Chapter 2: The First Incident

The situation was worse than he’d feared, and the lives of hundreds of innocent people were at risk. Sensing things were about to get messy, a rush of urgency overtook Sergeant Arthur Evans as he gritted his teeth and readied himself for a possible firefight. Somehow, he’d miraculously made it through all these years without having to actually kill anybody, but something told him that was all about to change this very afternoon; he was feeling an even stronger sense of apprehension than he usually felt when receiving a SWAT call-out.

What are we waiting for? We need to get in there before they start shooting the hostages.

Three police helicopters buzzed overhead, and two more could be heard approaching their location just outside of Port Authority in Midtown Manhattan. A popular location with tourists, it made crowd control incredibly difficult and tiresome. It also created the kind of traffic conditions that would take hours to resolve, which in turn created its own set of operational difficulties. Everywhere around him, a feeling of confusion and fear was palpable. The citizens were terrified, and it was his job to protect them.

“Sergeant Evans,” said the voice of Lieutenant David from his chest-mounted radio. “Hit the streets and take cover.”

“Copy that.”

It’s game time.

Clad in full tactical gear, he leapt out the side of the Bearcat and into the street. Then he directed all five members of team 1 and all five members of team 2 to take cover on each side of the armored vehicle respectively while they awaited permission to engage. Even with the protection of the Bearcat, Arthur still felt open and exposed. Inhaling, he increased his grip on the loaded m4 carbine in his hands and prepared to move on a moment’s notice.

All around him, flashing lights cast a red and blue glow even amid the early-afternoon sunshine; the cries of dozens of police sirens blared endlessly, drowning out all other noise on the typically very loud 42nd street. The uniformed officers had strict instructions not to engage and to only assist with crowd control and in directing civilians out of harm’s way. If blood needed to be spilled, well…that was for his team to deal with.

I’m ready for it.

Ahead of him and halfway across the street was the entrance to Port Authority. His visibility was too poor to see inside of it from where he crouched beside the armored vehicle. As he listened carefully to the burst of nonstop chatter from his radio, it became readily apparent that no one had any solid, up-to-date intelligence on the situation inside of PA. All they seemed to know was that a group of ski-mask-wearing thugs had stormed the place and had taken hostages. It was also believed that these men were part of an infamous band of benzodiazepine smugglers who went by the name of “The Xanax Crew.”

“Lieutenant, you wanna tell me what the hell we’re waiting for?” Arthur asked. “If we don’t get in there soon, then people are going to die.”

“Give the negotiator a chance, sergeant. If we can resolve this peacefully we will.”

Arthur grunted. “Copy that.”

He glanced at the five members of team 1 on his side of the vehicle and nodded at all of them at once; they returned the nod with one of their own. It was a brief exchange, but it signaled a shared understanding between them.

“Would you believe me if I told you that, even after all these years, I’m still scared shitless each time we get a SWAT call?” he asked them.

“I think we all do, sarge,” one of his men replied.

Another grunted in agreement. “That’s how you know we’re still human,” he said.

Distantly, on the other end of the street, Arthur could hear the sound of civilians demanding to know what was going on, if or when they would be allowed back in, and oddly enough, one of them even insisted that they be let through now, which caught Arthur’s attention. Taking a very quick glance over his shoulder, he saw an older woman waving around a pink handbag while yelling at a uniformed NYPD officer with a tone that suggested she felt particularly aggrieved.

“I need to get back in,” she insisted. “Get out of my way.”

“Ma’am, this is an active-shooter situation. You cannot go through.”

“But my fifteen-year-old son is still inside. And what shooter? What are you even talking about? I was just in there. Everything was fine. I stepped outside for one minute to smoke a cigarette, and when I turned around, you people just appeared out of nowhere. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer replied, holding her back. “You can’t go through.”

“But my son!”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Not wanting to become too distracted, Arthur forced his attention away from the civilians and returned his gaze to the PA entrance, ready to act in an instant if anyone emerged from the stairs that led down into the large transit hub that also doubled as a shopping center. All this waiting didn’t feel right. Although only a minute or so had passed, in a situation like this, it felt more like twenty. As if echoing his concern, the lieutenant’s voice chimed in on his radio.

