buy flowers, mon?" he asked in his thick accent.

"Yeah, I'll take a couple." He handed a ten note to the flower man, who gave him two small bouquets of long stemmed wildflowers. "God bless you, brothuh," the flower man said, then returned to his post, a plastic bucket filled with bouquets.

George looked at JD, puzzled. "Who are you buying flowers for, JD?"

"Lynn," JD replied. "We had a...bit of a fight last night. I just wanna make it up to her, that's all. No big deal."

[RACHEL02189]

We all thought JD was the strong one

[Smurf]

Great Chapter :) poor Jd , Can't wait to read more :)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

And the suspense and tension build! Can not wait for the next chapter, thanks so much again for this story, Veritas! :)

[Veritas]

Criss pulled up his Escalade to JD's house and parked on the curb. It had felt good to drive again after six weeks of hiking over cracked, buckled streets, being crammed into buses filled with volunteers off to their designated work sites, and squeezed into the camera crew van during taping of his show. He had chosen the Escalade because he did not dare risk driving his high-end sports cars through the rubble strewn streets. The spaciousness and comfort it afforded, not to mention the privacy, was gratifying.

He climbed out of the SUV, removing a dozen red roses he had purchased for his mother when she arrived. He had ordered them specially from a florist twenty miles from the disaster zone, all the other shops damaged or destroyed. It had cost him seventy-five dollars, but it was worth it. He strode up to the newly repaired front door and rang the bell.

His niece, Dima, answered it. "Uncle Criss!" she cried out happily, flinging her arms around his shoulders. Criss embraced her back with his free hand.

"Come on in," Dima invited him. "Mom's in the kitchen making dinner."

Criss entered the house, setting the roses on a side table. "Hey, Lynn," he called out. "How's it going?"

Lynn stood grimly at the counter, chopping up vegetables to be mixed with the ground beef for the stuffed tomatoes. "Hi, Criss," she said, putting on a brave face. "How are you?"

"Good." Criss reached around and gave her a peck on the cheek. Lynn went on chopping. Criss sensed something wrong from the tension on her face and her terse reaction to his greeting.

"Lynn?" he said. "You okay? Anything wrong?"

Lynn shook her head hastily. "It's nothing, Criss. Nothing at all."

Criss placed his hands on her shoulders. "It's something, I can tell," he persisted. "You're upset about something."

Lynn set down her knife and turned to face her brother-in-law. "It's nothing, really," she insisted. "JD and I just had a little disagreement, that's all." She returned to her chopping, more vigorously than before. Criss laid his hand upon hers, stopping her in mid chop.

"It's more than a 'disagreement', I can tell," he said. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Look, Criss, it's none of your business, okay?" Lynn snapped. "JD and I can handle it ourselves, so just...mind your own business, all right?"

Criss backed off. "Sure. Fine. Whatever you say."

Lynn returned to her work chopping vegetables. Criss left the kitchen, perplexed at her sour mood. What happened between her and JD? he wondered. Must have been more serious than she let on.




"Where are we?" George asked JD from the back of the Range Rover. "You taking the scenic route or what?"

"Detours," JD explained. "Lot of the roads are closed for repairs. Gotta take the long way around."

"I don't remember this part of the city before," Dimitra said. "Do you?"

"Hard to say from all the damage," JD replied.

They drove another half mile on the mystery road. On the shoulder to the right, JD and Dimitra saw white steam billowing out in their path, and a familiar looking figure standing on the side, his thumb stuck out, signalling for a ride.

"Hey, that's Costa!" JD said, pulling over, honking his horn.

Costa looked up, brightened, and trotted over to the Rover. JD rolled down his window. "Hey, buddy," he joked. "Need a lift?"

"Dude, I owe you big time!" Costa laughed with gratitude. "My car overheated from all the detours I had to take and--"

"Just get in the car," JD told him impatiently.

Costa pulled open the back door and climbed inside. "Hey, George, how are ya?" he greeted his cousin. Then he leaned forward to the front to kiss his mother sitting in the front seat. "Hi, Mom, good to see you again."

