Human After All

Bittersweet Symphony

A/N: As always, the consistent support through every single observation, remark, and appraisal by my readers makes my day and sincerely drives me to be a better writer. You have all blown me away with each and every lovely review and comment, and I would like to thank you profusely! This one's for you, guys.

Due respect goes to Joey, the remarkable woman who puts up with me ad infinitum. I hope I never stop learning from her.

Warning: Contains graphic material.


The car horns were loud, but the people's clamor nearly drowned them out. Shouts of complaints, sulky grumbling, angry curses, and questions, so many questions – Steven Gusler had heard all of the above too many times to count in the last hour. It seemed like patience ran thin when it came to hindrances in traffic, and the long lines of cars waiting to clear the intersection were a perfect testament of the lack of tolerance.

Perhaps if these people saw just what was causing the holdup, they would shut up, Gusler thought. He certainly would, that's for sure. Even now, though he was working two blocks from the scene and was pretty well removed from the situation, he was still reeling and knocked for six.

Another horn blared, and was held impertinently for about ten seconds longer than necessary.

"These folks are somthin' else, huh, kid?"

Gusler's new supervisor, Les Murphy, seemed to have an adverse reaction to the night's problems, and instead was rather chatty, talking up a storm as he casually sipped on a mug of coffee. His rather blasé behavior confused Gusler more than it surprised him, as the wet-behind-the-ears rookie wasn't expecting such nonchalance. He'd have felt more comfortable if the man had shown some form of disconcertment. Had Gusler been more experienced, he might have recognized that the excess of chatter tonight was actually a result of Officer Murphy's nerves, rather then the more obvious impression of insensitivity.

"Damn horns. Always remind me of the alarms in 'Nam. Loud suckers, those were. Liked to go off just as you were getting some decent shut-eye." Les shook his head, shifting his weight a bit as he waved another car into the intersection with his baton.

Gusler carefully eyed Officer Murphy, bewildered by the man he'd been pawned off to. Les was a short, stout man, surprisingly muscled despite his round-around-the-edges physique, and his hair, once a deep russet color, had turned more salt then pepper, bits of gray flecking his mustache as well. His face was casehardened, world-roughened; years of smiles and frowns cut deep wrinkles into his tanned skin. However, his eyes were a bright young blue and made a person double-guess his age. But he was definitively old, and even though Gusler couldn't tell just how old, he certainly had no less than ten years on Sullivan. Which had to make him, what…? Far too old to figure out; Sullivan was pretty old as it was, but this guy was prehistoric.

Spending only a few minutes with the talkative officer had lent Gusler a lot of information concerning his latest overseer. Les Murphy had once been a Sergeant in the Marines for years before being shipped off to Vietnam, where he spent the better part of five years, "openin' a can of whoop-ass on the Viet-Cong." After his tour, Murphy "settled down" and took an "easy" job with the NYPD, and had been patrolling the streets for the last thirty-or-so years. He showed no signs of the typical world-weariness that most of the other veteran cops sported, but was sharp and sprightly, and more than willing to talk an ear or two off.

"I remember this one night," Murphy reminisced with an air of disdain. "We'd just gotten back to base camp after about a week in the jungles. Scary shit. Crawlin' around on the wet ground, wonderin' if you'd wake a snake or somthin'. We were just tickled to get a hot meal and a bed you know, after bein' soaking wet and hungry for so long, a bed seems like the lap of luxury, kid." He shot Gusler a knowing look, and took a big sip of his long-cooled coffee, wrinkling his nose in an unconscious protest to the drink's lack of temperature. "Anyway, the damn alarm goes off not more than an hour after we'd collapsed into bed, and boy, were we pissed as hell. Pissed enough to take out those goddamn guerrillas in ten minutes flat, I tell ya – ten minutes." He gave a short laugh, resembling more of a guffaw or a snort of contempt, but was grinning for some reason. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply from his trainee.

"Ten minutes, huh?" Gusler offered meekly. He really didn't know how to talk to the man, seeing as they had nothing in common. So throughout the night, he had resorted to parroting, asking questions already answered, or just nodding his head repeatedly like a bobble-head doll.

Another horn sounded, and while Gusler started uneasily, Murphy just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his barrel-like chest. The older police officer certainly acted like nothing could faze him – not even "a horde of mad-ass guerrillas," as he had so eloquently put.

"The tyranny of the urgent," Murphy sighed loudly with a smirk. "Ever'one's got someplace ta' go; always in a hurry."

"Yessir."

"They're just a bunch a lucky bastards that they aren't involved in that pileup. Geez, don't got any idea how good they really have it right now, do they?"

"APB to all units," squawked their radios, the dispatcher sounding pressed for time and brusque. "Keep an eye out for the following suspects: Teen male, Hispanic, involved in a hit-and-run, driving a white sedan; Caucasian male, mid-30's, wearing a green jacket, driving a red pickup, suspect in the kidnapping of a four-year-old girl – considered armed and dangerous. All units be advised."

Gusler glanced over at Murphy. The older man was nodding unperturbedly; they'd heard the same APB twice in the last hour, and Murphy seemed to take the notice for what it was – just a warning to keep an eye out, nothing further. But somehow, knowing that the kidnapper was still loose, unnerved Gusler all the more especially since he'd been privy to what the perpetrator had done. He was still trying to get himself past the incident, but the stomach-turning images from earlier lurked sinisterly in the shadows of his mind.

