The reporter looked into the glaring eye of the camera, shuffled her notes, glanced at the telereader propped just at eye-level, and began.
"A suicide bomb attack in Rosewood, California, has shocked Americans worldwide, killing four people and injuring nine. The victims were all civilians, but it was reported the two fatalities were not easy to recognize due to the horrific nature of the blast. It is not known who is responsible for the attack, but the authorities are recognizing al-Qaeda as suspects. However, locals are claiming that it was not, in fact, a terrorist organization but a lone perpetrator. Our reporter, James McDonald, has more."
The camera's light flickered off and she breathed a little, keeping composure, knowing the report had flickered to a livestream of McDonald standing outside the ruined hospital. Indeed, as she turned to her right, McDonald appeared on the enormous TV screen beside her, clutching his microphone, looking professional and poised.
"I'm here at the Rosewood District Hospital in California where this attack took place, at approximately ten'o'clock in the morning. As you can see behind me-" He waved to the crumbled building behind him, and the camera zoomed in enough to see the gaping warped hole in the side of it, complete with bent metal and shattered bricks and glass "that the bomb has blown up on the right side of the building and has generated an explosion which has taken down about a quarter of the building. One doctor claimed it was a miracle that not more people were hurt and killed, as there are over 200 people in this hospital at any one time. We have been interviewing witnesses all day, as there are many, and have managed to establish most of the identities of the dead and wounded. Let's cut to our report."
The cameraman gave McDonald a thumbs up and he sagged, straightened his tie, and gazed behind him at the ruined building. As he watched, a pile of bricks shifted their weight under the strain of the broken timber leaning on it, and collapsed down to the ground with a clatter. Shouting immediately rose up from the grounds around the hospital, and McDonald's expression grew taut. This had been happening all day. He quietly crossed himself, a religious man, and clasped his hands in prayer.
The footage that over 40,000 people were watching now showed an earlier clip of survivors being dragged out of the wrecked hospital. The first video was a woman, in her early 50s with blood soaking into her collar, from a raw cut above her eyelid. Her copper hair was strewn, covered in dust and blood but her eyes darted about, the only parts of her which looked alive. She lay on a stretcher, a oxygen mask clamped onto her face, and the camera followed her path as she was carried away from the bombsite. She stretched her hand out towards the cameraman, eyes wide with disbelief, and then the camera swung away. McDonald's informative voiceover became irrelevant. He had successfully transformed the factual story into a human issue.
"We are hearing reports of a man wearing a suicide bomb vest, with dynamite strapped to him, causing the explosion." He explained as footage of the smashed windows and demolished building flared onto the screen."Witnesses claim the bomb came out of nowhere, that there was absolutely no warning."
This time it changed to a young handsome man in his 20s, with wavy black hair and stunning blue eyes. He looked exhausted, with bags under said eyes, clutching a newspaper in his hands. McDonald was interviewing him. "Do you know anyone who is in the building?"
He was silent for about two seconds, looking confidently into the camera. "My girlfriend. She's in there. I need to know if she's okay or-or n-not."
He stumbled over his words, unusual for a man who chose to spend his life teaching students how to be eloquent. "Where were you when the bomb went off?" McDonald pressed, a hungry terrier desperate for information.
A captioned name spilled neatly out onto the screen of televisions around America,"Ezra Fitz- Witness."
Ezra spoke clearly and factually this time. "I was on my way to the hospital to see her friend, and her, she was in there. She was in the building at the time, I know. I was walking up the path towards it when I felt the ground shake, so I threw myself to the ground."
He paused for breath, looking away from the camera. McDonald was about to ask another question, but Ezra cut across him. "The blast rocketed through the ground, and I heard an explosion. It nearly popped my eardrums. Then there was another about two seconds later. I heard a ripping, tearing noise, and the thought occurred to me that the hospital had been bombed. I ran away as fast as I could as the right section of the hospital... collapsed."
He finished, rubbing his vivid eyes, but McDonald wanted to know more. "Do you know what happened?"
His eyebrows furrowed. "No, I do not. Wild rumours are flying about the place. Some people are saying that it was a suicide bomber. I heard some saying it was... Wren Kim, one of the district doctors, no one's seen him all day."
McDonald thanked him, and Ezra nodded, and leaned in close to the camera. "Her name's Aria Montgomery, please, if you're watching, remember that name. If anyone knows anything about her, please find me, I need to know... Anything... At all..." And his voice cut off, and he turned away, dabbing at his eyes, the bright blue tinged with red.
