Zero Sum

AUTHOR-

-CREDITS & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS-

Zero Sum: The cause and effect ideology that any gain acquired by one is directly counterbalanced by an equal lose suffered by another.

Created & Written by:

Michael Toy

Edited by:

Susan R. Walton

Technical Support:

Andrew Toy, Tyler Christ & Susan R. Walton

Test Readers:

Tyler Christ, Caesar Mercante, Christina Downey,

Andrew Toy & Susan R. Walton

Cover Art provided by:

Susan R. Walton & Tyler Christ

Back Cover Photography:

Patrick Robinson

Contact information:

Michael Toy:            mikesmightypen@gmail.com

Patrick Robinson:      www.patrickrobinsonphotography.com

A woman much wiser than I once told me, No one person is an island.  With that being said, many people were involved both directly and indirectly in this project and, without them, this novel would never have seen the light of day.  By no means is this a complete list, however I would like to thank the following people for their assistance, advice and friendship:

First and foremost, Mom and Dad - for a lifetime of love, support and a lot of patience! 

Andrew Toy - for not only being a kick-ass brother and good friend, but for also being the only guy that would answer the phone at two in the morning when I couldn’t get my computer to turn on!

Tim and Anh Zulinski, Sara Renee, Christina Larsen, Darla Crawley, Chris Murphy, Demetrios Livizos, Keith Russell, Crissy, Mare and Kelly Downey, Ann, Louise and Sharon Brown, Rich Lewendowski, Moose Webster, Pat and Rose Canfield, The Walton Family; George, Becky, Geo III, Celene, Josh, Shannon and Ron.

But, more than anyone else, I’d like to offer massive amounts of gratitude and thanks to the love of my life and my best friend, Sue Walton, who taught me that a dream without action is nothing more than a wish. Sue, I owe all of this to you! Thank you for being such an integral and positive part of my life.

In loving memory of Virginia Brown and Wes Baldwin.

For my children, Chris and Amy, with all of my love. - Dad

Copyright 2013, Susan R. Walton. All rights reserved.

-Introduction-

A roving pack of Lida Fighters had set a large fire somewhere in the city which had burned across the night sky since the early evening.  Now, the blaze was finally beginning to wane, like a serpent recoiling back into the seclusion of its subterranean labyrinth home.  It must have been later than three in the morning and all that was left now were the ghosts; burning embers slowly lofting through the heavy summer air and the invisible tentacles of a smoky tang which stretched across the once prodigious metropolis to meet me for a sleepless, late night rendezvous over drinks. 

I still felt alone; hollow and abandoned.  Even when I closed my eyes to hide from my current surroundings - the murky and bleak interior of an abandoned and dilapidated apartment building - it still took all of my mental facilities and my present drunken state to let the woodsy essence that surrounded me fool my other four senses into making me believe that I was somewhere else - somewhere far away - not only in distance, but in time.  Memories flickered through, rattling off like sections of railroad tracks as the journey  - a brief return to safer times - carried me back home.  Camping trips with hotdogs sizzling over an open flame.  Evenings spent watching my father’s slow decent into inebriated abandonment through the red glow of the fireplace.  And then I was pulled back again.  Present time.  Current environment.  I just couldn’t keep the mental facade going for too long and was immediately banished back to the austere obscurity of the modern world in which I was now a prisoner of. 

At some point, mankind in its entirety had seemed to have fallen off track.  Society had finally done it - the one and only thing it had been destined to accomplish since the beginning.  The addictiveness of power and the vanity of death had finally taken their ultimate toll.  And in the end, as if in retort, the planet seemed to have experienced a sort of rebirth, allowing nature to reclaim all which man had so unfairly subjugated for so long. 

When the bloodshed and death had finally subsided, glimmers of human life gradually began to resurface like flickers of light reflecting off of the scattered shards of a broken pane of glass.  I was among that small, insignificant group; the pathetic remnants of what had once been the world’s greatest dynasty.  I was one of the lucky ones - if you choose to use that word - one of the ones fate had chosen through a series of coincidences and improbabilities to regroup, rebuild and repopulate.  For myself, lucky is probably one of the last words I would choose to portray my current quandary and I believe it is fairly safe to surmise that my fellow survivors would tend to agree with me.  All of those souls lost at the brink are whom I consider to be the lucky ones - the chosen ones.  The experience of the current situation is enough to make even the most devout soul question, if not wholeheartedly doubt, the existence of God and I for one am far beyond the point of retaining any belief structure for The Creator whatsoever.  Even with that in mind, if there was a heaven and a hell, I would surely choose either of the two rather than to continue on in this land of the forsaken for one more day.  Even the beckoning flames of Hades seem more attractive than the manmade torment I am now mandated to call home.