JD started up again, driving down the mystery road. Costa settled back. "What a lucky break you guys showed up when you did," he said. "I was going to call Triple-A to come and get me."

"You know where we are, by the way?" George asked.

"If you keep on this road, you should hit Harwood," Costa instructed. "Then hook a right, and it'll take you straight home."

JD sighed with relief. "Good. I've been taking so many detours since we left the airport, I feel like a mouse in a maze."

"You and me both," Costa said, laughing.

True to Costa's word, Harwood did take the Rover home without furthur incident. JD pulled up the driveway and killed the engine. "You go on in, Mom," he said. "We'll take care of the bags."

Dimitra made her way up the walk to the front door. She needn't have bothered knocking, because Dima had seen the Range Rover coming up the street and had sprung up to greet her grandmother.

"Grandma!" she cried happily, throwing her arms around Dimitra.

"Hello, darling," Grandma smiled, kissing her only grandchild. "So good to see you again."

Dima led her grandmother and namesake into the house, her sons and nephew following in her wake with the luggage. Criss stood there in the foyer, roses in his arms, smiling. "Hey, Mom," he said. "How are ya?"

"Christopher!" Dimitra gathered the roses in her arms. "Oh, my goodness!"

Dima ran to find something in which to put the roses. Criss stooped over to give his mother a peck on the cheek. "Have a good trip?" he asked.

"It was fine," she said. "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

"Why don't you go upstairs for a while and rest?" JD suggested. "We got the guest room all fixed up for you. New windows and everything."

Dimitra went upstairs. Dima and Criss arranged the roses in a watering can found in the basement, the only container big enough that had not been damaged in the quake. JD drew a deep breath, gripped the cellophane flowers he had purchased from the street vendor at the airport, and stepped into the kitchen.

"Lynn?"

Lynn stopped stuffing tomatoes. She did not turn around to greet him, but she did not entirely ignore him either. She simply stood there, paralyzed with uncertainty. Suddenly, two small bouquets of colorful wildflowers appeared before her eyes.

"I just want to say I'm sorry for acting the way I did," JD said softly. "I've been such a (bleep)hole this past week, what with the quake and all."

Lynn threw her arms around JD's neck. "Oh, God," she sobbed. "I'm sorry, too. Here I was all upset about broken dishes when I should be appreciating you and Dima."

"It's okay, hon," he assured her. "Let's just put it all behind us and get on with our lives. Okay?"

Lynn nodded, wiping her eyes with her hands. She still had tomato juice on them and it ended up getting into her eyes, causing them to burn. Lynn cried out in pain, groping for a towel. JD turned on the kitchen tap and soaked a paper towel for her to rinse out the stinging acid. Groaning with relief, she blinked a few times and looked at her husband again.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him for the first time in almost twenty-four hours.

JD smiled back. "Come on," he said. "Let's get dinner on the table."




On the patio of Oak Tree Mother's home, Leslie and her fellow Wiccans were also preparing for dinner. It was the celebration of the harvest, the autumn solsitce. Actually, the solstice had fallen a few weeks ago back in September, but due to the quake, it had to be postponed until mid-October. There were organically grown vegetables from Mother's own greenhouse, there was fresh-baked bread, and plenty of apples and other fruits in season.

There was also a new addition to the coven--Rainsong and Del's new baby boy, Geo. "We named him after the earth," they explained. "It was the earth that brought about his birth."

Everyone cooed and petted little Geo, now a month and a half old, lying in the handwoven basket that served as his carrier. The formal blessing would come after the feasting. Everyone happily tucked into the spread laid out on the trestle table before them.

Red Wolf leaned back on a colorful woven blanket beside Leslie/Sunsinger, a hunk of bread in his hand. "I heard about your daylong shift at the dispatch station," he said casually. "You must have been going nuts in there, all by yourself. How did you cope with it?"

"It wasn't easy," she replied. "I just had a few granola bars, a half-bottle of water, and the wastebasket to go to the bathroom in."

Red Wolf grimaced. "Oh, geez!"

"Well? What would you have done under the circumstances?"

