Human After All

Cold Metal Coffin

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A/N: Thank you all for every wonderful review, and for the helpful comments and thoughts. Your opinions mean so much to me, and really drive me to write better! Hopefully, life will not get so much in the way and I will be able to update more frequently. Until then, here is the next chapter!

Joey, you are so great! Your intuitiveness helps me more then you know!

Warning: Contains graphic material.


"Get me the backboard..."

"Doc..." Carlos shook his head, his tone more or less reproving, as though informing his mentor of the stupidity of his request.

"I said, GET THE DAMN BACKBOARD!"

Sucking in a deep breath of frustration, Carlos felt his eyes narrow defiantly at the strident order. Doc had no business yelling at him, because this time he was right to question the senior paramedic's intentions. On the other hand, the tone of voice used was not one to argue with, suggesting that Doc was on one of his missions once again and would not be crossed.

He stood abruptly from the low crouch he'd been squatting in and spun around to snatch up the desired equipment. If Doc wanted to waste time, so be it.

Still scowling, Carlos shoved the orange plastic panel into the waiting hands, and stole another good look at the injured party, completely miffed as to why they were even bothering.

Besides the exorbitant amounts of blood varnishing the entire interior of the wrecked car, there was the unmistakable mush of brain matter spattered on the shattered windshield, mirroring the large gash splitting the victim's scalp. The driver had obviously been without a seatbelt upon impact, and now lay half out of his seat, sprawled across the dash. When they'd first arrived, the man had had a weak pulse, but the beat had long-since extinguished, indicative of another fatality.

On any other day, Doc just might have black-tagged him and moved on, but Carlos had noted a strange change in his partner's eyes since they'd arrived on the scene. It was almost a guilty passion, as if he was overwhelmed by the devastation and needed to do everything possible to repair the disaster and reinstate or retain his competency.

"C-collar."

One-word commands were as degrading as they were irritating. Whenever Doc would resort to such turn of phrase, Carlos felt like he were a first-day rookie all over again - not deserving of his hard-earned medicinal respect.

The ring-shaped collar was passed in fractious silence and Doc snapped it on carefully, demonstrating that he truly believed the doomed man had a chance. As he raised the body into a more upright position, there was no doubt that it was a hopeless case -- the man was clearly injured beyond conceivable repair.

"Doc, seriously... C'mon, he's gone." Carlos inwardly cringed at the anticipated onslaught of harsh denigration, but was surprised when his partner conceded, sighed deeply, and slowly sank back on his haunches.

"Okay," was all he said, nodding his head in saddened defeat.

The reaction was as uncharacteristic as it was unexpected, seeing that Doc's pride usually refused to back down. But strangely, Carlos felt no triumph or satisfaction in his rightness. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach.

Striving to keep the man he most admired buoyant, he did the unthinkable and turned the tables, letting Doc be the one 'giving the orders' once more, "Okay, you said it," he agreed, feigning his wholehearted tone. "Let's move on."

Self-importance took sloppy seconds to his newfound integrity, as he was only concerned with the welfare of his partner. He paused, nodding his head as though the idea had been Doc's all along, "Good call."

He let out a soft sigh of relief when a familiar spark of determination lit in Doc's eyes.


Though the wind-driven snow slapped his face, Sully appeared to pay no heed as he strode forward, his face set into hard, disconcerted lines. Automatically, his fingers reached for the microphone at his shoulder, but stopped when he realized what the consequences of the proposed movement might be.

If he called in and informed Central of the encumbering traffic jam, he was more-than-sure that he and his young partner would be assigned to direct the congested intersection before them.

To do so might take a while, though. A few angry people, who had the audacity to roll down their windows, yelled impatiently as they sporadically sounded their horns. They were obviously expecting, or rather demanding, that the two cops clear the junction so that they could be on their merry way. But the crushing feeling of urgency surging though Sully, drove him to forgo standard procedures in spite of the tongue-lashing that would most likely result.

Beside him, Gusler shifted his lightweight frame from side-to-side, unintentionally mimicking his partner's concerned sway.

"Get back in the car," Sully decided, turning his back on the job at hand.

Gusler cocked his head to the right and crossed his arms, hunching his shoulders a bit to shield off the wind. His perplexed expression did all the talking necessary, his right-out-of-the-textbook, rookie mind-set clearly getting the best of him.