As far as the survivors are concerned, we are a mix matched collection; a cross gathering of lost souls who have all been depleted to the same unsavory level of existence.  If war is intended to be nothing more than the great equalizer, than it concluded with the utmost success; for us, the survivors, are no longer an inventory of the have’s and the have not’s.  Instead, we are a people consisting of the have not’s and the once had’s. 

In the end, there can be only on common bond which truly unites us all together, that being we all come with a story.  I choose to call it baggage.  Still, regardless of what you dub it, we all have one; an anthology of events all culminating in being in the right place at the right time when the sky finally went dark.  There had been far too few refuges built to protect mankind in its entirety.  Even fewer had been dug deep enough into the earth and built strong enough to protect their inhabitants from the lethal aggression that rained down upon them.  Many of those communes which did somehow endure the relentless waves of violence perished not soon after, not having had been adequately stocked with the necessities needed to sustain those cramped into those quarters for the entire duration.  There had been no proper choosing in who would perish and who would live on; no drawing or lottery.  It was only the most cunning and heartless who survived; those who had felt it just to put themselves ahead of their fellow man in acts of theft, trickery and murder.  If they had known then what they have most surely come to realize by now, I doubt that any one of them would have chosen the path they had taken and would have, instead, taken their chances in the next life rather than continuing on to the existence that awaited them here on earth.  To that end, I consider myself somewhat unique amongst my brethren; my choice to either live or die had been taken away from me. If I had been given the opportunity to choose, I would have much rather not lived to witness what would become of mankind.

Since the time we reemerged from those shelters to regain control of whatever was left of the world, some have been most forthcoming with their own tale of survival. To them, I suppose it’s a way to spend the time as we all wait impatiently for our lives to come to an end. For others, they have found their time much better spent relentlessly pursuing peripheral pleasures in the greatest of excesses. In a way, they have found this new world the greatest of all excuses to conduct themselves just how they had always dreamt of back in the days while humanity was still intact. Alcohol, drugs, sex; it was all fair game in a world with no order, no justice and no God.

For me, I have found neither direction to be one of comfort or even synthetic pleasure.  For me, living for today only emphasizes the fact that none of us has a tomorrow to look forward to or to even speak of.  Meanwhile, thinking about the past twists my mind into misshaped contortions of shame and regret.  You see, that is the other thing that I feel truly separates me from the other rogue survivors.  As far as I can tell, they were all victims of an unjust and total war.  There had been no warning for them.  By the time they had realized that things were truly getting out of hand, it was too late for them to do anything but find a shelter deep enough to bury themselves in.  My story is different.  I had had all of the warning signs laid out for me to read but had been blinded by my own arrogance and inability to comprehend them.  My story is one of failure.  The ultimate failure. 

-1- Conspiring

To tell the whole story the right way, it’s best that I should start at the very beginning, before the pain started…

The tale of my failure began without me having any concept of what foul endeavors were afoot. In fact, it would be a very long time before I finally woke up and realized just what was at stake and, by that time, it would be far too late for me to execute any action to correct the damage already done or all that was yet to happen. It was due to both my arrogance as well as my disbelief in myself that I walked into this situation completely blind and unprepared. In my argument, however, the first few signs were so subtle and understated that I would like to think that anyone would have passed them by.

The first inkling that something of colossal consequence was bearing down on the world from the distant horizon came with a new work detail I had been assigned. Captain Baker, my immediate superior, called me into his office to assign me this undertaking personally.

It’s not your usual assignment, Baker admitted from behind his heavy, wooden desk. He stirred uncomfortably in his high backed leather chair and sipped his coffee while I sat before him.

His words came as nothing more that a faint whisper in my ears as I glanced over the file he had produced for me. Security detail, I read out loud, mocking both him and the words printed on the dossier I held in my hand. This sounds more like a rookie assignment.

Baker ran his chubby fingers through his thinning hair; a habit he had carried with him since before I had even known him. It was his way of keeping busy while hastily thinking of what to say next. I tried to move as many workloads around as possible to try and keep you off of it. Believe me, you’re not the only one inconvenienced by this whole thing. I’m not necessarily thrilled with the idea of having one of the best detectives in my precinct off the streets for four consecutive nights.