“I don’t like the feel of this,” Lieutenant David said. “And it doesn’t look like the negotiator is making any progress. But, son, if we send you in, then you’ll be going in blind. We have no situational awareness. We don’t even know the number of potential targets. Do you think you can handle it?”

Arthur laughed confidently. “It's what we’re trained to do, sir. Breach and clear. Just give us the word.”

For a few seconds, there was silence on the other end of the radio, followed by the sound of a sigh. “You’re sure about this?”

“I am.”

“All right, then. In that case, here’s the order: teams one and two, move on—”

“Just what in the hell is going on?” a woman’s voice demanded, interrupting the lieutenant. “All units stand down—and explain to me what in God’s name you think it is you’re doing.”

Surprised, Arthur looked questioningly at his men, several of whom shrugged and returned equally confounded gazes. Who would think to do such a thing in the middle of a SWAT operation? How in the hell did she get on their channel?

“I could ask the same thing,” Lieutenant David said angrily. “I’m in the middle of an operation. Are you crazy? What the fuck!”

“What the fuck is right,” the woman replied. “Someone had better tell me what’s going on and why a SWAT operation is being conducted outside of Port Authority when I didn’t hear a goddamn thing about this until now. Who is speaking to me? Who’s in command over there? Who the hell ordered a—”

“—dispatch is this some kind of joke?” asked a deep, irate, and perplexed-sounding male voice, speaking over the female one. “Does somebody wanna explain to me why I got about ten different patrols all screamin’ at me saying there’s multiple 412’s flying over PA? Did Al Qaeda attack us while I was takin’ a shit? Fuck is going on here? I wanna know the son of a bitch who cut me out of the loop. Where the fuck is Robbie? Aviation Unit, do you copy?”

“I’m here, sarge,” said yet another new voice to the conversation. “But uh…I don’t know what you’re talking about. None of our 412’s are in the air right now.”

“Oh really, wise-guy? So what is it I’m seeing right now out my fuckin’ window then, huh? Robbie, I swear to God, you better tell me what is going on, because I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m gonna—”

“—I’m telling you, sarge! None of our 412’s are airborne right now. And like…we don’t even have five of those in the first place. So I don’t know what else to say about that. Also, we don’t fly those in Midtown, and in fact the only scheduled flight today is a patrol around Staten Island. So whatever it is you think you—”

“Are you people out of your fucking minds?” Lieutenant David burst in. “We have a hostage situation in progress and you’re clogging up the channel with all this horseshit? There will be hell to pay for this. You’re going to get people killed!”

“A hostage what?” the female voice chimed back in, sounding both enraged and bewildered. “And who the hell is this? Who am I even speaking with? Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on? You’re lieutenant…who?”

“David,” he fired back. “Responding to a hostage crisis at Port Authority. So do me a favor and—”

“Dispatch, this is Officer Jason Brody, Midtown South. I just pulled up at PA. There’s at least thirty uniforms here and a…SWAT team. What’s going on? I didn’t get a call about this.”

“Did you just say thirty uniformed officers?” asked a completely new voice. “From where? From which precinct? Who sent them there? Someone fucked up big time. What’s going on in Port Authority?”

The confusion seemed to get worse and worse by the second. With each passing moment, more and more voices entered the fray until so many people were speaking and yelling at each other at once that Arthur couldn’t keep up. All of them demanded to know who had ordered what and why. This was a total shit-show and an even greater embarrassment to the entire force. As representatives of the NYPD, this display of unprofessionalism and incompetence was totally unacceptable. They were supposed to be the best of the best—sophisticated!

Or at least more sophisticated than this, Arthur thought. Then he paused on that word.

Sophisticated…

More Sophisticated…

Soph…

Sophis….

Sophie…

SOPHIE! SOPHIE! SOPHIE!