If Sully had seen that look once, he'd seen it a thousand times -- Davis had worn it until he'd worn it out. If he hadn't suddenly felt like hurling, he might have cracked a smile from the recollection. Instead, he took a breath and held it, restraining his unsettled stomach.

Gusler must have read the look of dread in his partner's eyes, and wisely complied without further comment or question.

Pulling the RMP out of the intersection, Sully's bleak outlook mirrored the inclement night - grim, dark, and roiling more and more fretfully as the minutes ticked by.


The deep obscurity enveloped him, thick and endless, only to be broken by a dull roar, and then unmitigated nothingness. The otherworldly quiet was somehow deafening, all noises conspicuously muffled by an unseen influence. Feelings and senses weren't operating properly, and the subliminal sensation of complete weightlessness coerced his incoherent mind into forgetting his body.

The first few seconds of oblivion dissolved as he began to make out sounds that interspersed his subconscious with soft hisses and barely audible burbles. Ringing was what he made out next; a constant, relentless shrillness that made the earsplitting sirens that he heard every day seem like mere whispers.

In this place, this indeterminate state that he had somehow voyaged to, Bosco gradually found his thoughts coming back, muddled and bewildered, confused and beginning to become upset.

But as leisurely as his thought-process decided to come about, his body proved to be even more difficult and cruelly refused to provide him any sensations or answers as to where he was. Fighting for some form of control, his disoriented brain wracked madly for a solution or a recollection of any sort, but was provided nothing but hollow blankness.

God, what kind of mess did I get myself into this time...? he inwardly groaned, trying to figure out just what kind of perp struggle he'd managed to take part in. For some reason, though, he was drawing a total blank.

Soft, raspy sounds broke through the ongoing murmuring and shrill shrieking that seared through his head, grasping his full attention. He focused on it, fighting not to lose control of himself as a result of sheer fright. The rhythmic rasp, shallow and even, sounded strangely familiar - as if he'd heard such a noise before - although now he could not place it. His mind, however, was completely discombobulated, and lingered only a few seconds on the small distraction.

A faint tingling caught his attention and he struggled to be au fait with where it was deriving from. However, the feeling could not be placed, and the slowly mounting sensation may well have been originating from anywhere - arms, legs, torso, or even his head. He had no way of knowing.

Now he was thoroughly frustrated at this cruel prank, and he mentally cursed the instigator of the awful game. Sudden, aggravated tension washed over him, startling him as his mind finally realized that he did indeed have a body to go along with it. The tingling of before was intensifying at a rapid pace, and he struggled to make out what body parts were, at that point, nearly on fire.

But as fate would have it, his frustration ultimately gave way to the panic that niggled at the back of his consciousness, and granted him a terrified rigidity in his assumed torso and throat. The pitilessness of the situation that he was being forced to undergo took great pains to remind him of his vulnerability by steadily thinning his breaths. Another fiery sensation ate up his chest, arduous and throbbing as it chewed. It took only a moment for his clearing mind to identify the vicious pain.

He didn't have enough air. He was suffocating.

Manipulating his reactions, his body abruptly screamed to free itself and he attempted this by lifting his head --or what he assumed was his head-- but a searing pain halted his endeavor before he'd even moved a millimeter. The unanticipated spasm sent his eyes flying open in shock.

What the movement revealed, though, was worse than the preceding trauma, instantly instilling a raw terror in his aching body.

Black.

Oh my God... Oh my God...it's dark.

His greatest fear had trumped up the worst nightmare possible, sending him into an internal nosedive. Adrenaline instantly rocketed his heart rate sky-high and made him dizzy with panic as emotions ricocheted from one end of the spectrum to the other, attacking him with horrific agony. His wide, searching eyes begged to focus on something, anything -- but were only met with a whole lot of sinister void that was just as dark as his insensible slumber had been. This only served to confuse and disconcert him further, adding to the heavy, confounded distress that already rendered his chest so tight.

Suddenly, everything came back to him, slamming into him like a freight train -- relentless and unpitying, it plowed right to his heart, stopping it harshly as he recalled what had only just transpired.

The dump truck... The overpass... The horrific scream of grinding metal as the out of control truck launched itself off the road and into their path... Trying vainly to steer the cruiser out of the way... Ty's startled scream...

Ty.

He felt his heart leap into his throat as he remembered his friend. His tongue found his dry lips and ran over them in an effort to moisten, and he fought to take a deep enough breath to speak, but was only granted a small, strangled gasp instead.