You can’t hide me away in some dark corner for a week? I asked.

Baker tightened his lips while he shook his head. The feds dug in too deep this time. They’ve demanded to have all personnel accounted for during the time of the detail. Anyone not currently up to their elbows in a case is getting yanked; no exceptions.

The timing was all off.  Had this security detail come a week earlier, I would’ve been exempted without a second thought.  For the past two months I had been tracking the movements of a local drug trafficker down on the south side.  Things went too good this time; I had given the DA all of the evidence they needed to make their case and the bust went down without incident.  With the security detail rounding the corner the very next week it would be nearly impossible for me to find some new case with which to bury myself in deep enough on such a short order.  This was one of those times I wished I wasn’t so expendable. 

I stood up from my chair, prepared to leave Baker’s office, but he flagged me back and asked for me to sit for another minute. I want to save you from another trip up the stairs, he explained.

What do you mean? I asked, taking this as a cue to light up a much deserved cigarette.

You were about to go back down to your desk and read over that file, he predicted, referring to the work detail he had handed me only minutes ago. You’d be back up here in five minutes wanting me to fill in the blanks for you, so let me save you the trip.

I leaned back in my chair. Alright. Enlighten me.

Once again, Baker stirred in his place. Well, John, the truth of the matter is the fact that I don’t know much more than what that file is saying. He shook his head and continued on. In all honesty, this whole thing smells funny to me. I’ve already probed around for more intelligence, but all I got was the run around.

What’s so special about this that the feds feel it necessary to stonewall you? I asked. We’ve always played by their rules in the past and helped out when they needed us.

I know, Baker replied, but this is one hell of a gathering. You haven’t even read the list of guests scheduled to attend this little get-together.

I took a drag from my cigarette. Who do they have? Donald Duck?

Baker smirked. The President of The United States, for one.

I paused and glanced through the work detail. Impressive, I remarked.

I know.  And that’s just for starters; the United Nations Building is going to be jam packed with all kinds of high profile people. Presidents, ambassadors, prime ministers; they’ve got them all scheduled to attend.

It’s funny that I haven’t heard anything about this on the news. Whatever this is, it sounds big. In all honesty, I had never been one to probe the media for every last tidbit of information. I kept tabs on the local happenings which could impact me and my work, but I rarely burdened myself with much of anything beyond that point. Still, I doubted that news of a summit meeting of this magnitude would’ve gone unnoticed even by me - especially due to the fact that it was taking place in my own backyard.

No one has heard anything about this on the news, Baker informed. There hasn’t been any coverage of it whatsoever. It’s hushed up and I think it was intended to be that way.

I know a lot of people on this list have some pretty hefty prices on their heads, I noted. Do you think that the fear of assassination attempts has forced them to keep things under wraps?

Could be, Baker agreed, but I think it goes deeper than that.

How so? I asked.

While I was doing my little snooping around, one obstacle I kept running into was the feds’ disinterest in disclosing what this whole summit is even about. Either the people I spoke to didn’t know the details themselves or they did a damn good job in pretending not to know. So far, the intended subject matter is being kept just a tight lipped as the meeting itself.

I took a moment to thumb through the long list of people I was being called to help protect. There were several names I knew at sight and still more that I recognized from my minimal media intake, though I failed to recall their exact significance. Soon, however, I found an incongruity which I could not justify. Removing my pen from my breast pocket, I made check marks by several names and then lightly tossed the work detail back across the desk to Baker. These were names that I easily recognized, though they seemed quite out of place when surrounded by so many political leaders. What stake do these people have in it all? I asked.

Baker glanced at my marks and nodded.  I know; when I first went over the list I noticed them, too.  Presidents and CEOs of some of the worlds largest and most powerful software companies; they seem out of place on the list, don‘t they?  I realize that they have a lot of sway to throw around, but they possess no real political power.  I have no idea why they would be included in the summit.  He tossed the work detail back over to me.  Just another part of the mystery.

I could tell that I wasn’t going to be able to bleed anymore information from Captain Baker on this matter. I trusted him and knew that he would be one of the last people ever to admit that he didn’t have all of the answers unless that was truly the case. Moreover, I knew that I was being given no say in the matter and me continuing my attempt to finagle my way out of the charge would be futile. I knew that if Baker could have prevented me from having to take part I the security detail, those buttons would have already been pushed. As far as I could see, the wheels were already turning and it was pointless to keep Baker on the hot seat any further.

