ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1)

ANOM:
Awakening

by

Jason
R. James

- Dedication -

For
Vanessa, with love.

The
sun was still high above Independence Hall in Philadelphia, beating down on the
brick walls and sidewalks, turning Old City into an oven. It had been a hot
summer already, and July 17th was no exception. The city air was thick with
humidity and noise, the sound of a hundred different voices and vehicles mixing
together into a single dull hum.

A
huddle of tourists gathered around a bronze statue of George Washington just in
front of Independence Hall, waiting for their guided tour to begin. Across the
street, another line of visitors wrapped around the outside of a long brick and
glass building, waiting for their chance to see the Liberty Bell. On the
opposite corner, across from Independence Hall, a small outdoor cafe served a
late lunch.

Farther
down the sidewalk, just past the cafe, a young bride stepped onto a trolley,
helped by her new husband. The rest of their wedding party, in their matching
dresses and tuxedos, lined both sides of the walk, watching as the photographer
snapped away on his camera.

On
the cobblestone street in front of Independence Hall, a dozen horse-drawn
carriages clopped between cars and trucks, carrying their passengers back into
the city’s past as their drivers recited facts and stories from 1776. It was an
ordinary day in Old City.

That’s
why nobody cared when the white box truck turned the corner onto the
cobblestones of Chestnut St. There was nothing remarkable about the truck.
Nothing to set it apart. And nothing to suggest that
behind those white walls, the truck carried 25 barrels of ammonium nitrate,
almost twice as much as they used in Oklahoma City.

The
truck turned the corner, following a white, horse-drawn carriage. It idled over
the cobblestones, rolling a few feet, stopping with traffic and then inching
forward again. Finally it stopped one last time in front of the statue of
Washington. Then came the explosion.

*****

Jeremy
Cross raced down the hardwood stairs. As he neared the bottom of the staircase,
he jumped over the last two steps and landed on both feet in the entryway of
the house.

Jeremy
was young, only 17, and like so many of his peers he had places to go but
nowhere to be. He wore a pair of dark blue jeans and a faux-vintage t-shirt,
dark gray with a faded Union Jack blazoned across the front. A pair of neon
blue headphones hung around the back of his neck like a yoke. His dark hair was
a tangled mop, meticulously styled into disarray. His gray eyes and easy smile
hinted at a good-looking future, but he was still a year away from growing into
his features and leaving those awkward years of middle school behind.

In
the entryway Jeremy grabbed his shoes by the door and forced his feet inside
without bothering to untie the laces. He reached for the door, ready to pull it
open, but then a voice from the living room stopped him.

“Hey,
where’s the fire, bud?”

Jeremy
rolled his eyes. He was hoping to get out of the house and halfway down the
block before anyone realized he was gone. Instead, he turned and walked into
the living room.

Jeremy’s
father, Dr. Jonathan Cross, sat on the couch with his arms folded across his
chest, his long legs stretched in front of him and his feet resting on the
coffee table. He was old, but then again, at least to Jeremy, his father had
always been old. Maybe his hair was a little thinner on top now and grayer than
the year before, but other than that, his dad never seemed to change.

Jonathan
Cross had been watching the baseball game, although Jeremy knew from experience
that the game only served as a distraction. Really his father was nodding in
and out of sleep. The Phillies and Pirates played on the flat screen hanging
from the wall. The volume was just loud enough so that if you really listened,
you could hear the inane prattle of the broadcasters in the background.

Emily
Cross, Jeremy’s mom, sat on the couch next to her husband. She was the same age
as his dad, so Jeremy knew she must be old too, but with the strategic use of
highlights and makeup, she appeared several years younger. Her legs were
stretched out to one side of the couch, and she held her iPad in both hands,
engrossed by her trashy romance novel of the month.

As
Jeremy stepped into the living room, his dad turned away from the game. “Where
are you going, bud?”

Jeremy
didn’t want to say, but it wasn’t worth a lie either; instead he compromised,
“I’m going over to a friend’s.”

His
dad sat up, pulling his feet off the table. “Okay, that’s pretty cryptic. Let
me try again. Who are you going to see?”

Jeremy
reached up for the back of his neck, rubbing his hand up and down over his
hair. He hated this part. It wasn’t so much the questions; he could handle
those. What really got to him was their reactions to his answers. There was
always an undercurrent, some hidden agenda, another silent judgment. It would
have been easier if he had just made it out the door. But he was already late,
and he chose speed over stealth. Now he had to pay the price.

Jeremy
steeled himself for what came next. “I’m going over to Kate’s. We’re gonna
watch a movie. I’ll probably just do dinner over there too.”

His
mom looked up over the top of her tablet. “You’re going to that girl’s house
again?”

Jeremy
looked away at the television—anything to keep him from losing his temper,
“Mom, you’ve known Kate since we were seven. She’s not ‘that girl.’”

“Yeah,
what’s the problem, Emily?” his dad chided. “Don’t you like Katie?”

Emily
looked back at her tablet, frowning. “You both know what I think about her.”

His
dad laughed. “Well, I like her. I think your son likes her too.”

“It’s
not like that, Dad. We’re just friends.”

“Maybe.”
Jonathan Cross smiled, “but there was a time when your mother and me were ‘just
friends’ too.”

Jeremy
forced himself to look back at his dad. “We’re just friends. I talked to her
about it. I’m sure.”

Jonathan
nodded. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, bud, it’s that things like that
have a way of working themselves out. You’ll see.”

Jeremy
had to change the subject; he looked at the TV. “Who’s winning?”

His
dad squinted at the screen, “Looks like we’re all tied up. Bottom of six. You
want to hang around? Watch the Phils with your old man?”

“Not
today. I’m already late.”

“You
know you’re going to be a senior this year, bud. We’re not going to get many
more days like this.”

