[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.

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