The horn blared yet again, first a long, drawn-out peal, then a series of short angry honks, sounding akin to a car alarm going off. It was annoying and uncalled for, and Murphy appeared to have had enough. He turned to Gusler, a scowl of contempt puckering the engraved crow's feet around his eyes.

"Kid, you go tell that son-of-a-bitch to knock it off right now, or…." Les paused to wave the next three impatient drivers forward, but then seemed to forget that he'd left his little diatribe hanging.

"Or what, sir?" Gusler questioned, unsure if he should just leave then. He took a measured step forward to stand beside his supervising officer.

"Or I'll knock him off." Murphy growled; he didn't look as though he were mincing words. What with his grisly, macabre stories from 'Nam, and Murphy's general no-nonsense appearance and attitude, Gusler didn't doubt him for a second. "Got it?"

"Sir," Gusler nodded and hastened off down the street.


Emotional pain seared raw and more agonizingly then physical, burned hotter than tears sliding down cold skin. And he didn't know what to do. Just sat there like a fool, gasping for air enough, swallowing back an uprising of sickness.

The motionless body beneath his hands was heartlessly drained of life. Death, the filthy bitch that she was, lingered to watch for reaction; she loomed in the air thicker and more suffocating than the smoke swirling around him.

Carlos refused to look down, even as he worked, instead keeping his own eyes locked with a pair of disbelieving and devastated brown ones. He recognized the desperation in Bobby's eyes and took a peculiar solace in it. Subconsciously, it was as though he thought that letting his gaze deviate would break much more than eye contact.

And Bobby seemed to be of the same mind staring at Carlos as though he were the last soul on earth; his eyes virtually screamed. His mouth hung slightly agape, and Bobby looked as though he was keeping himself upright by bracing his arms on the hood of a smashed car. The pain rendered by the reprehensible fire was nauseating and genuinely tangible.

Shell-shocked and reeling, Carlos became vaguely aware of someone yelling loudly, but occupied his attention with forcing mouthfuls of air into DK's unresponsive lungs; his friend's lips were blue and stony cold against his own.

Every movement from Carlos was almost a God-given reflex, and he moved robotically, as though trying not to think eradicated all fluidity of his mind and body.

Doc, conversely, was becoming beside himself, his movements jerky with wild indignation. He was quick to channel his anguish via anger, but a grief-stricken welling of his eyes betrayed the insensitive pretense.

"C'mon, breathe!" the senior paramedic spat through clenched teeth. His passion was evident, but the look on his face, however upset, despairing, and frustrated he was, accepted the obvious: his efforts were amounting to nothing.

Doc's voice fell as he began to murmur, "breathe for me" cyclically, like a broken, hideously scratched record. And with each pitiful plea, Carlos felt his chest hitch, like a fist was grasping his heart and wringing the hope out of his blood.

Five compressions, breathe; five more, breathe.

Carlos kept an ad hoc count as they struggled to salvage any life. Five, ten, fifteen…seventy five, breathe, eighty. Good God, it wasn't working.

And then he couldn't anymore. He slipped, let his eyes travel, then took a long look at DK's face – soot everywhere, settling into the cracks of newly blistered skin, singed eyelashes, melted together and resting placidly against his cheeks, lips so lifelessly blue that they were almost as dark as his soot-blackened skin – and Carlos suddenly couldn't keep at it; he couldn't keep pounding at his friend's body any longer.

Enough.

He straightened slightly, stiffly. "Doc…," he croaked and shook his head; kept shaking it as he heard himself, his admission of defeat, echoing and screeching madly in his ears.

Soot, loosened from his head, rained down a mournful black rain around him. He refused to look Doc in the eye, or back at DK, and his gaze fell unceremoniously on his hands shaking and limply turned face-up on his knees as though they were dead as well.

"No."

The older paramedic's one-word issue was more of a command then an answer; his intonation was virtually a roar. Carlos flinched as though he'd been slapped.

Refusing the inevitable, Doc kept on hammering; five more times before he checked for a pulse. His jaw hardened into a strict line, despite rapid blinking, his eyes misted over in pain, and his breathing became erratic, puffing clouds of despair. At the moment, his body language conveyed more succinctly than words: there was nothing. DK was too far gone.

Suddenly, as though the realization had struck him harshly in the face, Doc jerked back awkwardly, and then sank down on his haunches in submission. His deep, almost guttural, breathing grated on Carlos' ragged nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

A long, suspenseful minute passed, ringing hideously of their capitulation and yield, as both men stared at one another, although their eyes were devoid of any readable emotion.

Carlos felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew he should be feeling, or doing something, but reality itself seemed like a passerby. So he blinked at Doc, waiting for something to happen.

He didn't have to wait long. Two blinks later, something in Doc snapped and he lost it.

"No!" Doc snarled in a harsh hiss, slowly moving his head back and forth in some semblance of a defiant refusal. He moved in again, this time rearing his arm back above his head in a move that Carlos knew all-too well the last resort.

It was all Carlos could do not to throw up.

With a nauseatingly wild passion, Doc pounded his fist into DK's chest, violently jarring the surrealistic element of the poignant moment. The emanating thud of bone hitting bone was more wretchedly sickening than expected. Carlos found his hands automatically reach steady DK's head between them, but simultaneously his own head hung sagged low and lifelessly, perhaps to shield view of the tears spilling from his eyes. No one had ever seen him cry.