The footage cut to the State Governor, who's big brass voice boomed out through the microphone he had before him, at a press conference. "My thoughts go out to the families of those injured and killed." He said. "This is a shocking, disgusting act, and I promise that we will find the perpetrators soon. No one welcomes war and violence. This is an act of war and violence."
He paused, gripping the stand, gazing at the assembled press before him. "I say to you today, Californians, we shall come through this. From Palm 46 in our Bible, God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we shall not fear. We shall come through this."
And then the camera switched back to the reporter again. "Thank you McDonald." She said, keeping tradition of thanking reporters for their stories. "We will be bringing updates through the hour on this situation. Meanwhile-" and she rustled her papers yet again "A man convicted of stalking popular singer Lady Gaga, and threatening to kill her, has been caught in Arizona."
And so the news switched.
Caleb POV
It was a dark night, that was turned the tint of orange by rusty streetlights, with splashes of blue and red from the sirens. I watched cars parked all around the hospital, people leaning against them talking into their phones, some standing with crossed arms and tight faces. One woman was sobbing uncontrollably against her Mercedes. No one moved to help her. We were all too lost in our own trauma.
Hanna had said her friends had texted her, that they needed her at the hospital. And now she was somewhere inside. I thought of her, alive and well, waiting for rescue patiently. No, that wouldn't be the Hanna way. She'd be making a massive racket by now, like an upset child. When the paramedics found her, she'd be giving them a decent piece of her mind.
Not "if they find her" like so many people have said to me.
No way if.
When.
When they do find her.
But images kept sneaking into my head, ones of her unconscious and bloody, ones of her throat slit like a god-awful horror movie, ones where her limbs were trapped and she was calling, desperately, shrieking for help before it was too-
But I can't think that. That isn't what's happened at all.
She was OK. She was alive. I knew she was. I could feel it in every fibre of my being. I just had to wait, and fight my demons, and smile to keep everyone happy.
I picked up my phone again. I kept fidgeting and checking it every minute, desperate for news. It displayed no new messages, and I bit down my disappointment once more. I'd tried calling her, of course, and there was no reply. My texts had bounced back. I was only just getting through to her voicemail. I cupped my head in my hands, and for the first time, started praying.
Hey, God. I know I've never talked to you before, and I've expressed serious disbelief in you all my life. I'm gonna ask you one favour. One favour only. C'mon, dude, you can grant me that.
Just make sure Hanna's okay for me, big guy? Please. I know she is already so it's only one measly little thing. If you're up there, do something for your man Caleb. Just get her in my arms.
Get her in my arms so I can hug her, and never let her go, and smell her shampoo and how small she feels. Get her in my arms so we can mock dance around the kitchen and whisper to each other and laugh bawdily like we're drunk. Get her in my arms so I can play with her blonde curly hair and smile at the expression in her eyes and trace the outline of her cheekbones with my fingers.
Please, man. One little favour. You know you can do it. If what they say is right, you can do anything. You're the big guy in the sky. You can do whatever you want.
Don't take her from me. I know you won't.
But, still.
Please keep her safe, O Lord.
I raised my head from my hands and looked at my phone again, half-hoping the power of God had already done its funky business. But there was nothing. I decided to try and call Hanna again.
"Hey, this is Hanna!" Her voicemail bubbled, and I started at the sound of her voice. "Please leave a message after the beep."
"Beep!" Her friends and her chorused, and then broke into giggles.
"No, that wasn't it!" She laughed, and I could somehow see the happy grin on her face. "Now it is!"
A tinny beep echoed, and I knew I was through to the recording. I had no idea what to say. "Hanna-" I started, and my voice broke, tears finally drizzling out of my eyes, choking on the waterfall of emotion which poured through me.
"Come out baby." I sobbed, sniffing and rubbing my eyes like I was five all over again. "I need you. I love you."
It was so unlike me to cry that I even felt a little surprised at myself, but this was swept over in the deluge of misery. I was afraid, so afraid, of the hollow numbness that could only mean one thing.
Death.
And the beep signalling the end of the voicemail went off, but I didn't care, didn't care about anything anymore, couldn't give a shit who saw me, couldn't care less about being the cool bad guy, the cold emotionless one.
I wasn't that guy anymore. Hanna had seen inside me and drawn out this immature boy, this goofy smiley bubbly guy, and I didn't want to reverse to the cool bad guy anymore. I wanted to be the goofy bubbly one, the one which had Hanna in his arms and felt in love and felt so free. And I needed Hanna to be that guy. I need her to set me free of everything.