Arthur felt tears fall down over his eyes, obscuring his vision and making it difficult to see out of the faceplate. It caused the whole of his vision to blur. He closed his eyes as he felt the pain of sadness tighten in his chest while the image of Sophie popped into his mind. She was such a beautiful woman with long locks of silky-black hair, delicate green eyes, and the cutest freckles he’d ever seen. She was the only thing he’d ever wanted in this world.

She left me. She left me, and I’ll never get her back. I loved her. I loved her so much. I…I need to get her back. I need to get her back somehow. I can’t live without her. I need her more than anything. I have to get her back! But I can only do that if I get this ship back on course before we crash!

His face became soaked as a violent wave broke against the ship’s bow and covered the entire deck in water. Captain Arthur Evans screamed at his second-in command, a scrawny little rat of a woman who looked more like a meth addict than a sailor.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? Turn starboard, Aunt Stacy. Now!”

Her wrists shook on the ship’s helm. It looked like she was struggling just to maintain her grip. The arthritis was likely to blame. Everything about her exuded weakness. It was hard to believe that this was the woman who had frightened him so much when he was little, and she’d…

I don’t want to think about that. Stop it!

Sometimes, Arthur actually pitied her. Sometimes, it was even possible to understand how the death of her sister had darkened her heart to the point she was willing to take it out on a little boy—her own nephew! But none of that mattered. None of it. Because they were about to crash!

There were island-sized rocks up ahead, and things weren’t looking good. The ship could collide any second. If they didn’t get out of the way, they would slam right into it. If that happened, it would almost certainly take on water, and while everyone aboard would no-doubt survive, the cargo he’d been paid handsomely to deliver would be ruined. But even more importantly, the ten crates of stolen Xanax he was smuggling would be lost to the ocean. And he couldn’t allow that to happen. He needed his Xanax. It was the only thing that helped him with the panic attacks.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Panic attacks.

Panic attacks.

“And that’s how she became famous at the age of sixty-five,” the fabulously dressed man with black hair and a spotted tie said to the camera. “Seriously, give the old ‘gal a round of applause—oh, and don’t forget: you can catch her newest film in theaters this August! Up next, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest for you. The one and only Arthur Evans is here, and we’re going to talk about his upcoming book: Overcoming Anxiety, a Journey to Recovery. Arthur, why don’t you come on over here and have a seat. It sure is good to meet ya.”

Arthur straightened his tie and then walked onto the set. The audience clapped as he nervously approached the couch adjacent to the desk where the host was sitting with his hands folded. There was a big smile on the man’s face, but Arthur wondered if it was a genuine display of kindness or just something to make him look good for the cameras.

I can’t believe I’m on TV. This is amazing. I never thought I’d come this far in life. I never thought this could happen to me.

As nervous as he might’ve been, Arthur was not going to allow a little bit of stage fright to get in the way of him living his dreams. He had so much to tell the world: there were so many things people needed to hear—things that could potentially help others who had been in his very situation. He was going to show the world that it was possible to overcome even the deepest fears.

I wonder how many people are in the audience, he thought.

It was difficult to see beyond the filming crew, as a blinding, consistently bright light obscured everything behind the large, rectangular camera that was pointed at him. Taking a seat next to the host, he smiled and placed both his hands on the rather comfortable seat’s armrests. He wanted to appear calm and collected.

“Thank you for being here today, Mr. Evans,” the host said, the smile never leaving his face.

Arthur leaned forward a bit and returned the smile. “Happy to be here, Travis. Thanks for having me.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” A brief moment passed, and then the host—Travis—asked, “So, you wrote this book for who, exactly?” As he spoke, he lifted up a bit off his chair and reached across his desk to grab a hardcover copy, which he then held up and showed to the cameras.

You know the answer. Don’t be nervous.

“I wrote it for all the guys—and I guess girls, too—like me who are suffering and don’t have anywhere to turn. The people who have to live in fear every day. You know, that like, at any moment, you could just break out into another panic attack.”