The pounding persisted; one, two, three times. The third time cracked a rib.

"Com'on, dammit!" Doc hissed through gritted teeth.

Enough.

Carlos' head snapped up, regardless of the tears sloppily dripping down his face, melting his rigid jawbone. This had to stop.

Though it wasn't a conscious act, he exclaimed loudly, somehow seeming as though he was in command of his voice, "Doc, stop!"


Looking askance through the raging snow, Gusler pointed his flashlight ahead and peered into the windshields of each car he passed, methodically searching for the person responsible for the pointless horn honking. Because of the harsh wind and the near-whiteout conditions, it was hard to identify exactly where the booming echoes of sound were deriving from, so Gusler had resorted to trying to find the obnoxious driver via sight.

He realized, after a few minutes of futility, that every car contained an equal amount of scowling, frustration and ire, and a pair of eyes that stared crossly back at him as though he were entirely liable for the bothersome delay. He'd never seen such a mob of livid people before, and frankly, it was intimidating and daunting, and made him feel very alone and ganged-up upon.

Though his heart was beating like anything, and his mouth was as dry as the Sahara, he kept walking down the line with his head held high, trying to appear as unperturbed as possible. He was sure he was doing a horrible job of it.

He stopped before a dark-blue Mercedes when the horn became unbearably loud and made his eardrums feel like they would rupture. The driver inside glared out at him, his clenched jaw noiselessly mouthing expletives and curses at Gusler as his hand laid antagonistically on the horn. He looked as pissed as anyone Gusler had ever seen.

This's it, Steve, you tell him what's what. You're the boss. You're a cop. You're a bad-ass cop.

Gusler hoped that the driver wouldn't see that his hands were shaky from adrenaline, or that he could barely talk because he was so nervous. He'd never been in any situation without another, more senior cop with him, and the thought of going about this business unaccompanied was utterly daunting to the rookie. Regardless of the record-low temperature, he was very nearly in a cold sweat.

He swallowed hard at his apprehension and rapped his knuckles on the driver's window, signaling the infuriated man to roll the glass down. "Open up," he murmured, his voice breathy. Then louder, after clearing his throat several times and leaning down, "Open up, sir."

Yeah, you sound real authoritative. Pull yourself together.

The pane receded into the door, and before Gusler had completely collected himself, he was nose to nose with the horn-honker; the infuriated guy was smirking in a sinister way as if to say, "make me". The man had at least twenty years on him, and being a very respectful young man himself, Gusler almost felt as though he were about to lecture his father. It seemed inappropriate.

I am so not cut out for this job.

Gusler could only hope to God that he didn't look as vulnerable as he felt at the moment. But inappropriate feelings or not, it was his job to reprimand the man. Gusler was in authority, however strange it was to suppose.

He forced his large eyes to narrow down into a makeshift scowl, lowered his voice as best he could, and crossed his somewhat-scrawny arms over his unimpressive chest, trying desperately to emulate the way Les Murphy and John Sullivan came off: a hard-nosed, seen-it-all cop who wouldn't take any shit. Period.

"That's enough, sir," he stated, his bark not as threatening as he would have liked. "Stop honking that…" He paused for a brief second, deciding to throw in an expletive for good measure, "…goddamn horn!"

If his mother had heard him right then, he might have been slapped. His choice of words, however uncouth they might have been at home, seemed to have the desired affect, and the man slowly took his hand off the wheel, clearly flaunting his displeasure with the order.

"Officer," he spat, drawing-out the word as though he were being sarcastic to give Gusler said title. "This is fucking ridiculous. I've been sitting here for almost a half-hour, and I'm late now, thanks to the great job you're doing clearing this damn mess up." He took an emphatic pause before spitting out the rest of his harangue. "I don't know what the hell we pay you guys for…."

Gusler had prepared himself for the tirade, but hadn't thought far enough ahead to come up with something impervious to say in retort. Seconds ticked by like short eternities, and the man waited with an amused expression on his face as Gusler noticeably scrambled for words.

You're a bad-ass. You don't give a damn. You tell him off, Steve; you tell him.

He had a good internal pep-talk going, which was all well and good, but as far as anything to say back, Gusler was drawing a mind-blowing blank. He glanced up, tearing his gaze from the man's as he blinked rapidly, the move a defense-reaction, as he didn't wish the sneering motorist to see through his weak façade and catch sight of his artless susceptibility.

His gaze focused on a movement further down the street, moving away from him, and this time Gusler's eyes narrowed instinctively, not deliberately, as he struggled to remember why the sight ahead abruptly seemed so imperative to him – imperative enough to cause him to completely forget the situation at hand for a second; quite a feat.

He tried to shrug it off. It was only a guy walking down a street, after all. But there was something about the distancing silhouette that sent alarm bells pealing in Gusler's head. What was it?

The innocuous pedestrian was holding something in his arms, snuggled against his green parka, and held whatever it was awkwardly, as though it were heavy or he didn't know how to hold it properly. What was it about the guy?

Then Gusler suddenly remembered the APB and his heart leapt into his throat.

"Caucasian male, mid-30's, wearing a green jacket, driving a red pickup, suspect in the kidnapping of a four-year-old girl."

