Benedictus


In the tender compassion of our God

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and guide our feet into the way of peace.

From the Benedictus, Song of Zechariah, The Gospel of Luke


Part Seven

The first check-in was a piece of cake. He spoke to her after exactly twenty minutes. He didn't tell her how unstable the air pocket was, or that the beam had shifted again. There was nothing to be gained, as far as he could see, and no point in worrying her further. It had to be a nightmare on the outside. She was doing one hell of a job.

The second time, he was a few minutes late. He'd been drowsing, fading in and out of consciousness. He awoke with a jerk of panic, and a jolt of excruciating pain. His hands were shaking so badly, he could scarcely push the redial button. Megan answered again after barely one ring and he heard the concern in her voice.

He asked her about the baby, but they hadn't managed to trace her. The nursery workers and other infants he'd saved, had been rushed away from the scene. The implication lay unspoken between them - could be her mother was still trapped inside. After that, he tried hard to keep more alert, as Sweetie napped softly beside him. Right now, she needed him more than ever, and he was fiercely determined not to fail her.

It was all very well in theory, but in reality, he knew he was fading. He felt nauseous and drunkenly light-headed, but worse than that, was the unremitting cold. He was still sharp enough to realise the ice in his blood was nothing more than an illusion. The stale air beneath the rubble was thick with dust and chemicals, and warm as a bowl of soup.

He didn't know if he was still bleeding, but he was definitely in shock, pure and simple. He set his jaw to stop it from chattering, and ignored the fluttering heartbeat in his chest. The pain had settled somewhere around his pelvis and reached down into the tops of both legs.

If the sick, grating feeling, was anything to go by, there were definitely some broken bones.

There was nothing he could do, except lie here. No position he could adopt to make things easier. He could only move the top half of his body, so it was no good trying to second guess his injuries.

What the hell, he was drifting again.

His eyes had closed of their own volition.

Stay awake, he had to fight this. He forced himself to take stock of their prison.

The void space they were trapped in was pretty small, and the strut lay across him diagonally. Despite being the main cause of his injuries, paradoxically, it had saved both their lives. The wall behind him was painted and smooth. Almost certainly, they were still in the corridor. Judging by the broken tiles and type of debris all around them, it looked like the ceiling had collapsed.

The damaged building was constantly shifting, and Don could hear the distant slip and slide of rubble. He fought down a small thrill of panic, as some rending metal groaned overhead. It was easier, and a darn sight more comforting, not to imagine what might be pressing down on top of them.

For the first time, he realised it wasn't totally dark. There was a light source coming from somewhere. He turned his head to one side, and craned his neck, but his range of vision was poor. He focused on the end of the strut, his eyes seeking its point of origin. Nothing tangible, he couldn't see that far. Just a pinprick funnel of light.

It was something – it might be nothing.

He felt a quick surge of frustration. It probably led straight into another void space. It was impossible the exit was still viable, but at least it meant they were getting some air.

Air.

Yeah, right – they were getting some air.

That was another thing, he thought uneasily, talk about a giant misnomer. There was no way the cocktail of dust and chemicals they were inhaling, could ever properly qualify as clean air. He was worried about Sweetie's tiny lungs – just add it to his catalogue of problems. It was a big list and growing longer by the minute. It would be nice to cross a few items out.

He pulled a wry face in the darkness. He was turning into a real Job's comforter.

Kinda hard to keep looking on the bright side, with half a building lying on your back.

The baby stirred and snuggled in closer, almost as though she sensed his anxiety. He curved a protective arm around her and held her gently against his chest. She was beautiful, he thought, looking down at her. She was going to be a real little heart-breaker. Those huge eyes and curly black lashes would wreak all kinds of havoc one day.

Another reason to get her out of here – he would make damned sure she got the chance.

Don marvelled at her behaviour, so far, she'd been a real little angel. He knew enough to guess this was unusual, and figured he ought to thank his lucky stars. Right from the beginning, and against the entire run of play; it was almost as if she knew they were in trouble. Not that he'd blame her for screaming her head off. He reckoned she was fully entitled. In fact, part of him wished he could join her.

It didn't get much worse than this.

He rested his cheek against her forehead, smiling a little at all those old clichés. Smooth as silk, soft as velvet . . . her skin really did feel like a peach. She was his angel - his little Sweetie Pie - she was so small, so utterly vulnerable. He was filled with a flood of protectiveness. He didn't care if he was acting like a sap.