"Ty...?" he whispered, the one mere word taking nearly everything from his begging lungs. His chest felt so tight and heavy, ribs as if they were being pushed until they touched his backbone.

The absolute silence that followed sickened him.


A forceful grunt escaped him as he wrestled with a bulky wrench, indicating the effort and energy behind his battle with the large bolt. Setting back on his heels, Jimmy glared at the stubborn chunk of metal for a second before resuming his efforts to loosen it. His hands burned severely from the cold, as they were nearly numb and vehemently protesting every movement of his digits, but he tried to ignore it as he worked.

Having a go with another common technique, he placed his foot atop the wrench and tried using his weight as leverage. Unfortunately, if anything had changed or shifted, it was minute and completely undetectable.

"Dammit..."

His frustration was not unprecedented, nor was the direction it was intended towards, for it was not the stubborn bolt that heated his exasperation, but the person that had inadvertently threaded it incorrectly. Now it was as good as cemented to the fire truck, hindering the employment of another hose line.

Johnson was not going to be happy.

After his run-in with the fire raging below, the Lieutenant --attempting to keep him away from the smoke for at least a few minutes-- had sent him to obtain more firepower for their fight, but now he was not going to be able to provide it. Gritting his teeth, Jimmy gave the wrench one last push, simultaneously kicking at in an endeavor to use as much manipulation as possible.

A shrill sound abruptly cut into his undertaking and his head snapped up, rapidly twisting around to see, but then freezing in shock. The noise that thrust itself into his ears instantly threw his stomach into his mouth and weakened his knees.

For a moment, his eyes closed in queasy recognition; his head lulling back as he swallowed repeatedly to quell his surging nausea. The very thing that could make the whole ordeal a bona fide nightmare had occurred, he realized.

A baby's cry had suddenly swelled from the wreckage, shrill and helpless, momentarily arresting the hearts of all who heard.

Without thinking, he sprang to his feet and took off running, letting the heavy wrench fall to the ground with a soft thud. He barely felt his feet as he ran, his thoughts wholly focused on helping -- on finding and rescuing the screaming child.

"Hey!"

The Lieu's voice was loud, but muddled by his dread and shock. His hands, however, grabbing at Jimmy's shoulders, did not go disregarded. The Lieutenant spun him around to face him, questions ardent in his leveled gaze.

"What the hell do you think-?"

Another piercing shriek interrupted his admonition, and registered its effect plainly on Johnson's features. His face crumpled into a heartbroken cringe, beset by a shaken intake of air. Fraught by the latest incursion on his emotions, the astute Lieutenant looked about ready to lose his composure.

Now fully compelled and distraught, Jimmy twisted away from his superior, "No...no, I have ta'..."

The remainder of his hasty explanation as to why he was directly disobeying was lost as he took off again, silently praying that they made it to the child in time.


Besides the stale crunching of trodden snow and ice, there was pretty much no noise to speak of -- save the cackle of radios as Central Dispatch struggled to keep things operationally organized. Long looks were exchanged from one to another, the small band of medical personnel searching for consoling or reassurance of some sort. Instead, they found empty, hollow gazes staring back, eyes mute with fear of the unknown.

Bobby, still questioning the veracity of the evening, trudged the last block of the unforeseen on-foot excursion without missing a beat of his harried pace. The soft slapping of the meds bag told him that his partner was no more then a step behind and uncommonly quiet --aside from her short breaths-- indicating her outright nonplus.

In all of his years, he'd never seen anything anywhere near what his brain was trying to comprehend, and quite frankly, it was scaring him out of his wits. The procession of fire trucks and ambulances had indeed been backed up for the full two blocks, and now illuminated the shadowy sidewalks with bright flashes of red, white and blue. Most of the sirens had been silenced, but a few sang out an inharmonious and jarring hymn.

The high-pitched wail of an approaching cruiser permeated the alleyway just ahead of him, and light bounced eerily off of the brick walls as it drew closer. Before he had time to think, he was stopped in his tracks when the hood of an RMP suddenly nosed out onto the sidewalk, nearly hitting him.

"Bobby!" Kim shrieked as she grabbed his arm from behind, frantically wrenching him back a foot or so. Even through his thick coat, he could feel the force of her grip shaking her fingers.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" he hissed, widened eyes staring into the obscure, dark windshield as he took a deep breath of relief.