"Hey, I'm a dude," Red Wolf retorted. "I could whiz out the window if I had to."

"Well, I can't," Leslie retorted. "I have a different plumbing system than you do. At least there was a good supply of plastic bags in there."

Red Wolf laughed, almost choking on his bread.

"And anyway, can't we talk about something else? Bodily functions is no topic for discussion while eating."

"Okay." Red Wolf sat up. "You wanna come up to my place after the meeting? I can show you my Tarot cards."

Leslie looked at Red Wolf in surprise. "You do Tarot?"

"I do a lot of things," he said, stroking her thigh with a single fingertip. "You'd be surprised at what I can do."

She smiled. He smiled back. "I'd love to," she said.




"You say Leslie is a what?" Morton stared at Regina incredulously.

"She's a witch, Morton," Regina told him again. "She's a devil worshipper. Now I know that she went above and beyond during the quake and all that, but I just can't work with a Satanist. Didn't you say we should always reflect our civic integrity at all times? Well, this doesn't exactly reflect it."

"So, what do you want me to do?" Morton asked sarcastically. "Burn her at the stake?"

"No, nothing like that," Regina replied. "Just talk to her, that's all. Tell her that her witchcraft is going to put us in a bad light. Tell her...tell her that it will ruin not only her own reputation, but the station's as well. I tried to turn her away from witchcraft, but she wouldn't listen to me. Maybe she'll listen to you instead."

Morton shook his head. "Regina, I know that you are a practicing Jehovah's Witness and all that, but it's our policy not to get involved in other people's religious beliefs. I've tolerated your putting your magazines in the break room, but I can't fire someone whose faith is different than yours. Your church isn't the only one in town, you know. Other people have a right to their own beliefs, no matter how wacked out they may seem to you."

"But it's not a faith, Morton," Regina argued. "Leslie is a devil worshipper, a full blown Satanist!"

"I don't care if she's the Wicked Witch of the West!" Morton snapped. "Leslie Fanning stayed on duty for twenty-two straight hours handling every emergency call that came in on the only available line after the quake, and in my book that makes her a hero! She not only reflected civic integrity, as you put it, she exemplified it! What she does on her own time is no business of mine or yours! If you can't handle working with Leslie, then you can hand in your resignation right now! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Morton turned back to his computer terminal. Regina turned and walked out of the office, facing a crisis of faith. On the one hand, she needed the work, but on the other, to work with a devil worshipper went against everything she valued as a Witness. To do both would by hypocritical in the eyes of the Lord and the church. Maybe she could put in for a transfer? If not, then she would have to quit her job. There were no other alternatives that she could see. She would finish her shift here and then go to Morton's office for a transfer to another station or to resign altogether. Yes, that is what she would do. After all, her eternal salvation was of far greater importance than a weekly paycheck; what good was money when the Kingdom was at hand?

Regina returned to her post, put on her headset, and resumed her duties, totally disregarding Leslie sitting next to her. Leslie, for her part, was oblivious to her co-worker's attitude; she was too busy with her new responsibilities as Assistant Supervisor, as well as handling calls. The dispatch office was still a bit shorthanded since the quake, and the new dispatchers had not yet finished classroom training, so Leslie had to not only do her new job, but her old one as well. Once the newbies were assigned their posts, she would be supervising them, noting their progress during their probationary period and offering advice and assistance.

All this didn't matter to Regina, however. All that mattered to her is that the newly appointed Assistant Supervisor was a witch. It was bad enough that her copies of The Watchtower and Awake! ended up in the trash as soon as she set them out, but to have a pagan devil worshipper as a supervisor was well nigh unbearable. No, she couldn't stay here any longer. For the sake of her immortal soul, she had to get out of that station and either into another one or find a new job altogether. The church would understand; in fact, she was confident that they'd support her decision unanimously.

When the shift was over, Regina rose and walked into Morton's office again. When she emerged, she had some transfer forms in her hand and a smile of relief on her face. As she and Leslie stood at the bus stop to go home, the latter grew curious about the former's sudden cold-shouldering.