No doubt about it now – the object cuddled against the jacket was the body of a child; Gusler caught a glimpse of blonde ringlets. There was no red pickup truck, but the rest of the stats were correct enough to warrant his full attention and the sickened jolt of nausea in his stomach.

"Just…just knock it off, okay?" he murmured at the driver distractedly, refusing to let his gaze stray from the suspicious figure ahead. "Or I'll, uh…I'll have to ticket you for…uh, disturbing the peace."

"Right. Fine, Officer."

Slapping the top of the Mercedes twice was a movement garnered from watching far too many hours of cop shows as a kid, and was as inadvertent as the panicked look warping his face as he strode away, quickly marching through the snow toward the man ahead as though on autopilot.

One thing rang out in his mind as he hustled, and sent waves of cold chills down his spine:

"…considered armed and dangerous"


Again, Doc's fist was brought down with a braying thud. DK's body jerked harshly with the strong blow, driving the top of his head into Carlos' knee.

"Stop!"

Strangely enough, the situation vaguely reminded Carlos of a game he used to play as a child. Your arm would be twisted back behind you, and then pushed on and wrenched up until you couldn't stand the pain anymore. Tears or begging wouldn't grant you leniency just the word "uncle". Only the other foster kids he'd "played" it with wouldn't stop when he'd screamed for mercy.

Did he need now to scream for mercy?

"Stop…please."

He was begging pitifully, eyes lowered in shame, feeling utterly reduced to the child of the past. Defying Doc, he felt his hands were tied, wrenched and twisted behind his back. But he cried protest anyway, like always, even though he knew his pleading would only bring on more pain. "Just…. Stop. St–"

Abruptly, a strident, jagged gasp broke off Carlos in mid-word – the most horrifically beautiful thing he'd ever heard. His reaction nearly mimicked the sound perfectly.

"We got him," Doc said bluntly, his hands immediately busied with checking pupils, adjusting the C-collar and such, but his voice lit with a hint of apologetic concern. Carlos could tell that Doc was well aware that he had breached Carlos' breaking point. Apologetic, yes, but the damage was done.

The young medic was a plethora of emotions; ecstatic over DK, mortified by his weakness and display of the chinks in his armor, and scared of what further gruesomeness the night had to bring.

To prevent any further show of said emotions, he just nodded his head, forcing a grim smile, and swiped at the wetness on his face.

And he was suddenly exhausted.


"Murphy, this's Gusler. Do you copy?"

He gave in to the urge to whisper, so as to not attract attention to himself as he stalked the alleged kidnapper down the street. His aim was to slink after the perp like a shadow, but he felt like more of a herd of elephants as every crunch of snow and swish of his pants resounded ten-fold.

Cars lined the road bumper-to-bumper; headlights beaming their fog lamps eerily lit the thoroughfare; the snow, hewing crazily at the illuminations, sent eccentric patterns of light dancing everywhere like a perverted discotheque.

The luminosity was all in his peripheral, though, because he refused to take his widened eyes off of the man ahead. He was too utterly petrified to even blink, lest he lose sight of the green jacket in the yawning jaws of the inclement night.

Gusler's pace was quite a bit faster than the perp's, as he was not carrying thirty pounds of innocent child in his arms, and his harried footsteps neatly matched the quickness of his respirations but didn't even begin to come close to the wild raging of his heart rate.

I'm alone.

The fact was painfully obvious to Gusler as he went along he was not just alone physically, but without someone to mentally guide him through what would, in all probability, prove to be the most terrifying thing he'd ever done in his life. That factor alone was enough to induce a stupefying, full-fledged nervous breakdown.

Irrespective of the panic welling within him, he just managed to keep himself together. He was of a mind to be amazed at this.

I can do this. I've got all the right training, he thought halfheartedly. But he couldn't convince reality.

Who was he kidding? He had no experience past a textbook, a classroom, and a shooting range. A textbook couldn't back him up or be there for support; the classroom of other recruits would have come in handy, but were sadly nowhere to be found; the training dummies didn't have minds of their own, and were about as three-dimensional and life-like as the paper they were drawn on. Who the hell was he kidding…?

He'd ridden for half-a-day with his training officer – the person who was supposed to educate him on how to handle these types of situations correctly. Tallied together, his experiences and know-how were quite pitiable – hell, even criminals had more skill. He wasn't prepared at all, and the chance of the forthcoming predicament turning out okay was zero to nil.

"Murphy?" he hissed again, crooking his neck so that his mouth touched the mike on his radio; his fingers shook violently as he queued the "talk" button.

No telling if the guy he pursued could hear him or not, but he'd rather be cautious and quiet than yell for help as his instincts screamed for him to do.

All he got in return was a bunch of crackly static that nearly made him lose his dinner all over the snow-covered sidewalk.

Buck up, you sissy. You're fine. You've got your Glock.

His right hand reached down and unsnapped the holster, releasing the cooled metal of his weapon into his hand. The solidity of the gun made him feel a little better, but not enough to quell the sour queasiness burning monster-sized ulcers into his stomach.

As quietly as possible, he clicked the safety to "off" and pulled back the barrel of the gun to cock it. The slight sounds seemed to ricochet around relentlessly, and he cringed at the sudden influx of noise. Gusler thought for sure that the man must have heard him, as he was now only trailing by about one hundred feet, but the perp remained undeterred – oblivious, it seemed. It was now unmistakably discernible that the perp was limping, heavily favoring his left leg as he shambled onward.