"Come back baby." I sobbed again, bitter and twisted and emotional.
I need you, Hanna, please. I know you're there. Come to me, come home.
Please.
Hanna.
Please.
I need you.
Tanya POV
"So, for a first date, I wasn't too bad, hey?" Mike asked, running a hand through his downy brown hair, giving a bashful grin.
"You were excellent." I smiled back, scooping my bag up from the table.
"Great." He sighed, evidently pleased and relieved. "Chinese food is always good to get first date, I find."
"You can never go wrong with Chinese food." I agreed. "At least, if a girl doesn't like Chinese food, she's either a racist or a complete weirdo. And I doubt you want to date either of those."
"Too right." He smiled. "Let me just pay."
"No, it's okay, I have money-" I began.
"Uh-uh." He wagged his finger at me. "A gentleman always pays."
"So you're a gentleman now?" I asked, raising my eyebrow, smiling.
"I always was a gentleman. Can't you see my very fine moustache?" He acted dorkily, pretending to stroke an imaginary beard.
"Oh, you mean your very fine butt fluff. Yes. That's certainly grand." I giggled, particularly when he pretended to get mad.
"You pay for your meal then." He stropped, but laughed, and passed money down onto the table. I tried not to boggle my eyes. Some kids get a heck of a lot of pocket money...
The TV above our heads flashed, alerting my attention. "We interrupt this programme to bring you a CNN update." The lady reporter undertoned.
Mike's arm slid around my waist, and my cheeks flared red with pride and happiness, but I continued watching the report.
"A suicide bomb attack in Rosewood, California, has killed four people and injured nine. The victims were all civilians, but it was reported the two fatalities were not easy to recognize due to the horrific nature of the blast. It is not known who is responsible for the attack, but the authorities are recognizing al-Qaeda as suspects. However, locals are claiming that it was not, in fact, a terrorist organization but a lone perpetrator. We will bring you further updates as they come."
The news fanfare started again, triumphant and loud, but I had gone icy inside. My stomach plumetted and I wished I hadn't chosen Sweet and Sour Pork. My mouth fell open. Mike turned to me, face ashy and eyes wide. "My sister was there." He muttered, looking aghast.
"So was mine." I breathed, puzzle pieces clicking together.
He moved so swiftly, compared to my frozen state, that he seemed like a shadowy ninja. "We have to go. Now." He insisted, taking my hand. "Let's move."
"How are we going to get there?" I asked as he dragged me out onto the street.
"TAXI!" He hollered, putting his fingers in his mouth to whistle, and one pulled up immediately out of the steady stream of traffic. We bundled inside, my question answered. "Rosewood Hospital, please, fast as you possibly can." Mike steamed, waving a stack of bills at the driver.
"Right away sir." The driver nodded, and stepped on the gas.
"She'll be okay." I told Mike, squeezing his hand. "Both of them. They'll both be okay."
He turned on me quickly, like a striking cobra, and I practically flinched, until I realized he was trying to tell me something. "Did you see the newspapers this morning?" He asked hoarsely.
"Yes." I replied.
I could remember picking it up and reading all of it in disbelief. And yet slowly, as it sunk in, it all made sense. It was an extraordinary thing which happened in an average town, but everything fit together. And when Spencer had confessed to thinking I was "A", I hadn't been offended at all. I was merely relieved she had a reason for being so cold to me, and I supposed if I had been in her situation, I would have acted the same. All in all, I had felt satisfied that their story made sense.
"What if it's that... A person?" He asked, chewing his fingernail.
"But Mona was killed, and Noel's in jail." I replied, staring into his piercing blue eyes.
"What if there was another?" He asked, face somewhere else entirely.
I thought about it, and looked away, out to the glaring lights and passing cars. "Maybe." I murmured. "But we can't know yet."
The neon glow of the lampost reflected out onto his dark face, highlighting the shadows within his eyes. He slowly clenched his fists, then unclenched them, a muscle working in his jaw. "What if we could?" He asked softly.
"What?"
"What if we could know if there was another?"
AND IT'S ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER :D I'm sorry! I love writing them so much! What do you think Mike knows? :P and poor Caleb... I didn't enjoy writing that. I had to do lots of research into newspaper reports. Who do you think is the 3rd member of the A gang? :D as always, review and I love you :)