Once again, I stood up, signifying my inclination to conclude our little meeting by snuffing out the remainder of my cigarette in the ashtray Baker kept on the corner of his desk. I don’t know; I guess it sounds a little interesting, but I’d rather be doing detective work for those four days.

I understand, Baker sympathized. But, look on the bright side; it’ll be over before you know it and then you’ll be back on the street.

Not soon enough, I remarked as I exited his office to return to my desk downstairs.

I knew that Baker’s hand had been forced in keeping me at the feds’ disposal and there was nothing either one of us could do to prevent it.  For the time being, his greatest challenge would be to keep me from finding another case to bury myself in.  I supposed the likelihood of this happening was doubtful, though; with the lid closed on my most recent case, I knew it would be several weeks before I would be expected to appear in court to testify as the arresting officer.  The lag in work in the meantime would weigh heavy on my shoulders but I knew it would come to pass soon enough. 

At home that night, conversation over dinner was largely supplied by my wife, Angie.  Dawn, our daughter, for one, said little aside from her customary requests to be excused from the table prior to the time an adequate amount of food had been taken from her plate and consumed.  The fact that tonight’s vegetable was spinach made the little girl’s requests all the more frequent as well as futile.  Meanwhile, my wife rambled on with the archetypal happenings of a day in the life of a modern New Jersey suburban housewife.  Despite my attempts to disallow my mind from wondering off, I soon found myself thinking more about my day at the precinct rather than who she had happened to bump into in the supermarket or how much change she had found in my pants pockets whilst doing laundry. 

Finally came the portion of the supper ritual that was more rehearsed than any other part. Upon concluding her review of the day, Angie paused and asked How was your day, John?

It was a question I could easily recall my mother asking my father night-after-night while I sat contemplating over a plate of unwelcome vegetables just as Dawn was doing now. In my practiced reply, I responded with my ritualistic Just fine.

I could also remember how my father answered my mother’s inquiry with the same brief and nondescript response and how he had inadvertently spawned my childhood desire to grow up and become an officer just like he was. The absence of any detail in my father’s responses had given my childhood mind ample room to invent my own reality of what life on the force meant. Most of what I had envisioned back then had been comprised of wild and exciting adventures which always ended with my father being the hero of the day. Due to this invented persona I held for my father, I longed to follow him and to grow into exactly what he was.

It wasn’t until I actually joined the force that I realized my father’s exact intent when giving such short and characterless reviews of the day. As a detective, my days were mostly comprised of more time spent behind my desk, going over files and interviewing witnesses rather than apprehending the model "bad guy in some high speed car chase or western-styled shootout. On the rare occasion when my day actually contained such circumstances, I found it impossible to retell the story to my family without causing them undue stress and fear for my safety. In the end, after factoring everything together, Just fine" was a perfect response, regardless of what the day had truly consisted of.

"Can I be excused now?" Dawn requested from her seat at the table.  This was the third time she had asked this, taking small bites of spinach between each request, hoping that it would be just enough to please her mother.  It was a game the two played on a nightly basis and I could almost pantomime Angie’s projected response. 

Take two more big bites and then you can be excused, Angie bartered.

Dawn accepted the conditions of her promised release and hastily gulped down the two requested forkfuls of spinach just to simply get it over with as quickly as humanly possible. With that, Angie nodded and Dawn scurried off to the adjacent family room. The sounds of evening cartoon shows on the television quickly started up, infiltrating the kitchen with an obnoxious ensemble of "bonks and bops."

With Dawn finally at a safe distance away, I lit up my ritualistic post-dinner cigarette. Angie remained at her place across the table from me, residing over a collection of dirty dishes, glasses and silverware that she would attend to in due time. After enough time was allotted for me to get in my first few crucial drags, she spoke. What’s on your mind, Mr. Murphy? she asked in her most inquisitive voice.

Mr. Murphy was a pet name of hers for me that she reserved and used only when she thought there was something truly vexing on my mind which she would have to genuinely probe me for if she ever wanted me to finally unburden myself. On occasion, she would interrogate me under the misassumption that something was worrying me when, in reality, nothing really was. In that situation, I would have to come up with something - usually by making a minor situation into something more than it really was - just to help her prove herself right. If I failed to do so, she would continue to grill me indefinitely.