It truly was some kind of miracle she'd survived the explosion intact.

She sighed, and blew a few milky bubbles in her sleep. Don felt his heart contract. It was strange how such a tiny person could turn his insides to mush this way. Funny, but for a rank amateur, he'd always got on pretty great with kids. There was no secret or special formula, it just so happened he liked them. They were unique and never boring - filled to the brim with amazing potential. They big time brought out his nurturing side, and he always enjoyed spending time with them. Perhaps because he'd been that much older than Charlie. Either that, or those damned, Eppes protective genes.

The curse of big brother stikes again.

It occurred to him then, that in another life, he might easily have gone into teaching.

Not for the first time, he couldn't help wondering, what it would feel like being a parent. Both miraculous and utterly terrifying, all mixed together at the same time. To hold your baby - to hold your own child in your arms - the way he was holding Sweetie. To wonder at her tiny perfection, and breathe in the scent of her skin. It wasn't all a bed of roses – you'd have to be a fool to think otherwise. Evil was always prowling - it was a dark and dangerous world out there.

Never far away, just behind the scenes . . . he knew it was always searching. Always hungry, and always looking, for any chance to prey on such innocence.

If anyone knew that, then he did.

The princess – oh God, the princess.

The miracle had shattered, and turned into dust, when evil had snatched her away.

A familiar wave of depression washed over him then. It was time for a serious reality check. The whole parent thing and being a father? For a variety of very salient reasons, it wasn't likely he'd ever know.

He shut his eyes in a futile attempt to hide from this particular pain. There were times when he'd tried to outrun it before, but it was always there, waiting to ambush him. Like a secret heart of sorrow, he carried hidden inside. If he could, right now, he would have laughed at himself. He sounded like the worse kind of dime novel. Talk about a self-pity party, melodramatic much.

The strong-jawed, silent hero who buried his troubles out of sight.

He wasn't that man, never had been him. It was just that he'd lost his way a little. He'd been groping in the half-light for too long now, trying to find his way out of the woods. In the past, he'd assumed he could have it all. A family life and a career. That one day, he'd go the whole nine yards; a white picket fence, wife and kids.

Another assignment, another promotion. Ratchet up another failed relationship.

No need to rush, he had plenty of time.

And all the while, the years kept passing by . . .

He missed the third and fourth check-in's completely. For a while, the blackness swallowed him whole. He awoke with a sense of panic, in a jagged tumble of nightmares. It took him much longer this time. He was so cold . . . and the darkness was enticing. Much longer to realise where the fuck he was, and what he was doing here.

Much longer before he was aware enough to even remember his own name.

Thirsty, dear lord, he would kill for a drink. He was so dry, in-spite of the nausea. He felt bloodless and oddly weightless; he ran his tongue over parched lips. Not a good sign. It wasn't a good sign. It was another classic symptom of shock. There was something he was supposed to do – something he ought to be doing . . .

It came back to him eventually, the cell-phone clutched in his hand.

"Thank God," her voice cracked under the strain. "I was beginning to think you were pissed off with me."

"Megan - " hell, he sounded appalling. "Sorry . . . I guess I was out of it."

"Are you okay?" she began, then; "no, don't answer that. You have to promise me you'll hold on a while longer."

"Right."

The word caught in Don's throat. It was all he could manage, and not just because of the dryness. He didn't need anymore explanations, he could tell by the tone of her voice. They weren't coming in anytime soon. He didn't know why his heart sank quite so low. It was nothing he hadn't expected to hear – nothing he didn't already know.

"There's a problem with the north side of the building, they're still worried about structural integrity. Until we have a few more answers, we can't run the risk of sending anyone inside."

There was something buzzing around in his skull, like a honey bee trapped in a jam jar. It was something he should probably remember – something useful he ought to recall. Whatever it was, remained just out of reach. He frowned, as he grasped for the memory, but his mind would not grant him access. The thought-form danced slyly away from him, he was too hazy and stupid with pain.

All he could see was a pile of wooden Jenga blocks. Some scattered over the ground.

"Don, are you still with me?"

"Yeah, got a slight problem hearing you. I think the blast burst my eardrums," he tried to be as matter of fact as he could. He didn't want her to worry. "Still gonna be a while, then?"

"Looks like it," she was totally frank. "But at least we know where you are. The rescue teams are getting frustrated – they can't wait to get inside and do their job. We'll get to you, my solemn promise on that. Just as soon as they give us the nod."