I need backup! Please, Murphy, where are you!

Abruptly, the green-jacketed suspect hung a hard right, vanishing into a dark, ill-omened ally. Gusler managed to catch a glimpse of the little girl as he turned; her eyes were closed, her skin waxy and pale, and worst of all, there was clearly a trail of blood streaming from one of her ears.

Unbridled wrath welled up in Gusler's chest so formidably that he nearly forgot about how scared-stiff he was.

How dare that bastard.

Little did Gusler know, but he apparently had a soft spot for kids, and woe betides anyone who had the nerve to harm a child. The deadly concoction of emotions surging up within him, fear and fury, was as noxious as it was intense, and provoked incensed gasps and a tightening of his chest that rivaled a heart attack.

He reached the corner of the alley and stood stock-still, back flush against the brick wall, his gun drawn and pointing up naturally, looking for all the world like a real, bona fide cop, ready to gun down the bad guy. He was dimly aware that he'd stopped taking in air and was holding his breath indefinitely. Perfunctorily, he brought his flashlight up, slowly crossing his wrists in a common police maneuver, allowing him to shine a shaft of light exactly where his gun pointed.

It's now or never.

Never was deliciously appealing, but now was unbearably right.

Now.

He swung his gangling frame around the corner, sucking in a huge breath of air as he simultaneously clicked on the flashlight. The alleyway was instantly illuminated, revealing the startled form and face of the suspected kidnapper as he turned, gripping his precious bundle in his arms.

Gusler froze for a second, as he had startled himself by instinctually righting the corner, but found enough composure and breath to holler, "Hands up! Police!"


Though with the initial perception of sound, his heart had leapt with anticipation and hope, after a long time passed with no variance in his plight, he slowly lowered himself back down to his very own hell on earth, where hopefulness lay quiescent and ludicrous to entertain.

The weight on his chest prevented a quick death, for with the added pressure came the inability to inhale or move even imperceptibly, and the rough dirt that would eventually work its way all the way down his throat was slowed by these factors.

My luck…, he thought wryly. He was slowly losing his grip on existing now woozy and sweating profusely, but half-paralyzed as his body systematically shut itself down.

Drowning. He was somehow drowning in dirt.

The comprehension of the fact was more or less just as ironic to Bosco as it was repulsive. This was no way to go. He was buried alive a death so horrific that it was reserved for heinous horror flicks and serial killers. It wasn't supposed to happen accidentally.

The only thing coming of every momentously long-drawn-out second was that he was one more step closer to the end of his nightmare. And that thought became his hope.

But then the noise ceased to be just that and was suddenly words…talking. People right beside him, so near that he began to make out what was being said.

"Close…keep digging…."

Dirt rained down heavily, drenching his face with a thick layer of sediment, finding its way up his nose, between his teeth, in his ears. Bosco gasped, fighting for air around the clot of earth in his mouth.

"The door…help…."

Just breathe; they're here.

He was seeing spots, even though his eyes were squeezed shut, and his lungs were trembling, if that was even possible. It was taking everything he had left in him to remain alive, even for just seconds longer, as every cell in his body was calling quits and punching out concurrently.

Don't lose it now, you weak bastard; ride it out.

The immediate disconnection from his body was horrific. Bosco felt himself stiffen and become altogether numb, insensate, almost as though rigor mortis had set in prematurely. His brain seemed the only thing still functioning, feeling not unlike he was, in fact, dead and it hadn't quite registered yet. He was too tired to panic.

And then something hit has face, jarring his head and causing him to cry out in agony. The presence of pain somehow relived him as mush as it hurt him.

"Oh shit! Christ! Someone's alive down here!" a voice boomed from inches away. So close. The voice softened from astounded to markedly concerned. "Buddy? Oh God, hang on, God, just hang on. We'll get you out, just hang on…."

A string of swearing, half-littered with apologies ate up the next few seconds. The person touching his face pulled back, taking a considerable amount of earth out of his tomb, but reappeared immediately, hitting his left cheek.

He could feel the dirt in his mouth threatening to advance its voyage to his lungs, and his eyes were rolling back into his head as he fought to catch even an insignificant amount of air.

Bosco's thoughts became ungainly and confusing to him. Like a psychedelic inebriation, everything in his head seemed to pulse, fade in and out from reality to a state of misconstrued disorder. Every few beats he was back in the here and now enough to prompt himself to gasp for a breath.

Don't lose it now.


Somehow, though he knew his hasty plan was pretty unreasonable, Jack Spence would give the only option left a try. He was inherently like that – impulsive, or crazy, as his father always teased after hearing the latest stunt his youngest son had pulled. Nevertheless, his father's pride was always unmistakable, and Jack lived from each proud nod of approval to the next.

Jack knew this stunt would probably go down as one of his more harebrained ones. Actually, it was pretty much idiotic to think that it would actually work, but idiotic would have to do for now.

For him, there was never a question of half-assing or compromising. Everything was all or nothing. Go big or go home.

Because his facemask was failing miserably, he was pawing around inside the car and keeping his eyes squeezed shut in objection to the stinging smoke and gasses. After fumbling for a moment, he grabbed the baby under its tiny arms, attempting to pull the little guy from the insensate firefighter's grasp. However, as he gently tugged, the trapped firefighter instinctively held tighter – protectively.