Baker gave me a new work detail today, I replied, forcing my words to sound as it I was truly admitting to something of importance. …Well, me and about half of the force.

Must be something important, Angie remarked.

I took a pull from my cigarette and flicked the ashes onto my dinner plate before continuing on. Abnormal is more like it, I corrected. For a moment, my mind went back to the conversation I had with Baker that morning. Although he never mentioned that this was something I shouldn’t talk about outside of the force, the fact that this was a hushed situation had been quite clear. I felt safe in confiding in Angie, though. Besides, who was she going to tell?

Abnormal? Angie asked, repeating my word. How so?

I shrugged if only to indicate that I was not at all overly interested in the whole thing. It’s more like a babysitting job than anything else. A bunch of hotshots are invading the city for a get together and we have been tapped to watch over the thing.

Is that all? Angie asked, probing even deeper.

It means more night work in Manhattan for me, I explained, trying to sound sincere while the thought of working nights always bothered Angie more than it did me.

Oh, it’s at night, Angie replied. I see.

Four nights of it, I added. Next week, from Monday night all the way through to Thursday.

Sounds pretty major, Angie commented.

Your guess is as good as mine. Honestly, I don’t know much about it; nobody seems to know much.

You don’t sound too interested in it, Angie observed.

It’ll probably be pretty low impact stuff. I don’t think the public was made aware of it, so I doubt that there will be much of a commotion.

Why the hush?

I don’t know; it probably has something to do with all of the delegates scheduled to appear.

Like who?

Well, the president is signed on.

You mean the President of The United States? Angie asked, her interest instantly peaked.

Yeah, I replied, the president - along with a whole list of others from around the word.

Must be big. Do you know what they are meeting about?

I have no idea. In all honesty, I’m not overly concerned about it. I figure that these sort of meetings take place all the time without the public ever knowing about them. Life has always continued on and it will this time around, too; I’m sure of it. The only thing that makes this one any different is that it happens to be taking place in my precinct‘s jurisdiction; that’s all. I‘m sure no one will even feel the difference once all is said and done

That night, while I sat at the kitchen table enjoying my cigarette with my stomach engorged with spinach, I had never been more wrong about anything in my life.

On the first night of the summit, I signed in and was stationed at a lesser known entrance to the U.N. Building, located in the rear. This was to be the receiving area for all attending delegates. The entrance was far less ostentatious than what I am sure many of the attendees were accustomed to, but all that came seemed more than willing to sacrifice their typically implicit public personas in order to obtain just one more ounce of concealment. I observed my surroundings while waiting for the first delegates to arrive. It was more than apparent that security was considered beyond essential as I saw armed guards from all sides taking their places shoulder-to-shoulder along the walls of the narrow corridors just beyond the doors going into the rear building entrance. In fact, it seemed like no available resource had been left untapped as I watched police, FBI, CIA and military, as well as privately run security forces, sweep through the building.

Finally, the scheduled time came - 8pm - and I was called to take my place.  I had been stationed just outside the receiving door, limiting my presence to little more than a glorified doorman of sorts, but placing me in the perfect place to observe all who had been invited to take part in the summit.  What followed was a long, elaborate but subdued parade of delegates brushing past my post as they hurriedly walked into the building.  They mostly arrived in the back of unassuming Mercedes and Cadillacs, all with tinted windows and filled with security teams.  Their lackluster arrivals only seemed to add to what seemed to be the overall demand of the night which was to not draw undue attention to themselves, even while traveling the crowded streets of Manhattan.  After the last delegate had arrived safely and entered, the doors to the U.N. Building were closed tightly, with me remaining outside.  From that moment on, whatever took place within those walls for the next eight hours, I could not even envision.

In the end, there had only been a handful of attendees I could actually recognize on sight and, without announcements of any sort, I could only assume that the others were equally high powered men and women.  The only ones that I recognized had been those any schoolchild could name; The president, along with the Prime Ministers from The United Kingdom and Japan, as well as software company CEOs. The other delegates appeared to be a broad cross section based on their assumed countries of origin, though I failed to be able to put names to them all.

The next eight hours passed slowly. It was an assumed statute that unnecessary conversation between security personnel was to be kept at bare minimum, leaving long and weighty periods of silence, broken only by the faint but steady buzz of city clamor taking place just on the opposite side of the building. Through the night, the only thing I ever had to look forward to was my next five minute break when I was permitted to breach from formation, step away and have a cigarette. Even then I was not allowed to wander too far off or to be seen by the unperceptive public passing only an alleyway’s distance away along the sidewalk.