"Regina?" Leslie approached timidly. "What's wrong with you all of a sudden?"

Regina kept looking straight ahead as if she had blinders on. "Oh, nothing," she replied airily but with a tinge of sarcasm. "It's just that I put in for a transfer to another station because the new Assistant Supervisor is a Satanist, that's all."

Leslie sighed in exasperation. "Regina--" she began, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, don't worry about me," Regina went on. "I'll be okay. You just go on with your pagan rites and devil worship like you always do. Maybe the new station they'll send me to will be a little more tolerant of my beliefs--not like this one!"

"You know, Regina," Leslie sighed, "I used to think you were a pretty nice person to work with, in spite of your Jehovah's Witnessing or whatever you call it. If you hadn't been so narrow-minded about religion, we could have been great friends. But no--you had a sacred duty to strong-arm everyone you met into your church and its belief system, no matter what. You just couldn't wrap your head around the fact that all paths lead to God, and all faiths are really one, be they Jesus, the Buddha, the Goddess, or whatever. The only reason that you think I'm a devil-worshipper is that long ago the Christian church created a smear campaign to destroy the Old Religion. We didn't create Satanism--you did!"

Regina whipped her head around. "Me?"

"Yeah, you. You and all those narrow-minded priests and ministers who wanted to take over the world with their dogma of hellfire and brimstone, blind conformity and repression! You claimed to be bringing Light, but instead you plunged the world into darkness, burning wise women who had more skill and talent than they did as witches, and torturing those who disagreed with you! The ancients had more wisdom and possessed more knowledge, and had greater respect for the earth than all you Christians! Even today, you persecute us; I heard what you said to Morton earlier today. You don't want to work with a witch--fine! Go someplace else! I don't need this aggravation!"

Leslie's bus pulled up to the curb. Without sparing her former co-worker a glance, she bounded onto the bus, flung her fare into the box and took a seat on the opposite side of the curb. Regina stood at the stop, watching the bus pull away as it always had, her face inscrutable, her heart hardened against her erstwhile friend and co-worker. Just you wait, Leslie Fanning. When the Kingdom of Heaven comes, you and your devil-worshipping kind will be cast into burning Hell for all eternity, while I and my fellow Witnesses will be enjoying the delights of Heaven. Then we'll see whose path led to God!




WHEREAS: The Luxor Hotel and Resort has performed a great service to the citzens of Las Vegas in providing food, shelter and medical care during and after the earthquake on August 30, 2008...

WHEREAS: The President of the Luxor Hotel and Resort, Felix Rappaport, has performed a great service to the citizens of Las Vegas through his co-ordination and organization of relief efforts to the victims of the earthquake...

WHEREAS: The Luxor Hotel and Resort has given time, money and resources toward the restoration of the city of Las Vegas, either by donation or fundrasing...

THEREFORE: The Municipality of Las Vegas, upon recommendation by the City Council, hearby award Felix Rappaport and the staff of the Luxor Hotel and Resort this commendation for their generosity and support to and for the citizens during the earthquake of August 30, 2008, by order of the mayor, Oscar B. Goodman, on this day of October 17, 2008.

Oscar B. Goodman, Mayor.




Upon the recommendation of the Board of Directors, the AMERICAN RED CROSS has conferred upon

Costa Sarantakos

this commendation for exemplary performance above the call of duty during the Las Vegas earthquake on August 30th, 2008.

Signed this day, October 17, 2008.



Nevada State Board of Corrections

Name: Tobey, Shane Allen

Current Address: 17345 Ranchero, Rm. 23, North Las Vegas, NV.

After careful review by the Board of Corrections, the above has been
X Granted parole
__Denied parole

Date effective: 10-30-08. Date scheduled to end: 04-30-09



Television cameras from every major network lined up along the newly restored Las Vegas Avenue that cold December Friday for the official relighting of the fabled Strip. It was a gala event, even by Vegas standards; the sidewalks were covered with red carpet from one end to the other. Inside the newly renovated hotels, champaign flowed ceaselessly as those VIPs privileged enough to be invited strutted around in outfits from every major designer in the world, from Chanel and Dior to Armani and Vera Wang. Those outside milled around as if it was New Year's Eve already, wearing party hats and armed with noisemakers, ready to let loose when the lights went on.