Oh God.

For a second, Jack was only aware of the shallow breaths he was gasping in.

It was tragically touching, this last-ditch effort from the dying man. And it pained him terribly, all but breaking his heart. The tough, audacious firefighter, who'd been deemed "The Machine" by his comrades, had a heart under all of his bravado, go figure.

"Lemme help you, man! Lemme take him!" he yelled as loudly as humanly possible. Hopefully, his desperate bellow was heard over the roaring fire. Immediately, a copper taste seeped into his mouth as his lips split, cracked, and bled from the brutal, drying heat. "Please!"

Again he tugged, much harder, and the little guy slipped into his arms. Jack nearly dropped the baby, who was limp, floppy, and a spaghetti noodle of arms and legs, but he succeed in making use of his hands, which were frequently all thumbs, and pulled the infant to his chest.

The firefighter inside groaned wretchedly in protest, and his hands moved slightly and sluggishly, as though searching for the precious bundle he'd worked so hard to save.

Jack wished like never before that he was a machine. The unexpected emotional add-on was breaking his concentration and readily liquefying his hardheadedness.

Just do this thing. You can cry about it later.

Cradling the baby in his left arm, he used his right hand to rip at the Velcro fastenings on his heavy coat, stripping it open halfway. The immediate heat hit his chest like…well...fire. And it snatched his breath momentarily.

Christ! It has to be two thousand degrees out here!

He grabbed at his FDNY T-shirt collar and jerked it out as far as it would stretch, then took the baby and slid him down inside his coat, inside his shirt, until the kid was safely between his wife-beater and tee.

He felt badly, putting the poor baby there, up against his sweaty undershirt, but it was the only way. Idiotic, maybe – probably –, but it would have to do.

The second component of his plan was much more difficult and easier thought than done. He leaned in, pressing his chest against the sideboard of the car, making sure that the child snuggled against his stomach wasn't smashed at all, then went after the firefighter with almost a manic determination.

One arm, two; grab under his armpits. Okay, got him. Heave.

Heave he did, but the broad-shouldered firefighter was heavy – maybe too heavy – and he struggled weakly, moaning and batting at Jack's hands, but his vague movements were enough to make his rescuer exert himself all the more to free him.

However, Jack was impetuous and only driven to his limit by hindrance or obstacles. He readjusted his hold into a death-grip and began to yank backward in small, but vigorous, spurts, grunting as his efforts slowly unfolded.

Head first and belly up, his back scraping against the window frame, the firefighter emerged inch-by-painstaking-inch, and two agonizingly exhausting minutes later, Jack had managed to get the fading firefighter out about halfway. That's when he caught his first good look at his vic.

The man looked terrible, and had he not been gasping for adequate breath, Jack would have sworn up down that he was dead. He also noticed distractedly the name detailed on the man's NYPD standard-issue coat: Doherty.

Although his willpower, as a general rule, was quite a force to be reckoned with, Jack was rapidly losing his strength with every shudder of strained muscle and tear of sweat crying down his face and body. He was drenched and drained and beginning to feel beleaguered.

"I need your help, man."

It was a fraught plea, directed at the only two in earshot: Doherty and God. He didn't exactly know which one he was begging more, but he'd gladly take a little help from both.

Ignoring the trembling of his arms, and the tightness of his chest, and the way he himself had began to gasp, Jack leaned back, using his weight as leverage. And it worked, much to his delight. By degrees, Doherty seeped out of the imprisoning hellhole, albeit Jack felt as though he were trying to pull the proverbial camel through the eye of a needle.

He stopped tugging when the whole of Doherty's torso had cleared the threshold, and then straightened back up into a stand.

Reeling, Jack sensed vertigo spiraling wickedly at the fringe of his stability. He didn't need to look at his gauges to know that his oxygen tank was near-empty – all the more reason to get the hell out of Dodge, as far as he was concerned.

He wasted no time. Sucking in as huge a breath he could muster, he slid his hands down until he was supporting Doherty by the wrists, then squatted and hunched over as he twisted his arms over his head, tugged and slid Doherty over his right shoulder, belly down. The instant weight felt ten times heavier in the heat of the moment, and he was sure that the fact that Doherty was limp had something to do with it.

By means of a superhuman gathering of what little strength he had left, aided by the appreciated stimulus of adrenaline, Jack managed to slowly rise and get to his feet again, much to his own surprise.

He stepped forward unflinchingly, the picture of curiosity. What with a full-grown-man draped over a shoulder and a baby creating a bulge at his stomach, he looked more like a vaudeville act then a successful rescue. But good God, he'd done it!

And he suddenly felt like the world's luckiest idiot.


"He's okay? He's okay?"

Bobby sounded as disbelieving as he felt. He was rather a "doubting Thomas" – he literally had to see it to believe it. He waited a long moment, watching Doc and Carlos switch seamlessly from a disheartened doggedness, pounding compulsively for a heartbeat, to a flurry of excited energy.

"We need a medic down here, now!" someone called from somewhere off to his right. Bobby turned his head, indicating his heed, but his gaze didn't budge, holding on hope that the activity was indeed what he thought it was. It looked to be, but he had to make sure.

"Paramedic! We need you, man! It's bad."