His reply seemed to resonate well with the audience, as they all began to heavily applaud. Arthur made brief eye contact with Travis, who said nothing and continued to smile. He continued to remain silent until the last audience member had finished clapping.

“That’s just wonderful to hear. And if I understand your story correctly, I believe you mention in the book that you were a college dropout, too?”

Arthur nodded. “I was indeed, Travis.” He adjusted his position in his seat. His back was beginning to ache and so were his sides. It reminded him of the way he felt when he’d been in bed for too long and needed to get up and move around.

“Arthur? Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. Just getting comfortable. Uh, what were we talking about?”

“Your…college experience?”

“Ah! Yeah, haha. Sorry. Okay, so…right. Yes. I dropped out of college. I was actually really good in school. I don’t like to brag, but I was at the top of my class. I had a perfect 4.0 GPA for my first two semesters. But then one day, I was driving home from school, and the car got stopped by some guys in masks. I uh…”

No. No, I don’t want to talk about that. Can we please move on to a different topic?

“Of course we can, Arthur.”

Wait, how do you hear me? I’m not speaking. I’m just thinking.

“This is on TV. That’s why. When you’re doing something on TV, the host can always hear your thoughts. You know that, right?”

“Oh, right. Of course. Can we move on to the next question, please?”

Terbis nodded enthusiastically. Wait, Terbis? Turvis? Who was he again? Wasn’t…he? Wasn’t there something about hostages and…?

“So, my next question is one the audience has been very eager to see you answer.” He placed the book closer to Arthur and then patted it with his open palm. Arthur was so proud to have written it. But when had he actually written it? He couldn’t quite remember.

“I’m all ears, Douglas.”

Douglas once again folded his hands on his desk, but this time, something in his facial expression changed. It was subtle, but Arthur was certain of it. His smile remained absolutely the same: completely unchanged from before. But his eyes took on a sinister, dark look that made Arthur stir uneasily in the chair, which itself was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. His back was really starting to hurt. It helped though when he turned over and pulled the blanket around himself a little more tightly. He needed to pee so badly. The construction crew across the street was being so loud. He needed to buy a new pillow.

Douglas pointed at the book. “On page seventy-five, you mention how you killed yourself with an intentional Xanax overdose. What was it like being dead?”

“Dead?” Arthur repeated the word. It sounded strange on his tongue. “What do you mean, ‘dead’?”

“You died, didn’t you?”

“Died? What’re you talking about? When did I die? GET DOWN!”

Arthur leapt out of his seat and fired four shots towards the back of the crowd, where four men in ski masks had just stormed the—

****

The world was blurry. Was he alive? His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see. No, wait, he could see—but only a little bit. He needed to use the bathroom so badly. He was so weak. He was so tired. He felt like he was floating. But his back ached. Where was he? What was happening?

Was his body moving somewhere? Yes. Yes, it was. He was walking towards his bathroom, but he was mostly navigating towards it on memory alone, since he could barely see anything in front of him. His foot hurt. He must’ve bumped it into something. Where was the toilet? He felt around for it. There it was.

He pulled down his pajama pants. Oh, God it felt good. He hoped he wasn’t missing his target. The last thing he wanted was to come in here later and see that his wall was yellow. As he urinated, he wiped his eyes with his left hand. It only slightly improved his vision. He could still barely see. Hell, he could barely walk straight, either. He couldn’t recall a single moment in his life when he was as sleepy as he was right now. It almost felt like he’d been drugged.

Oh, shit. I was drugged. I drugged myself. How am I not dead?

In truth, he didn’t even care. He felt incredibly disoriented and his head was spinning. He knew he was walking, but he wasn’t sure how he knew that he was walking, because he could barely see, and he could only slightly perceive the motion of each step. Somehow, though, he found his bed. Then he crawled back inside and pulled the covers over himself. He was so tired that he didn’t even know if he was lying on his left side or his right. His back hurt. But he was too tired to get up. Live or die, he didn’t care anymore as long as he could continue to sleep. He didn’t even care about the noisy, annoying neighbor in the apartment next door who always talked so loudly on his phone.