The meeting ended like clockwork.  At four in the morning, the first in a long precession of low key but fancy cars pulled around to the door, to receive its assigned attendees.  They then turned the corner, quickly disappearing into the entanglement of perpetual traffic that awaited them on the busy New York street.  As they passed my post, in no way was a word ever uttered as a seemingly required hush muted the delegates.

After the last in attendance had made their exodus, the security force was permitted to leave in an orderly - and deliberate - one-by-one fashion.  Once again, not calling the public’s attention to the summit was beyond essential and I’m sure some feared that the sight of a horde of security crews exiting the building all at once would undermine the concern. 

I was one of the last remaining before being permitted to sign off and leave.  It was nearly five thirty by then.  As I drove towards the Holland Tunnel for home, a pink blush in the sky threatened an early sunrise.  I finally arrived home, climbed out of my uniform and crawled into bed while Angie was almost too busy preparing Dawn’s lunchbox to notice me at all.  After an entire night of standing idly by, I had arrived home more exhausted than from a week’s worth of drug busts and this was only the first of four nights out.

It was mid-afternoon before I awoke. Dawn had already returned from school by that time and was playing in her room, following Angie’s order to remain quiet in order for me to sleep in unchallenged peace. My body ached slightly from the abnormal hours which had suddenly been thrust upon me but I was otherwise well rested. What weighed more heavily on me was the burden of knowing that I had nowhere nearly completed my security task at the UN Building and that I was expected to report for my second night in a few short hours.

Angie was in the kitchen preparing the family’s dinner, which would well enough be my breakfast. Out of consideration for me, Angie was busy cooking eggs and bacon; the type of meal I would be expecting before work during my normal hours. Angie smiled at me as I passed her and sat down at the kitchen table. The coffee will be ready in a minute, she promised. I was about to wake you; I didn’t want you to sleep through your security night.

If only that could be the case, I replied with an over dramatic moan.

Angie seemed quite undaunted by my indication that the previous night’s experience had been anything less than utterly enlightening and quickly took her seat across from me to start drilling me for all of the details. So what was it like?

What; security detail? It was a bunch of standing around and waiting, not much else, I reported with all honesty.

Did you actually see him? Angie asked, almost capricious with her curiosity.

See who?

The president. Did you really see him?

I sighed. Yes, I saw him. I saw the whole damn parade of them. Nothing was ever said to me, though.

So, what was it all about, anyway? What’s the big secret?

I knew my honest response to her queries would be considered a bit of a disappointment, but I knew better than to fabricate some staggering narrative simply to please her curiosity. So, as much as an anticlimax as it was, I recounted things exactly as they had happened from my perspective. Who knows? I replied. I didn’t get the chance to go in that deep. Honestly, I think that they could have gotten away with only a fraction of the security force they had on hand. Having me and my precinct there was a bit of an overkill.

Too bad, Angie shrugged. Look on the bright side, though; if it was really that bad, at least you only have three more nights of it and then you’ll be back to your normal police duties.

"Three more nights. Her words taunted me in my mind and I said nothing more on the matter, abruptly ending the conversation in exchange for more customary discussions. Three more nights." It could have been three more years and ended just as quickly.

The following three nights followed the precise model set forth by the first.  At eight o’clock sharp, the cars started to roll in off of the street, dispensing their cargo; dignitaries, both foreign and domestic, along with software head honchos, all arriving with their own entourage of security personnel.  Once again, the doors were closed after the final attendant arrived disallowing anyone to enter or depart until the early hours of the following morning.  As I stood in the artificial glow of the florescent lighting from above, I looked around and observed the other personnel on hand.  Those who were trained, professional security guards stood like solemn statues while I and my fellow police brethren shifted in their spots, unaccustomed to such long periods of seamless inactivity.  Any charge I may have felt the previous night as the president and other identifiable political heads passed by my position had already paled into discontent and boredom.

Back home, Angie incessantly pressed me for more information than I was able to give, not due to any unwillingness to offer insight but rather due to the fact that I, myself, knew nothing of the dealings taking place within the hollowed halls of the building. Angie seemed much more engrossed by the whole situation than I. She held strong to the belief that I was bearing witness to a true happening while I doubted the impact any of this matter would eventually have on us. To make matters all the worse for me was the fact that, after spending eight hours engaged in this business, I was much less than keen on reliving the whole non-experience for her. I quickly began to long for the end of the forth night when I would be set free to return to my regular routine and, when that time came, I welcomed it with opened arms.

