A World Without Secrets

As we sleep, significant events occur that shape our destinies. If luck favors us, we'll have an opportunity to influence the role we must play, but all too often the masses are merely puppets in the daily drama. Above all else I desire to be the master of my own destiny, but only history will show if I was any more successful in my quest than the millions of like-minded individuals who have gone before me. My name is Colton James, and I live in New York.

After midnight, the midtown skyline of Manhattan is commanded by giant monoliths as the towering office buildings in a city that never really sleeps grow dark and silent. Residences across the length and breadth of the island similarly slip into shadowy darkness, except where a television's flickering glow emanates from an apartment window. In spring, New York is halfway between the freezing temperatures of February and the suffocating heat of July. Here and there, a solitary vehicle traverses deserted streets, disturbing little except scattered patches of ground fog. In the still of the night, a police or ambulance siren wailing its mournful message can often be heard in the distance. Dark silhouettes created by the soft yellow glow from an unwavering parade of streetlamps briefly assume ghostlike form as an early morning mist slithers silently beneath them. A solitary man walking his dog creates a surreal image as they glide mutely in and out of the wispy shadows.

The explosion changed everything in a heartbeat.

The blast rocked the surrounding buildings to their foundations. Deadly shards of window glass flew like razor-edged daggers into nearby apartments, offices, and stores. An enormous orb of flame stretched skyward ever higher like a miniature sun trying to break free of Earth's gravity. Vehicle and building alarms began to wail, whoop, or simply ring with abandon. Cars in the street near the blast were tossed about like children's toys in a playground sandbox.

Comparatively few souls were awake to see it, yet hundreds of people, some as far away as Coney Island, would later swear to have witnessed the blast that shattered the normal pre-dawn tranquility. I was wrenched from peaceful slumber as the first thunderous shockwaves began reverberating off the walls of my bedroom. Flinging back the blanket and bedspread, I leapt from my bed, screamed, and fell back again as intense pain signals traveled from the nerves in my left foot to my brain. I fumbled for the switch on the nightstand lamp, although the glow from outside my building was almost as bright. A quick examination of the sole of my left foot disclosed a large sliver of glass embedded deep in the meaty flesh behind the toes, and a slowly spreading pool of crimson on the sheet provided mute testimony to the extent of the damage. I winced as I plucked it out, but with the unwelcome invader removed, the pain began to subside appreciably.

I was hesitant to again place my unprotected feet on the floor, so I peered over the edge of the bed to find my slippers. For the first time, I became acutely aware of the potential danger to my precious pedes. The floor presented a virtual minefield of jagged glass fragments— most small, but some pieces quite large.

Managing to reach my slippers without getting off the bed, I wisely turned them over, shook them, then banged them together to dislodge any remaining pieces that may have found their way inside. A sock wrapped tightly around my injured foot like a bandage would temporarily staunch the blood flow. Although anxious to resume my planned task, I nevertheless inserted my feet into the slippers with extreme care.

Taking great pains to avoid the larger chunks of wood and glass from my shattered window frames, I wove my way cautiously across the floor to reach one of two window openings in the outer wall that were now just empty holes. The image of overwhelming devastation that greeted my eyes shook me to the core.

New Yorkers, myself included, still live with the painful memory of the 2001 attack on the World Trade Towers. Recollection of that event led me to assume that a plane from one of several nearby international airports had crashed into the apartment building across the street from my flat. The five-story building was now just a memory. Where it had stood just minutes earlier was a half-acre-sized lot piled high with burning rubble. I could hear the plaintive howl of sirens in the distance growing steadily closer as I grabbed jeans, tee shirt, and shoes from my closet. I dressed in the living room, then bounded down the two flights of stairs after pulling my apartment door closed behind me. Only then did I wish I'd taken the time to pull on a pair of socks as well.

The front doors of my building were smashed and broken almost beyond recognition. Hanging precariously in shattered pieces from bent hinges, a sharp tug was all they required to complete their ruin. The former frame toppled to the floor at my feet, barely missing my left leg as I jumped backwards.

In the time it had taken to pull on my clothes and get to the building's front steps, three cars containing New York City's finest had arrived. More sirens heralded the approach of other vehicles, some no doubt belonging to fire engines and emergency services vehicles.

As I surveyed the devastation, I was struck by the thought that the buildings surrounding the now trash-filled building lot appeared like ghostly skulls, their empty window openings reminiscent of hollow eye sockets and rhinal orifices. In a few places, people in various states of dress and undress peered silently from the empty cavities. Their ashen faces reflected shock and horror as they surveyed the horrific spectacle. A homeless man, asleep in a cellar stairway at the time of the explosion, peered nervously over the edge of the basement retaining wall to see what had happened while the street slowly filled with curious residents from the surrounding neighborhood.

I picked my way carefully through the layers of trash that now obscured the five stone steps leading down to street level while I tried to scan the scene for signs of crash survivors. There were none in sight. Nor did I see any recognizable aircraft parts such as engines, wings, seats, or a tail section. I recalled the televised images of the site near Shanksville, Pennsylvania where one of the 9/11 terrorist-flown planes had crashed. I supposed the plane here must have impacted with similar velocity to have disintegrated so totally that building wreckage could disguise all aircraft parts.

As the vanguard of firefighting apparatus maneuvered around overturned vehicles to reach hydrants, firefighters dragging hoses leapt from the rear of the fire trucks. I stood transfixed by the experience as the trained professionals quickly completed the connections and sprayed the first of many thousands of gallons of water that would be consumed extinguishing the fire before it could spread.

Until this point, police on the scene had hurried around looking for injured survivors, but as more fellow officers arrived, some began their first efforts at crowd control. Aware that there was no opportunity for me to assist, I turned my attention to personal concerns and began hunting for my car. I'd thought myself indeed fortunate to find a parking spot directly across the street from my house when I'd arrived home the night before. When I realized that none of the cars immediately in front of the now destroyed building had survived the blast, I wished I hadn't been so lucky. I finally located my car, sitting on its roof in the middle of the street, wrecked almost beyond imagination.

After picking my way through piles of trash, I sank to my knees and tried to peer through the large hole that an intact windshield had filled just minutes earlier. I'd been hoping the cardboard box I'd left sitting on the rear seat was still inside the car. No such luck— it was gone.

Almost fifty dollars of my steadily dwindling funds had been expended at the copy store for six immaculate copies of my latest novel. Although the predominance of agents and publishers had finally joined the electronic age and accepted internet-transmitted digital copies, a small number still wanted hard copies. With money so scarce, I couldn't afford to let the copies be lost. Since the box wasn't inside the car, I began to hunt around outside.

I finally located the carton. It was sitting overturned amid a huge clutter of trash— most of which turned out to be parts of my manuscript. I righted the box and began to fill it with the surrounding reams of loose paper.

"Whadda ya doing there, Mac?" a voice asked brusquely from behind me.

"Trying to salvage a box of photocopies I had in my car," I said as I stood and turned to face the cop. "They cost me fifty bucks today."

"Where do you live?"

"Right behind you," I said, pointing to my apartment house. "That blue Chevy over there is mine," I added, moving my arm to point at the wrecked car.