One hotel in particular had an extra special reason to celebrate: it was the birthday of its biggest star, Criss Angel. A huge birthday cake in the shape of the Luxor, complete with a lighted apex on top of the pyramid, crowned the big buffet table. The birthday boy himself mingled with the guests, noticably out of place among the more formally attired with his frayed jeans and leather biker jacket, but resplendant with jewels. He smiled, shook hands, thanked everyone for coming, accepted happy birthday wishes, and generally played the celebrity to the hilt.

A reporter for E! managed to corner him for an interview. "Hello, Criss," she said loudly over the general din. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks," he replied.

"I hear that it's your birthday today," the reporter went on. "Happy birthday to you."

"Thank you."

"So, tell us," she went on. "Where were you during the earthquake? Do you remember?"

"Yeah, I was out shooting the latest episode of MindFreak, and doing a card trick for someone when it happened. It was pretty scary."

"Were you hurt in any way?"

"I wasn't," Criss replied. "But I know a lot of people were. My brother, Costa, had some Red Cross training, and he was out there, helping everyone who was injured."

"Tell us, what have you done to help with the restoration? You do any volunteer work?"

"Well, I was on the DWD crew at first."

"DWD?"

"Debris and Waste Disposal. We called it the crap crew."

The reporter laughed. "How long were you with that?"

"About a day. Then I went around and did a little of everything, you know, like help out building here, work at a shelter there, things like that."

"Do you feel that you've changed in any way after your experiences?"

"Oh, we've all changed, all of us," Criss replied. "It's like Nine-Eleven. You're never the same person you were after going through it. I felt that God had blessed me with so much, but now I know it can be all taken away from you in a minute. There's still a lot of work to be done here in Las Vegas--so many homes still need to be rebuilt, you know? It's like New Orleans after Katrina. It's gonna take some time."

"Well, thank you, Criss, and again, happy birthday!"

"Thank you." Criss flashed a peace sign and walked away.

Night fell. Las Vegas Avenue was still eerily dark; only shadowy silhouettes of the casinos lining it could be seen. The recently rebuilt Luxor light still remained as black as the pyramid it crowned. Only a few spotlights were on for safety and guidance. The excitement built to a near climax as Mayor Goodman stepped up to the podium for the lighting ceremony.

"For three months," the honorable mayor began, "Las Vegas had been shrouded in shadow, but its spirit was not eclipsed by despair. We overcame a great tragedy, and we are ready to shine again!"

The crowd roared its approval. Then the mayor began the countdown.

"Ten...nine...eight...seven..."

Criss stood at the main entrance of the Luxor, eagerly anticipating the big moment.

"six...five...four...three..."

Cameras were focused along strategic points along the Strip. The crowd readied their noisemakers, camera phones and camcorders.

"two...one! LET THERE BE LIGHT!!"

The mayor punched a giant red button. A loud airhorn blasted deafeningly, momentarily reminding Criss of his stint with the DWD, then it happened: the fabled Strip flickered on, then glowed and danced in a joyous display of neon light and color. "Vegas Vic" smiled and waved for the first time in months, greeting one and all like a long lost friend. The enormous crowd cheered, screamed, wept, blew their noisemakers, and took pictures. Elvis belted out "Viva Las Vegas" over giant loudspeakers all along the Strip. Criss whipped out the bandanna hanging from his back pocket and buried his face in it, not wanting the photographers to see him weeping with joy.

"Oh, God!" he sobbed quietly to himself. "Oh, God! It's beautiful! I love it! This has been the best birthday ever! Thank You, God! Thank You."

He pulled himself together and stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket. He looked around the main entrance, estatic to see it all aglow again, but he felt that something was missing. There was one more thing he had to do...

Criss walked away from the main entrance and headed for the parking deck. The top of the deck was crowded with revelers, but from the stairwell, Criss could see the top of the Luxor. The apex light shone blindingly upward into the infinity of space, a triumphant beacon of hope and renewal.