“Babe, are you okay? Nah, nah, it’s all good. I’m only calling because I just heard on the news that some messed-up shit was happening over at Port Authority. Aren’t you near there? Oh, for real? So like, is it a terrorist attack or…? They’re not saying? Someone on Twitter is saying he saw cops disappearing into thin air or some shit. I dunno. Huh? I don’t know, babe. I just read it online.”

Arthur was so exhausted he barely even heard the jackass. He fell quickly into a deep slumber. Dreams came and went. Most were insignificant. He found himself walking in a field. Then, the next moment he was flying through the sky. Then there were a whole bunch more, none of which left any particular impression on him. In fact, he couldn’t even really recall any of them. They were basically forgotten the moment one ended and the next began. Most lasted only a few seconds, too.

One moment he was back in High School, sitting in his old seat at the back of class during second-period English. The next moment he was in the cafeteria. Then back in class. Then back in the cafeteria. After that, it was the football field. Or…no, wait, maybe it was back to the classroom again. Or was there someplace else? His memory kept wiping away everything so quickly that it was impossible to know where he’d been or where he was going. All the while, somewhere in the background, he could faintly hear the sound of himself snoring. Was he sleeping in class? No, of course he wasn’t. He was sitting right here in the cafeteria eating lunch. So what was that sound, then? He was sure he heard snoring.

Wait a minute…

As unlikely as it seemed, somehow, the sound of his own snoring triggered a monumentally important understanding within him. All at once, everything drastically changed. After an indeterminate amount of time bouncing around from place to place, the seconds-long dream sequences abruptly stopped, and he found himself on a busy street in Manhattan. And it was here, in this exact, precise moment that Arthur Evans finally became aware of his current state of being: he became aware that he was asleep.

I’m asleep. But I’m still dreaming? Holy shit. I’ve heard about this. I’ve always wanted this to happen!

Arthur had read stories on the internet about lucid dreamers: people who were self-aware that they were dreaming and could thus explore their own dreams. There had been a few occasions in his life where he’d realized he was in a dream, but in all of these cases, he’d always woken up within a few seconds of this realization.

But not this time? Is the Xanax keeping me here?

A jolt of excitement shot through him as he took a moment to appreciate just how real everything looked. Was this all his brain’s doing? This was fucking incredible. He was awe-struck. It reminded him of the time he’d worn a VR headset, only the “picture” quality was even clearer.

All around him, he could see cars, buses, taxis, and thousands of people. He could see every detail of every building, sidewalk, sewer grate, and the tops of impossibly tall skyscrapers. He could see Times Square. He could see a man walking his dog. He could even see the cracks and imperfections in the pavement below his feet.

And then something happened—something that was so unique to him that he simply had no past experience to draw from with which to explain or rationalize it. The world around him was no longer just “clear” to his eyes, but in a sudden, somewhat disorienting flicker of light and color, it became literally indistinguishable from the world as seen by his waking eyes. But there was more! He could now hear, feel, and unfortunately, smell the city that he was in. There was only one word to describe the state of awareness that he had entered in that moment, and that word was awake.

What is this? What’s happening? Am I really here?

The confusion was so powerful that it sent a wave of anxious jittering straight into his chest. There was no mistaking it. He was awake. The feeling of being awake was not something that could be mistaken. Sure, people could be confused about whether or not they were dreaming while they were dreaming, but no one was ever really confused about whether or not they were awake. You knew when you were awake. And this? This was awake.

And outside. I’m outside. I need to get away!

He gasped. His heart began to pound faster in his chest. His fingers twitched, his knees weakened, and a fear so great rose within him that he had to suppress the urge to scream in pure terror. He couldn’t be outside or he’d have a panic attack—right?

Terrified, he waited for it to begin. In fact, the fear coursing through him was likely the first symptom. It would only get worse from here, as the weakening of his knees was just the start. Pretty soon, he would be on the ground clutching his chest. Or at least…that was what he expected to happen. Yet, as he continued to stand in the middle of the sidewalk while impatient New Yorkers navigated around him, he found himself wondering why it wasn’t…well, you know, “happening.”

