Craig A. Falconer - Not Alone

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Not Alone

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Winchester Street

Colorado Springs, Colorado

D an McCarthys delivery route proved straightforward enough thanks to Winchester Streets proximity to the IDA building. The building wasnt particularly big, but it was a local landmark which Dan vividly remembered visiting on a school trip.

For Dan, obsessed with space since before he could remember, this trip to the IDA had been a dream come true even though he had been old enough at 13 to accept that he didnt have the aptitude for a career as an astronaut or even to fill any of the agencys less glamorous positions.

Eight years later, Dans career amounted to serving fancy coffee to rich teenagers. And now, apparently, it also involved delivering rare books to people too lazy to drive four miles to the store. With the ever-rising cost of fuel having recently forced Dan to ditch his car for the journey to work, he hoped this first delivery would also be his last.

As Dan mentally relived his day at the IDA, the journey to Winchester Street flew by. The one memory that stood head and shoulders above the rest in Dans mind was the moment he met Richard Walker. More than anything the imposing man had said, Dan remembered trying not to look at the scar. He remembered not being able to look away.

Dan knew the story. Everyone knew the story. Richard Walker was a titan of American politics who had endured as a highly public figure for twice as long as Dan had been alive, and the ancient scar was no small part of his legend.

A voice from Dans phones GPS app told him to turn left, which he dutifully did. Seconds later, a new and more piercing sound filled the air. The deafening alarm hit Dans ears suddenly and sharply enough for him to know that he hadnt cycled into earshot but rather that the noise had just begun.

It didnt sound like a car alarm. As Dan cycled closer and the volume kept rising, it didnt sound like any alarm he had ever heard.

Every twenty seconds or so, the sound changed. When it first rose and fell like a slow ambulance siren, Dan pictured a blue flashing light. Next came a bellowing ar-ar-ar which sounded like the warning system at a nuclear power station; its light would be orange, Dan imagined.

The third sound was the worst: a rapid shrieking ee-ee-ee-ee-ee that Dan could only compare to the snow monkeys he once saw at the zoo, who had taken exception to an uninvited bird landing in their pool. Only instead of the ten agitated snow monkeys that Dan had watched in fascination, the alarm sounded like ten thousand. This would definitely be a strobe light.

Dan felt relief when the alarm looped back to the ambulance style oscillation, a gentle lullaby compared to the angry snow monkeys.

After another left turn, the IDA building came into view in the distance. There was no flashing light but the acoustics convinced Dan that the alarm was coming from there. If he was right, the streets would be crawling with police in minutes.

As Winchester Street drew near, Dans phone instructed him to turn right in 200 yards. Dan looked ahead. There was no right in 200 yards.

Display alternative route, Dan requested without slowing down, keen to get away from the alarm and whatever had caused it as quickly as possible.

Turn right in 150 yards, his phone said, sticking to its guns.

Dan pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the map. The phone had confused a driveway for a throughway, but fortunately there was a real right turn not too far ahead.

Dan looked back up just in time to see a jet-black figure dashing onto the street from between two parked cars.

Move, the man grunted.

Dan tried to turn his bike away but the man ran straight into the side of it, dropping everything in his hands and sending Dan crashing to the ground.

The man fell, too, but Dan cushioned his fall.

Through the intense pain of an impact that felt like it had scraped off half of the skin on his left side, Dan grabbed the mans legs and tried to push the bike aside with his body.

The man kicked free and stood up, creating a distance between himself and Dan.

Dan saw beyond doubt that the man was a robber, dressed head to toe in black with leather gloves and a ski mask that had no holes at the nose or mouth. As the man stared back, all that Dan could see were two cut-out circles of white skin around two green eyes, beady and startled. No amount of leather and wool could hide the mans fear.

After several seconds of tense eye contact, Dans gaze shifted to the mans fallen loot. A tin the size of a shoebox had spilled open, revealing no fewer than six gold bars. Dan started to question whether the alarm really was coming from the IDA; this looked more like some kind of bank job.

Scattered on the other side of the man were four or five manilla folders. Dans eyes fell on the only one that had landed face up. He could just make out the block capitals on its square white label: V. SLATER.

Dan safely assumed that V. Slater stood for Valerie Slater, and that the stolen folder either belonged to President Slater or contained someones dossier on her. The IDA was making sense again.

The man saw Dan eyeing the folder. You dont want to die for that, he grunted in the same gruff tone as before, clearly an attempt to mask his voice.

What is it? Dan asked, not knowing what else to say or do.

The man ignored the question and instead opened his coat, flashing the butt of a previously concealed weapon.

Dan almost fell over himself as he frantically lifted his bike, not even bothering to pick up his phone from the spot where it had landed after the collision.

Dont move, the man said. Dan looked up and saw the mans hand reaching for the gun.

Dan dropped the bike and showed his palms.

With one eye on Dan, the man hurriedly packed the six gold bars back into their tin and gathered up the manilla folders.

Dan stood stunned as the man ran off in the direction he had been headed. After watching him take a sharp left, Dan heard the mans gruff voice shout go, go, go!