"The baby – any news on the baby?"

It was about time he changed the subject, before she asked any pertinent questions. In all honesty, he could no longer give her his word he'd be alive when the rescue teams showed up.

"We're still trying. Colby's at the hospital tracking down the nursery workers, and Liz has a list of all the children who were supposed to be at the Crèche today. She's working her way through it now."

"No one's asked about her, no one's come forward?"

He didn't like the way this was going. God – if she was his daughter – he'd single-handedly move mountains. The lone fact that her family hadn't claimed her yet, really suggested they might still be inside. He took a breath in frustration. He was so fucking useless trapped here. But the dichotomy was, if he wasn't here now, little Sweetie would not be alive.

"No one yet, but it's chaos out here. We're doing as much as we can."

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just that someone should be worrying about her."

He could almost see her smile as she answered. "Sounds like someone is."

"Talking of which," his heart ached, but the question had to be asked. Time to consider his own predicament. He dragged his thoughts away from the baby. Dad and Charlie - he needed to know. "How did David do in Pasadena?"

"He's there right now. The traffic's gridlocked, took him a while to get out of the city. I told him to call me with an update once he's spoken to Alan and Charlie."

An update. It sounded like what it was. Efficient and to the point.

How the hell do you break the appalling news a beloved child might be dead?

Yesterday – was it really only yesterday - he'd been the one waiting on the doorstep. A harbinger of doom in a dark grey suit with the ashes of death on his tongue. It was a part of the job he hated, and yet he always insisted on doing it. He was team leader – he was responsible - and in a way, that missing child was his.

On the surface, they hadn't blamed him. Her parents had been incredible. They'd even gone so far as to thank him - dignified in their terrible grief. He'd shaken hands with the father, and walked down the driveway, through the throng of bloodhound reporters. A broken image of the tiny blond princess forever folded away in his heart.

"Thanks," he pushed the rogue memory aside. There was something else he needed to say to her . . . if he wasn't going to make it out of here, some words which had to be said. "Megan – I want you to tell them – to pass a message to dad and Charlie . . ."

"No, Don," what the hell, was she crying? "No, you don't have to do this. There's nothing you need to say to them, they don't already know. And besides, you stubborn SOB, you can hold on and tell them yourself."

"Don't know if I can," he was honest then. "Not too good – I'm still bleeding. If I check out, I need you to promise me . . . don't leave Sweetie alone down here?"

"Don't you dare check out, do you hear me? We're not leaving either one of you. Just a little longer, do you hear me? You're both going to get out alive."

"Okay, Rocky," he smiled, feeling really light-headed. "I'll try to hang tough just for you."

"You'd better. Twenty minutes, okay? I'll be waiting to hear from you."

She sounded stronger, much firmer again. More like the Megan he knew and loved. He could see her now, pulling herself together. Maybe he'd imagined the tears?

He licked his lips. His mouth was parched. Getting worse - he really was thirsty.

Dear God, he could use some water, he thought, as he ended the call. On the other hand, his tender stomach gave a treacherous lurch. Maybe it wasn't such a bright idea.

The way he felt right at this minute?

He probably couldn't keep anything down.

Little Sweetie murmured against him. She was still sleeping, blissfully oblivious. He was glad, it made things much easier. For him, and most certainly for her. When she woke up, he guessed she'd be hungry. Her diaper was going to need changing. He had a feeling her hitherto good behaviour was merely the calm before the storm.

No sign yet of any parents.

Don frowned into the darkness.

Poor little shrimp, no one was missing her. No one had come forth to claim her. A cold thought uncoiled inside him. She could be an orphan right now. He pushed the idea resolutely aside. He'd seen too many kids get thrust upon the system. It did what it could, with the best will in the world, but a lot of lives were left strewn along the wayside.

Not Sweetie – not this precious little girl.

He laid his face against the fuzzy, pink beanie, a little humbled by the fragile bond between them. He needed her as much as she needed him - they were both relying on each other. There was no way he could surrender to the pain and shock, and sink down into the darkness. She wouldn't last very long without him. He couldn't leave her alone in all this mess.

Liz was working through a list of children right now. Liz – she was nothing if not thorough. There had to be a simple explanation as to why no one had come forward yet.

He gave into another flash of self-pity, and wondered if Liz was feeling guilty. Perhaps it was entirely understandable, but up until now, she hadn't crossed his mind once. He hoped she'd made the most of last night's date. It didn't look like they'd be getting much down time. It was a rogue thought and a pretty ignoble one, and he immediately felt ashamed. He disliked himself for thinking it as soon as it popped into his head.