But his momentary relief shattered as his already-nervous frame of mind took a turn for the worse, abruptly morphing into panicky anger. Intent on giving the reckless cop a piece of his mind, he furiously hit the hood with a fist and strode around the front, but was halted by the emergence of the driver.

Sully, appearing quite shaken himself, got out of the RMP and slammed the door behind him. His eyes were deeply set in fear, and his alarmed breathing determinable by heavy puffs of white integrating into the midnight air. "You okay?" he huffed, but his quasi-worried question seemed empty, as though he had much more cumbersome things on his mind.

Noting the clearly upset expression plastered across Sully's face, Bobby merely nodded and swallowed hard, utterly taken aback. Whatever was bothering the senior officer was clearly wreaking havoc on his disposition, and without another word, Sully turned and started off towards the scene ahead. His young, rookie partner seemed as bewildered as Bobby felt, and simply shrugged his apology before trotting after him.

If it were any other night, Bobby might have been extremely confounded and upset. But that night had already lent him more strange and uncanny circumstances then he would wish to deal with in a lifetime, and incidentally, he was starting to expect no less.


He sat completely still for a long moment, his body too petrified to move a muscle. Breathing seemed to be too great a task, and he involuntarily held his breath until multicolored spots danced before him. In the previous few seconds, it had become very clear to him that he was confined in a very small space, bitterly cold metal forced down against his entire form, his face the only part of him that was not as good as crushed. The air in his tomb was thick and moist, and grinding, loose dirt found its way into his mouth and nose, leaving him even more confused.

Fear had never been so real, so paralyzing. Blinking over and over again did not change the unfathomable darkness that he was shrouded in, nor did it do anything to stay his burning, searching eyes. When Bosco's mind finally registered his lack of air, hysteria took full-rein over his body and mind.

Short, panicked breaths cut into his mental hell, and he began wheezing compulsively as he started to hyperventilate. His fingers dug into whatever was beneath his hands, agonizingly begging for mercy. The darkness allowed no such clemency, and instead seemed to crush him further in its sharp talons.

Tears seared in his eyes, scalding hot and angry, and his heaving chest tightened ever so slightly with each weak intake of air, panic gripping him in a death-vice -- the invisible foe slowly strangling him.

Garroted, pleading gasps interspersed the loud, unforgiving pounding of his heartbeat, each of the dreadful sounds growing louder and more frantic, hashing his consciousness. Pain, though there and agonizingly white-hot, was pushed aside by his impassioned attempts to regulate his breathing.

Help...me...

Becoming enervated from sheer shock and hyperventilation, he felt his strength waning, found himself lightheaded and nauseous. Warm, wet fluid seeped up his face, throwing him as he realized that he must be inverted, imprisoned upside-down. The comprehension of this only served to terrify him further, and his panic threatened to give way to claustrophobia, mounting in his chest is it forced out air.

Begging, he struggled to respire over and over again, but his efforts seemed to be of no avail -- leaving him clutched in horrified agony. An adrenaline rush suddenly pushed his torturous pain to the limit, and he silently begged to be able to scream -- if only to let some of the excruciating pressure escape his lungs. All he was allowed, though, was a grating, frightened rasp that only just resembled a desperate whimper.

A tidal wave of torture seared over him, and his body became rigid in shock, pressing him harshly against the confinements of his cold, metal coffin. Again, his fingers gripped and twisted at anything they could find, and this time encountered soft fabric -- his partner's coat.

Davis... Help me...

The subsequent whisper of gasps that permeated the air sounded nothing of what he intended and distraught him enough to warrant more tears. He attempted to draw a deep breath, but was instantly stopped by excruciating pain. The miserable whips of oxygen he was being permitted would have to suffice.

Someone help me...


Making his way down to the entrapped baby had been unproblematic, though strenuous on his emotions. The cries were grating, chewing on his every nerve, clawing at his mental strength, and physically, the combination of the sub-zero air, whipping ice, and thick smoke was beginning to strain his body.

Once Jimmy had gotten down to the problem, he realized that the rescue was going to be as/or more complicated as the rest of the night was proving to be. Of course, when it rained it poured, and nothing had gone smoothly from the minute they'd arrived -- substantiating Murphy's Law with delight.