"Go! We got him, Bobby. We got him back…." Doc waved him off fervidly; the relief on Doc's face spoke more plainly to Bobby than words. The senior paramedic stooped back down, continuing to fuss with DK before reaching behind him for the backboard. The backboard was a good sign – good enough to satisfy his need of reassurance.

"Yeah," he breathed, but even though he said it, he had no idea to whom it was directed. Lost in the wind, he supposed, with every last shred of normalcy and sanity and decency and hope that seemed to have blown completely away into the nighttime obscurity. All optimism that usually gave second-wind precedence over exhaustion was gone, too, and replaced by doubt, dread, and urges to compromise. It was unfamiliar to run like this – on empty – but Bobby wasn't the sort to give in when things got rough, or in the circumstance, grueling. He would run on fumes.

Shouldering his bags, he promptly hopped/slid over the hood of the sedan that had just recently served as the means to keep him upright. Recently felt like hours ago.

Making his way proved to be as easy as everything else the damned night had spewed. The ground was literally a montage of dangerous metal and glass, and that was assuming one could even see the ground – most of it was covered in bony carcasses of vehicles. For all intents and purposes, the highway was now just a graveyard – an impromptu necropolis. Disgusting.

"Whatd'ya got?" he called out monotonically. He was close enough now, maybe ten feet away, but kept his eyes downward, so as to avoid inadvertently stepping on the sharp metal littering around. The fragments were like teeth, jagged and waiting for a bite.

When he didn't get an immediate response, Bobby stopped walking and looked up. He was instantly mystified. Could have been the fact that he was riding an emotional rollercoaster with no end in sight, but he was pretty sure that the spectacle before him was just plain confusing.

The officer who'd summoned him over was covered in mud, as were two others near him. He recognized one of the men as John Sullivan. They all appeared to be working unflinchingly to unearth something from the bowels of the giant mass of spilled dirt.

"What is it?" Bobby asked bewilderedly, hitching the meds bag up further onto his shoulder. He took a few more tentative steps forward, but stopped when he felt as though he were getting in the way.

"It's a squad," offered the nearest officer rather bluntly.

Bobby's mind, on sensory-overload, made a great effort to process the hasty relay, and though he continued to progress forward, he knew it was apparent he was struggling.

"RMP. Couple a' cops," the officer was kind enough to softly reiterate himself. He stepped back to let Bobby closer, eyeing the paramedic with more than a hint of trepidation.

It was then that Bobby felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. His cheeks flushed as his face rapidly became a question mark of incredulity.

"Wha –? " he breathed as he stepped to the rear, so taken aback he was not capable of finishing off even the one-word question. And as he absorbed the information, his brain caught up with his over-worked eyes. It was all so clear now: the franticness, the digging, the dirtied white piece of plastic a bumper. The dump truck hadn't gone down alone. It hadn't gone down alone and there might be someone still alive, entombed.

He literally shuddered at the mere thought of being buried alive.

As he stood there still in shock, Bobby was instantly conscious of the tension in the air, heavy and agitated everyone around riding the fine line between sanity and desperation.

"Just help us!" Sully half-barked, half-pleaded over his shoulder. The senior officer was up to his elbows in wet dirt, uncovering the sideboard of the obscured vehicle with the vigorousness of someone half his age. The other cop, beside Sullivan, was taller and leaner, and laboring just as hard to remove earth as fast as humanly possible.

"We're real close, real close. Com'on, keep digging," encouraged the tall officer as he worked, his patter obviously nervous, but unusually soothing.

"I got the door, the frame. Help me…the dirt's cavin' back in on itself."

A surprised yelp broke the still, and the proceeding words ran up Bobby's spine like a shock of electricity. "Oh shit! Christ! Someone's alive down here!"

He was on his hands and knees in an instant, dropping his bags alongside him, fumbling with the Velcro straps. His distress was painfully evident to himself, and he fought off the urge to succumb to his terribly compassionate side and throw up.

Take a breath, snap out of it; someone needs you now much more than you need yourself.

Like wiping a slate clean, all dismal thoughts and shock abated in one fell swoop as he declined into the familiarized zone of self-confidence and unaffectedness. His head was clear, his hands were ready. His eyes flitted over the paraphernalia housed neatly in the red bags.

C-collar, Ambu-bag, saline.

"Buddy? Oh God, hang on, God, just hang on. We'll get you out, just hang on…."

Morphine, Lidocane, Epinephrine, AED defibrillator, laryngoscope.

"Shit! Fuck! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…. Shit! Oh dear God…. I'm sorry."

Bobby grabbed his stethoscope with both hands and flipped it around his neck. It was reminiscent of a highly choreographed dance, his maneuvers of preparation, and he was fluent with every step. But his hands were shaking like a first-day rookie's.

"Got a shoulder…an' a badge. 3379."

Bobby's head immediately snapped around to have a look. Sully seemed to have paused for a moment; his face was slack. "Bosco," the older officer managed in a weak voice.

The tall cop was shaking his head as he heaved another mass of mud behind him. "This fucking dirt."

"Lemme get in there, guys," Bobby said insistently, very nearly on the verge of pushing the fumbling police officers aside. There was only so much time that they had.…

"Yeah, you get down here. He's alive, I think." The tall officer prattled nervously as he slunk back a few feet and motioned for Bobby to replace him. "Let him in, guys. Move around we gotta get the other…side out." The hesitant pause breaking his string of words did not go unnoticed.

