[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

[Veritas]

Originally Posted by 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!

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.