He was above that – and she deserved better.

God, Eppes, you're being really pathetic.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he was entitled. It was cold and not the best of situations. He had a feeling – almost a sense of resignation now – he was not getting out of here alive.

Okay, if he couldn't have the water, then he'd settle for a large shot of morphine. He'd put up with the needle, with the loss of control, for a little relief from the pain. He remembered his behaviour in the apartment last night. The irony didn't fail to escape him.

Wasn't that what he'd been doing with the alcohol?

Trying to blot out his feelings – trying to run from the hurting?

Was he so weak, so utterly feeble, he couldn't cope with the veracity of life?

If he hadn't been here, then his Sweetie would have died. It was a cold, hard fact – pure and simple. This gorgeous little girl here beside him? There was no way she would have survived. He gritted his teeth and clung onto the theory, and in truth, it gave him some strength. Maybe she was the explanation for all of this. The cosmic reason he'd stayed behind in the building?

He smiled again at that, and thought of Charlie. Charlie had no faith in cosmic reasons. He believed in logic and explanatory consistency – it must be nice to live in such a rational world.

Charlie . . .

For some reason, Don's eyes grew blurry. It wasn't merely due to the pain. He grimaced; dear God, he was falling apart. His emotions were all over the place.

He remembered last night, as he was drifting off into a haze of Jack induced coma, he'd made a fuzzy promise to try and patch things up with Charlie today. However much he wasn't looking forward to it, dad's party was a perfect opportunity. It was time they got things out into the open. Time for some truths to be said.

The best laid plans of mice and men . . .

He tried to recall the rest of the saying, but his brain was particularly sluggish. To his surprise, he'd enjoyed studying Steinbeck at school, but he was sure it didn't originate there. A poem, that was it, a poem. Some old Scottish thing about a mouse. It had become one of the best knowm truism's - had Burns even guessed when he'd written it down?

Digressing – uh-oh, he was digressing again. Don dragged his thoughts back to the present. If he didn't fight hard to stay awake, then he knew he would drift off into unconsciousness.

Back to Charlie - there was so much he wanted to say. So much unfinished business between them. Maybe Charlie wouldn't think so badly of him . . . if only he could make Charlie understand . . .

The next time he spoke to Megan, he would insist on passing on a message. Not so much a deathbed confession, as a heartfelt missive of love. It was obvious why she'd stopped him before, and in a way, he didn't blame her. She was trying to appeal to his stubborn side by making him hold onto that thought. Once spoken, the words were irretrievable. Almost irrevocable - so final. As though he was saying his last goodbyes. It was a kiss of death in itself.

The stricken building creaked and shifted above him. It sounded eerily as though it was in pain. The groan of resonance from the rending metal was like the wailing of a lost soul in torment. Don listened hard in the semi-darkness, straining his damaged ears.

He curved his hand around Sweetie's diaper-padded rump, and pulled her in closer to his chest. There was something – water – no, plaster dust – trickling down onto his legs.

Not good.

This was so not good.

The dust was followed by some small chunks of mortar which stung as they pelted down on him. He ducked the baby underneath his breastbone and tried to do the turtle thing again. It was not quite so easy this time – the building wasn't the only thing groaning. Moving hurt him a damned sight more. He almost passed out from the pain.

Something was happening, no doubt about it. The floor of the corridor was rocking. He had a feeling of sick anticipation that their small void space was going to cave in. The building was definitely shaking now; there was a rumbling noise somewhere in the distance. Don knew then, with a desperate certainty, there was going to be another collapse.

Should have gone with his first gut instinct.

He should have passed on a message.

In a few seconds, it would all be over.

A few seconds, and a lifetime too late.

The sudden movement woke Sweetie. She stirred and began to wail. He looked down into her dear, little face, and waggled his eyebrows again. There was nothing he could do to make things right – he knew he was helpless to comfort her. There was one thing, and one thing only. He was here. She wasn't alone. He cupped her tiny skull in his hand, it was all he could do to protect her; and however futile the gesture, he pulled the blanket back over her head.

The dust fell around them like a downpour of rain, thick and choking and increasing in intensity. Don buried his face on his forearm and tried not to breathe it in.

The rumbling sound grew louder – like the approach of a loaded freight train.

Something heavy struck him sharply on the back of the head.

The noise faded, and his vision went black.

TBC