The looks on the faces of the men reciprocated what Bobby was thinking: They were lucky enough to have found Bosco alive. The chance of a parallel stoke of luck was all but implausible. And they all knew it.

However, the tenacious workforce of New York had seen both ends of the spectrum, the expected and the miraculous, and they were impervious to the easy tug of discouragement. Contradicting themselves on every level, they were thick-skinned but big hearted, indefatigable but emotionally vulnerable, proud and strong but the most humble of humble. They fought the good fight and never gave up, no matter how dreadful, vile, or sickening the outcome may be.

The men all scrambled to get out of his way, moving in a large arc around him to resume their digging on the adjacent side of the vehicle.

"Good God," Bobby murmured as he walked on his knees toward the uncovered doorframe. The rip-stop nylon of meds bag dragged through the dirt behind him, hissing in protest.

Though the police had done a good job at removing as much of the dirt as possible, half of the driver's side door remained obscured. A hole about two feet square was the opening he'd have to work with. And it was better that way. Things could shift if jostled too much, and it was vital from a medical standpoint to let a paramedic take a look at the victim before continuing with rescue efforts.

Though he was already on his knees, he bent down further, ducking his tall form as close to the fallen officer as possible. The hole made by desperate hands cupped around him, but to get close enough he needed to be much more prone. Looking as uncoordinated as he felt, he flopped down on his belly before crawling – or rather inching – forward commando-style until his right shoulder met and pressed against the doorframe. He twisted about, reaching his hand into the mangled metal frame, then trying valiantly to force his body to follow. He got just as far as needed.

His ungloved fingers, though nearly anesthetized from the cold, found the soft of flesh, the rough of a stubbled cheek.

"Bosco? Is that you, buddy?" he called as he squirmed in closer, his torso wriggling about like a floundering fish.

When he got nothing in response, his heart dropped and his chest ached nervously. He tried again, louder and more urgently. "Bosco? Can you hear me? Talk to me, buddy."

The skin under his fingers moved slightly, and a soft moan erupted from within the abysmal hole.

"Sweet Jesus," Bobby breathed, nothing short of astonishment lacing his voice. "He is superman…."


Three…four…five…six….

Though the rest of his body seemed to have fully arrested, his dry lips wordlessly counted the seconds out one by one, as though latching onto the normalcy of time would make the situation not seem so perfectly surreal.

seven…eight….

The age-old myth of time warping into slow-motion was instantaneously dispelled for Gusler. Time moved much too fast for him, and it flew by unforgiving, second-by-vital-second.

The kidnapper was facing him, but now his hand possessed the shiny glint of deadly metal that no cop ever wanted to see. The textbook in Gusler was quick on the uptake and immediately identified the gun as a .44 Magnum. A .44 meant some big-ass bullets – the rookie had seen pictures of the damage that could be done with just one slug.

Bang, you're dead.

Gusler grimaced slightly, but his Glock never wavered. He was absolutely shocked that, in his petrified state and the immoderate adrenaline racing through him, he hadn't passed out or had a panic-induced breakdown of sorts. He was as dizzy as he was scared, but though vertigo pulled relentlessly at his nerves, he somehow remained steady.

"D-Drop the gun! P-put your hands on y-your head!" The stutter and insecurity in his voice instigated a pleased smirk to pull up the corners of the perp's mouth.

"You learn that line from a movie, boy?" the man snarled spitefully, very nearly correct in his conjecture. His own gun never faltered even the slightest bit, and it ogled Gusler with one round, steely eye.

Bang, right between the eyes.

Gusler took a long moment, swallowing back the bittersweet taste in his mouth, blinking at the fearful tears distorting his vision, and drawing a deep breath of icy air.

The facts of the night were as striking as the slim metal barrel leveled at his face – he needed help, backup, someone. The impasse created by another gun had nixed the original idea of a swift deposing of the suspect. This would be no easy takedown – Gusler's adversary was quick, armed, and smug; he was an inexperienced, scared out of his wits, trembling rookie. A recipe for disaster.

"You put your gun down or the kid eats a bullet. Then you. And I don't say nothin' I don't intend to do, pig. Got it?" the kidnapper snapped, and then squeezed the little girl until she squealed weakly.

The helpless noise was enough to send Gusler over the edge of reason.

Acting on a whim, and more than a bit audaciously, Gusler dropped his flashlight, letting it fall easily to the snowy floor with a muted thud. The light still managed to illuminate the ally enough to see, and freed his hand. He promptly cocked his head to the left and grabbed at his radio, screaming for help, his voice catching and cracking dreadfully, "10-13, King and 5th! 10-13!"

The call was out, thank God, but his impulsive movement angered the kidnapper. A furious growl snapped out and echoed madly off of the surrounding walls. Straight away the man fired a shot in his direction.

Before his eardrums protested the piercing crack of gunpowder, the world lit-up a brilliant white. Thankfully, reflexes hadn't completely escaped him in his petrified state, and Gusler fell easily to his knees in a knee-jerk reaction to escape the ill-intended slug.

A whooshing hum scorched past his ear, and left a searing tail of raw ire behind. Instinctively, his free hand flew up, grabbing at his burning cheek as he rocked back and forth, hissing in pain through gritted teeth. There was fluid earnestly seeping through his trembling fingers, lukewarm and sadistically wet.

He'd been hit.


TBC... .Any and all thoughts are very much appreciated. I love hearing from you all!