The car that now held their undivided attention had been crushed, literally from all sides, leaving little or no space to work. A flying vehicle, made very clear by the warped and compressed top, had obviously hit the roof, leaving undersized holes where there used to be windows. The mother was slouched in the driver's seat, her demise obvious by the sheer scale of her injuries. Shards of metal and broken glass were everywhere, creating a myriad of razor-sharp splinters, all ready and waiting to sink their teeth into flesh. But the worst component was the imminence of the fire, the slow creeping of the infernal flames. Their blistering presence made one thing very clear: if there was anything to be done, it would have to be done quickly.

DK and another fellow firefighter were already attempting to gain access to the interior of the car, their faces set in resolution as they sited themselves into the most elective positions. The screams from within permeated the vicinity, but seemed to be slowly losing strength, waning ever so slightly with every tortured cry.

"Jimmy, we're gonna peel the roof," DK advised him, hauling the Jaws up onto the crown of the car. The harsh sound of steel against steel resonated enough to smother out the baby's cries for a brief second, reliving their ears from the high-pitched wailing.

Jimmy nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. The way the vehicle was situated, coupled with the rapidly approaching flames, made the normal mode of operation seem inappropriate. Peeling the roof would allow easy access to the backseat, but would take more time then they had. Right then it was a do-or-die situation, and the wrong move could end up with a death or worse.

DK positioned the Jaws, ready to cut, but Jimmy waved him to stop. "No time for that! We need to get in through the window!" He pointed to the least-crushed hole in the car -- the back left window, now a mess of shattered glass and serrated metal.

Frowning in stupefaction, DK complied, lowering the heavy piece of equipment. "You want to crawl in?"

"Do we have a choice?" Jimmy tipped his head at the cantering inferno devouring its way towards them -- so hot that that the paint on the hood of the car had begun to peel back and blister.

DK and the other firefighter took a long look, each shaking their heads when they realized that their colleague had a point. "Okay," they both agreed.

"Let's see if we can get this roof to pop up a bit -- make this hole bigger," he decided, already sizing-up the hole to see if he, or one of the others, would be able to fit through.

Squeezing into the small space between the mangled cars, he thrust his hands inside the window frame and placed his palms against the roof. DK and the other fireman took objective positions, ready to test their hastily concocted plan. Eyes locked for brief second, unspoken words of encouragement seeping from their gazes.

"Okay, my count," Jimmy stated, bracing his arms and hands for the thrust of their lives. He begged his skin to ignore the heat slowly igniting his nerves, the boiling flames all-too close already and threatening scalding agony. "One...two...THREE!"

Groaning and grunting, the three men pushed and pulled with all of their might, straining to move the stubborn sheet metal even a few inches. Though his arms burned from the effort, Jimmy kept driving, using the psychological shock of the iniquitous circumstances to feed his strength.

"C'mon!" DK lashed through his clenched jaw. As he pulled, he leaned back, digging his heels in and forcing his body backwards to assist in their struggle. The hood finally popped, giving way just a few precious inches, but DK was thrown off-balance, and ended up stumbling back a few feet. "God-dammit!" he screeched as the hot intensity behind him scalded any exposed skin.

"You okay?" Jimmy hollered as he climbed atop the hood of the neighboring car, preparing to slither his way into the backseat. DK waved him off, nodding as he readjusted his mask. They both knew there was no time for dithering -- the baby came first.

Because his bulky fire hat wouldn't fit through the allotted opening, Jimmy tossed it to DK and flattened himself onto his belly. It was then that he caught his fist glimpse of the infant, and when his breath caught in his throat.

The tiny baby couldn't have been more then a few month old, and tightly packed into his car seat by the roof above. The scene was disheartening at best, and was only intensified as the agonized cries unexpectedly died away, leaving the car sadistically silent and the helpless baby deathly still.

"God, no..." Jimmy choked in a harsh whisper.


Shouted orders, screams of panic, low groans of shifting metal, and the thunderous roar of the fire hoses rang out an unsettling dirge of death. The upsurge of sound became as disquieting as it was deafening, and Lieutenant Johnson found his jaw clenching tightly in consternation.

Try as they may, their efforts were becoming increasingly unsuccessful, disheartening and frustrating all those involved as they struggled to put up decent fight. His paramedics seemed to be on top of things, but their world-weary expressions spelt their intimidation out clearly. A few body-laden stretchers had been passed out of the morass to be hurried to awaiting ambulances and they had managed to herd a group of 'green-tags', or less significantly injured people, off to safety. Nevertheless, their diligence was falling completely short of the needed aid, and this discouraging fact was becoming more and more painfully obvious.