As you might expect, my line of work would regularly take me to all ends of the twenty-four hour clock but it was rare that I had to work four consecutive graveyard shifts. After the summit had finally ended, I took the opportunity to enjoy a three day weekend for a much deserved break and the prospect of readjusting my internal clock to a more regular sleeping routine. Angie quickly grew tired of attempting to extract any further details from me and soon the whole summit fiasco was a mute point. By that Sunday, it was all but completely forgotten.

Back at the precinct Monday morning, there was the predictable amount of water cooler clamor regarding the summit.  Evidently Angie was not the only person prying for more information to the point where my own disinterest seemed to set me apart from the pack.  In the break room, I listened intently to the other officers’ theories and thoughts for a moment while I sipped on a Styrofoam cup of coffee before heading back to my desk for the first time in a week.  A crisp new file had materialized in my bin and it had my name all over it.  Resting my coffee on the corner of my desk, I leaned back in my chair with the file in hand.  A gang-related homicide had taken place in Harlem over the weekend and it seems that a divergence in a drug deal had been the antagonist in the murder.  I sunk further back into my chair, almost relieved to be back in the game, and began to read over the file’s notes.

In the months that followed, unsubstantiated rumors began to come to light that other summit meetings were taking place elsewhere, in other key locations dotted around the globe.  World leaders were being independently traced to common rendezvous points but no further information could be obtained.  Media interest began to pick up in spades as a more conscious public awareness began to spread.  Some meetings were rumored to have taken place in such nations as Japan, Russia and Africa but none of the summits could be confirmed and news outlets were met with the same cold shoulder at all occasions.  As far as anyone could tell, the roster of attendees seemed to be the same that I had witnessed during the New York gatherings.  There was also rumors that leaders from the Middle East had joined these assemblies but there was absolutely no way to verify that.  Still, even with the lack of details the public had to go on, the media hounds dogged these alleged secret summits and they soon became the topic of every televised round table discussion. 

Several months later - I believe it was sometime in mid-September - I was once again called into Captain Baker’s office.  Although these summits did not even exist on any official level, New York had once again been assigned to host its second meeting of the sort.  Once again, local police precincts were being called to assist in the security of the affair and my name had again been attached as one of the chosen ones.

Public interest in the summits was now at a fever pitch along with an unanimous outcry for more information.  It was hard to ascertain what propelled the trend; if it was speculation or mistrust in the world governments or an uninhibited trepidation of things to come.  For whatever reason, it seemed that no one feared to have their voices be heard.  The most recent summits held at other points around the world had been plagued by seas of humanity; people standing at the gates demanding to either be let in or to have the secret information being withheld let out.  In some cases, the protests had become violent and force had to be asserted to still the masses of people.  Arrests had been made and people had been wounded, though none of the injuries had proven to be fatal as of yet.  As an antagonist, these summits still were not officially even taking place which only seemed to frustrate the people all the more.  No one could expect that a city such as New York would not follow suit with its own demonstrations which meant that, unlike my security duty during the preliminary summit, this one would not be such an uncontested assignment.

On the eve of the first meeting, the military closed off the highway adjacent to the U.N. Building, allowing only the delegates themselves, security personnel and others directly involved in the summit admittance to the area.  Protestors, having heard rumors that another summit was about to take place in New York, had already congested the roadways leading up to the restricted area and the streets were inundated with people waving American flags and hand drawn signs.  The PD had already calculated the amount of pedestrian traffic we would encounter on our approach and had taken measures to minimize the difficulty of our own admittance. Instead of each of us attempting to push our way through the crowd one by one, we met at the precinct and traveled together in a reassigned school bus.

As we made our final approach, the bus slowed to a crawl as the pressure of the people surrounding us grew ever tighter. Eventually, the driver literally had to push against the wall of people to avoid being forced to a complete halt. The bus began to rock as protestors outside banged their fists against the sides while others held up their signs, pressing them against the glass windows which separated us.  WE HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW! FREEDOM OF INFORMATION ACT!

As the bus continued on with its snail’s pace through the sea of protestors, I suddenly felt a small jolt in my right breast pocket; my cell phone was vibrating, alerting me to an incoming call.  I slipped my phone out and glanced at the display; the call was coming from home. 