"Criss?"

He turned around. "Nini?"

"I thought I saw you there," Nini said. "How come you're not down with the VIPs?"

Criss turned back to the sight of the Luxor light. "I had to see this again," he replied.

Nini smiled. Criss drew his arm around her. "You know, I never properly thanked you for getting me some clothes when I was...well, you know..."

"Streaking through the Luxor in a towel?"

Criss couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't say 'streaking', but--"

"It's okay," Nini said. "Personally, I thought you looked pretty hot in that towel."

Criss snorted in embarrassment.

"No, really," she insisted. "You did. I confess I was a bit disappointed when you went into that fitting room to dress."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you."

"It's okay, I'm over it."

"Good." Criss leaned closer. "So, you got any plans after this?"

Nini looked at Criss in astonishment. "Criss!"

"No, really. If you want, you can come up to my suite."

Nini thought about it. "Do I get to see you in a towel again?" she asked mischeiviously

"Sure," Criss replied. "If I get to see you in one."

Nini blushed. Criss smiled. "Hey, you asked first, you know," he reminded her.

"I know," Nini said, lowering her eyes. Then she quickly raised them again. "You wanna?"

"Wanna what?"

"See me in a towel?"

"I'd love to," Criss said. "But even better, I'd like to see you without one."

"Ditto that."

Nini and Criss dashed down the stairs, hand in hand, giggling like high school kids. Around them, the celebration went on. Car horns blared, people cheered and danced in the streets, basking in the neon glow. Sin City had been dead, and was alive again. Viva Las Vegas, indeed!




That's the end as far as I can relate it. In a real disaster, the story goes on as the characters rebuild their lives as well as their city. There are survivors of Hurricane Katrina who are still getting their lives back together after three or four years since the storm.

I wish to dedicate this story to all of the Red Cross volunteers who work tirelessly in times of disaster. Who knows? Maybe Costa really DOES have some ARC training (I would if Criss was my brother!).

Now, I need to clear up some business:

In Update #4, the quote I used was from a real study done by the UNLV seismic team.

There is no such thing as NEDA, but there is a similar organization dedicated to monitoring potential disasters. FEMA is a real federal administration which deals with disasters. I doubt they are as totalitarian as I portrayed them; I think they would be more like Rachel Goldfarb than Mel the supervisor.

The Peak Ground Acceleration Study in 50 yrs. study was from a map I Googled when researching fault lines in Nevada. From the map, it's safe to say that Vegas is pretty safe from a 6.9 quake for the time being.

The Disaster Medical Facility does exist. In fact, Nevada is the first state to have such a facility. It really was tested in 2004, and passed with flying colors. See Update #46.

In Update #92, St. Mary's is a real hospital in Las Vegas.

It is hard to say just how a massive earthquake like the one I wrote about would really affect Las Vegas. The damage may be more severe than how I portrayed it. And it would take longer than a few months to fully restore the city to at least a functioning level. Look how long it took to restore New Orleans after Katrina. Of course, Las Vegas may be more heavily insured against losses than New Orleans, and so would have more funding.

I thank all of you who took the time to read my story. This was the most heavily researched story I have ever done. Thank God for Google! I'm going to take a quick break right now, but I have some ideas swirling around in my head. In the meantime, I promise to read your stories as well.

See you soon!

[RACHEL02189]

'Clapping Clapping'

WHO WOULDN'T MIND SEEING CRISS IN A TOWEL OR WHAT'S UNDERNEATH IT (WINK WINK)

[Loyal Lady Dee]

Standing Ovation and many thanks for this story, Veritas! It was amazing and it sparked a lot of memories, the most of the times I went to Las Vegas. Keep writing, you have a great talent for it! To the next story and beyond!

[Smurf]

Great Story veritas :) I would love to see Criss in a towel :)

[RACHEL02189]

i would love to see criss in a towel :)

who wouldn't :) :) :)

[Carebear353]

I loved that story it was very well done, I cant wait to read more stories!