[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.