The worst part of the whole mess was the never-ending barrage of shake-ups and setbacks. Gasoline, combined with the rip-roaring inferno, stilted efforts considerably by gleefully feeding the fire that threatened to implode anything within reach of its hungrily licking tongue. As a result, the people trapped around the blaze were either frantically screaming for their freedom, or slumped in their seats in subjugation.

To make matters even worse, just seconds before the horrifically stomach-turning screams of the entrapped baby had abruptly ceased, sending a chill of anguished despair coursing though Johnson's mental state. The three firemen working to free the infant fought valiantly, struggling to ignore the flames searing and scorching at them, but their will was no match for the pain and their raw cries intermittently slashed through the tension-thick air like sharp razorblades.

His stomach begged to heave, to rid itself of sickened despondency, and his writhing heart rate kicked him harshly over and over. Instinct bade him to run down to the site and lend a hand, but he knew that, as the superintendent in charge of the whole lot, he was to stay clear of danger and continue conducting the present and incoming fleet of medical and fire personnel. He had been trained to rescue, to give in to human nature and help out another, and as a firefighter, those instincts had been heightened to a great extent. Now, completely inundated by the sense, he struggled inwardly to keep himself in check.

The hardest part of his job was curbing the impulse, and was something he'd always struggled with, but this time proved to be the most frustrating and heartbreakingly taxing.

"Johnson."

The familiarity of the voice pulled him from his deepening despair and prompted his attention. John Sullivan lumbered up behind him, his hands stuffed well into his coat pockets, a strange look playing his features. Concerned fervor, it almost looked like, with perhaps a spark of panic lighting in his deep-set eyes. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line, suggesting his uneasiness. A young man trailed him like a shadow, looking very wet behind the ears and in awe of his current surroundings as his eyes darted around, gulping in the sight.

"Sullivan," he acknowledged. Before he could say anything else, a movement caught his eye -- Walsh lugging out another much-needed hose. "Use that over there!" he directed, pointing down below to the worst of the flames. "And I want two men on that hose!"

"Sir," Walsh nodded deferentially as he passed.

"Johnson," Sully repeated, a little bit louder and more urgently, moving to stand before him, "have you seen Davis or Bosco?"

The abnormality of the inquiry halted his whirling thoughts for a moment, and he frowned. Although he was currently in command of the accident site, he was predominantly accountable for his men and other firefighters and paramedics. Keeping track of the police force was a low priority. Even so, as far as he was aware, the NYPD was staying back while they worked to restrain the fire below -- directing traffic and such. The two officers in question shouldn't and wouldn't have been anywhere near there. "What?" he asked incredulously.

"Davis and Bosco..." Sully reiterated, shifting his bulk from side to side -- clearly displaying his apprehension, though now he looked as though his stability depended on the outcome of the answer. "Have you seen them?"

"No..." Johnson shook his head. "Why?"

"They're missing." The impression of lack of concern in Sully's sober statement was unrepresentative, and conversely, his tone was flat from sheer emotion -- as was evidenced in his eyes, bright with unbridled fear.

"And you think they're here?" Johnson asked, his gaze immediately reverting to the massive pileup below, as his innocent question was perceptively laced with 'or down there?'.

From the way that Sully's shoulders slumped and his conceding silence, Johnson could tell the seasoned officer was thinking along the exact same lines.


Cold and wetted down, the massive pile slowly eroded and took on a different profile. It moved and shifted, grumbling like an upset stomach as it settled on and around its stolen hostage. The rains of water falling from the nearby hoses did their best to compact the pile of soil, forcing heavy pressure and weight to warp the dirt's initial looseness into an unyielding prison.

Because of the considerable disarray and devastation surrounding the spilt heap, it was the last thing at the scene that would command a closer look. Inconspicuous at best, the car earthed beneath showed only a small sign of its existence that was all-but naked to the unwary eye: an insignificant glint of metal peeking from within.

But as the hour dragged on, corrosion aided as much as it hindered -- slowly revealing more of its ill-gotten gains while simultaneously packing the police cruiser in forcefully. Time sided with hindrance and ticked by without a care.


To Be Continued... As always, I love to hear your thoughts!