“Yeah,
I know. Maybe next weekend—”

A
resonant boom, like a single, deliberate beat on a bass drum, suddenly broke
over the speakers of the television, filling the room with a sound much louder
than it should have been with the volume turned down so low. It was enough to
stop Jeremy mid-sentence. All three turned to look at the television, but
before anyone could speak, the whole house shivered underfoot.

Jeremy
looked at his dad. “Did you feel that?”

His
mom sat up on the couch, high-pitched panic in her voice. “That was an
earthquake. John, we need to get out of the house.”

But
Jonathan was already on his feet. “Quiet. Both of you.” He grabbed the remote
from the coffee table and turned up the volume on the television. The picture
on the screen showed one of the Phillies players standing in the outfield,
turning around to look behind him.

One
of the announcers continued, his hurried words running together, “... what
sounded like an explosion. Play on the field has stopped. People are
streaming—running now out of the stands. Now the players are leaving the field
as well. They are running off the field—”

The
camera panned out, and on the television screen, Jeremy could see the Phillies
running off the field for their dugout.

The
announcer said, “We don’t know what caused the explosion, or even if it was an
explosion. There was just a deafening roar. And now—now we can see smoke. We
can see gray smoke rising over the right-field wall coming from what seems to
be downtown Philadelphia.

Once
again the image on the screen changed as the camera turned toward the
right-field wall and zoomed in on the billowing pillar of smoke starting to
rise over the city.

Before
the announcer could speak again, the live video feed from the stadium cutout,
replaced by a dark-blue background and the white words “Breaking News”
scrolling across the screen.

This
image only lasted for a second before the video feed changed again, this time
to a white-haired man in a dark suit sitting behind a news desk. “I’m Peter
Miller, and this is a special news report. We have just received reports of an
explosion in the city of Philadelphia. These reports indicate the explosion was
somewhere in the area of Independence Hall, and from the word we’ve received,
it appears to have been a massive explosion. Once again, there are unconfirmed
reports of a massive explosion in the Old City section of Philadelphia,
possibly in the area of Independence Hall. We are trying to get people into
that area as we speak to confirm those reports. It’s obviously too early to
speculate on a cause or the extent of any injuries. All that we know, and these
reports are, as of yet, unconfirmed, is that there was a massive explosion near
Independence Hall in Philadelphia.

“Certainly
everyone’s thoughts go immediately to terrorism, but it could also be some form
of accident, possibly involving natural gas, and frankly, it’s too early to
even speculate at this time. But once again, if you’re just joining us, there
are unconfirmed reports of a massive explosion near Independence Hall in
Philadelphia.”

“Dad?”
Jeremy’s voice trailed away, hollow, distant, but Jonathan Cross ignored it.
Instead a sharp buzz from the coffee table brought all of their attention back
to the living room. It was Jonathan’s pager. He picked it up, read the message,
and turned to Emily, who was just now rising to her feet.

“It’s
the hospital.” His voice was taut.

“Dad?”

This
time, Jonathan turned back to face his son, but there was no need for Jeremy to
ask his question anymore; he could see the answer written on his father’s face.

Jonathan
Cross’ lips were pressed tight in a thin line, and two small creases appeared
between his eyebrows. It was a look Jeremy had never seen before, at least not
from his father. Was he angry? Afraid? Jeremy opened his mouth. He wanted to
say something; offer some words of reassurance, but nothing came out.

The
white-haired anchor pulled their attention back to the television. “We now have
word that a local news helicopter is in the air, over the blast site, and we
are going to a live video feed.”

For
a brief second, the news anchor was still on the screen, raising a hand to his
temple as he muttered, “Dear God,” but then the image changed.

Now
there was a picture of dark-brown dirt, a crater. It filled the screen, but
after a moment the camera pulled back to reveal the full destruction. Dark-red
bricks lay strewn around the outside of the crater, and in one corner of the
screen they could see what seemed to be a low brick wall, broken but still
standing. At the opposite corner, a modern building came into focus. All the
windows on the side of the building were blown out, and a thick black smoke
trailed from these open wounds into the afternoon sky. The camera pulled back
again, and everywhere, at the far edges of the television screen, Jeremy could
see people running.

The
sober voice of the news anchor continued, wavering as the camera panned across
the chaos. “We are looking at what was, only a few moments ago, Independence
Hall in Philadelphia. What was a popular tourist attraction and the birthplace
of our nation…is gone.”

Jonathan
Cross spun away from the television, jammed the hospital pager deep into his
pocket, and started out of the room.

“Dad?”
Jeremy could barely manage a whisper.

Jonathan
stopped in front of his son and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I want you to
stay here with your mother.” And then he winked, the same wink Jeremy had seen
all his life. Their own secret signal for “everything’s going to be okay.” The
same wink Jeremy had seen at baseball games and family dinners and in the
principal’s office more than once. And then, just like now, Jeremy could
breathe again.

Without
another word, Jonathan stepped out of the living room and walked out the front
door.

*****

Fifteen
minutes later, the Cross’ black SUV raced down the long drive toward the
hospital. Jonathan could see the front parking lot just across from the main
building. It was already a snarl of traffic and parked vehicles.

“Dammit,”
he cursed under his breath; there was nowhere else to go.

Jonathan
turned left down the last lane of the parking lot, swerved around a silver
Nissan sitting in the middle of the road, and then, as he reached the end of
the row, he jerked the wheel hard to the right and jumped the curb.

The
ignition of the black SUV barely clicked off before he was out of the car. A
uniformed guard, one of the hospital’s security team posted at the front door,
yelled something at him. Dr. Cross ripped his ID badge from his pocket, waved
it in the air in the direction of the guard, and without waiting for a response
started running around the outside of the building toward the ER’s entrance.