What’s going on? Arthur wondered. Am I…okay?

A moment ago, he would have thought that he had maxed out the amount of confusion the human brain had the capacity to feel at a single time. He’d have been wrong. Right now, in the most literal sense possible, Arthur abjectly did not know just what in the fuck was going on at all. Not even a clue.

Was he really awake? Was he still asleep? Had he teleported here somehow? Had someone kidnaped him in his sleep and brought him here? Who knew? Really, who knew? In fact, he was now so baffled as to his current state of being that he couldn’t even say for sure if he was actually still alive. For all he knew, he might’ve just died in his sleep and become a ghost.

“Hey, excuse me. Um, sir? Can you see me?” he asked a heavy-set guy wearing a brown tank top and a pair of biker shorts.

The man curled his nose at Arthur and regarded him with a plain look of disgust. “Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t think I wanna.” With that, he continued on his way.

Once again, Arthur’s heart banged furiously in his chest. What did this mean? He wasn’t sure other than it meant he could likely rule out the possibility of him being a ghost or this being the afterlife.

Did I just dream that? he asked himself. Did I make him say that with my mind? That woman over there riding a bicycle. Is she riding that because my brain is making her and this is a dream? Or is this real?

Well, if this was a dream, it was just as much “July” here as it was in the real world. That much was immediately apparent as a pool of sweat built on his forehead. It was only after he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt that he became cognizant of the fact that he was even wearing a shirt.

Glancing down, he confirmed with his eyes that he was indeed no longer in his pajamas. He was in a navy blue, short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of jeans that, just from the sensation of tightness on his ankles, should not have been possible for him to fit into at his current weight.

Wait, I remember this shirt. These jeans, too.

Running his hand down both of his sides, he recalled that he used to wear this shirt to the gym back when he used to weightlift. And the jeans...yeah, he used to wear these to college, didn’t he? A sense of wonder came upon him as he awkwardly slid his hand under the bottom of his shirt. At this point, he didn’t give a damn who saw him or what they thought. This was New York City, after all. He’d once seen a naked man running away from the police with the wooden end of a plunger stuck up his asshole. What was this compared to that?

I’m…the old me.

His stomach felt strange to the touch. It seemed like he had abs again. The big belly he’d grown during his self-inflicted isolation was nowhere to be found on him. This was great. No, this was better than great. This was the best— or rather only—good thing to happen to him in more than a year! All at once, a rush of exhilaration soared through him, but it was entirely short-lasting. His wave of excitement crashed against an even bigger wave of rational thinking.

This had to be a dream. It couldn’t not be one. His body and his clothing surely proved it. There was no sense in allowing himself to feel any kind of happiness, because this wasn’t real, and it would soon go away when he woke up. All this was—all it had to be—was some super-lucid dream that—

“Ouch, fuck!” he cried out as some prick, emo-looking kid on a skateboard slammed directly into his shin. “Watch where you’re going, dude! Jesus Christ!”

Almost falling over from the impact, the kid managed to steady himself and regain his balance. Turning around to face Arthur, he fired off an ugly look, which he then followed up with a middle finger. “Don’t just stand there like an idiot when you see people coming, asshole!”

It hurts. It actually hurts.

Bending down to rub his shin, Arthur ignored the little shit and marveled at the fact that he could feel this much pain in a dream. But that, of course, assumed it was a dream, which surely it had to be, right? But if so, then how could he explain all of these true-to-life sensations he was experiencing? He could actually feel the summer heat. He could smell the rotten city smells—but also the sweet ones from the bakery right across the street near the Citibank. He could also feel pain. He could interact with people. He could piss them off, too, apparently. If this was all a dream, then this was Matrix-level shit. But if it wasn’t a dream, then how could he explain his change of clothing and body shape?

Neither explanation made sense. Something was really not right here. He needed to get to the bottom of this.