I answered the call as calmly as possible. Hey, honey, what’s up?

On the other end of the line, Angie’s voice was unnerved and shaky. The crackling sound of the static over the line only added to the sense of trepidation. My cell phone was suffering from too many other lines being used all at once as well as the amount of electrical interference which hung in the air over the crowded seen.  John, where are you!?!

I’m on my way to the detail; you know that. Why?

I just flipped on the evening news and heard about the protestors down by the UN Building. Are you alright?

I cupped my hand over my cell phone, trying to block as much of the clamor from the streets as possible from leaking over the line to Angie’s ear. I’m fine, I assured her. I’m sure the news is making it out to be much worse than it really is. Really; things are pretty peaceful down here right now.

Angie knew I was lying and had no fear in calling me on it. It looks like chaos on the television. Just promise me you’ll be careful, please?

I grinned as if Angie could see me.  You know I always am.  Just don’t get yourself so excited.  Everything will be just fine.  After our final salutations, I hastily ended the call. 

Dropping my cell back into my pocket, I scanned the sky above, over the heads of the protestors and beyond the rooflines of the surrounding buildings. Several news helicopters were bobbing and hovering above us and I’m sure they all had their cameras trained down on the scene below them. The images that Angie had seen undoubtedly came from one of those helicopters as I could not imagine a ground crew of reporters and camera men managing amidst the ever-condensing crush on the streets.

Finally, our bus arrived at the border of the restricted area.  Looking ahead, I could see a line of armed military personnel in full attire holding back the mounting crowds of protestors.  A section from a row of reflective saw horses was drawn aside momentarily to allow our bus to pass through before being replaced immediately behind us.  From that point, the bus was able to return to its standard cruising speed for the half of a block remaining in the journey to the U.N. Building. Inside the restricted area, rows of military vehicles and soldiers lined the streets, scanning the scene for any protestors who may have slinked past the border patrol.

The bus pulled around to the rear of the building and stopped, the engine left at an idle. I waited in line until I was able to step off the bus. I quickly stretched my legs from being crammed in my seat for so long and glanced at my watch. It was about six-thirty in the evening. As it had been at the first summit meeting, the delegates were planned to arrive at eight. Looking around, my fellow officers were wandering around a bit, none of us having been assigned to a station as of yet. I took the opportunity to light up a well-deserved cigarette to help calm my nerves. There had been, of course, no smoking permitted while on the bus and my need for nicotine was strong by this point. The situation I had just experience - being placed in a metal cage on wheels while thousands of people congregated all around me - had left me a bit unsettled, to say the very least. I had played it down for Angie over the phone and I had even been fairly certain of my own safety while riding the bus but now, in hindsight, it had been a most jolting experience. I looked at the cigarette burning in the fork between my two fingers; the orange-red embers glowed bright in what little sunlight still remained. I began to question my own nerves; I had been in much tighter situations than that many times in the past and had always walked away with my nerves intact. I took a long pull on my cigarette and commanded myself to get back in control of things and fast.

I had only had enough time to smoke about half of my cigarette before one of the officers from my precinct came up and tapped me on the shoulder, immediately bringing me back to the here and now. Our group was being called to enter the building to sign in and be allocated to our positions. I continued to pull on my cigarette all the way up to the door before reluctantly throwing it down to the ground and entering.

Once inside we were ushered into a receiving room of sorts where a clipboard was passed around.  I found my name on the list and signed in next to it.  As the sign-in sheet continued to make its rounds, a military man took to the head of the room and explained the situation.  Due to the public pressure that surrounded us, it would have been considered too much of a security risk to allow the delegates to approach the building from the streets.  With that option blocked, all attendees were to be airlifted via helicopter to enter the building through the roof.  With that, the soldier began to read off a list of names of those of us to be stationed on the roof.  In true military fashion, he read off the list by last name first and first name last.  My name was on that list.  After he had barked out the last name he instructed all of us who had been called to follow a second soldier who had materialized in the doorway at some point. 

My fellow officers and I, along with personnel from other precincts and private security concerns - a dozen or so of us in all - were led up a long stairwell all of the way up to the roof. A cool gust of wind met me as I broke through to the outside air. The soldier told us to wait there until we received further instructions before disappearing, descending back down the stairwell we had just arrived from. I looked around and found that we had just coupled up with a pre-existing group of security personnel. With the momentary lack of authority, the atmosphere was slightly more relaxed and borderline leisurely. To one side, a fold-away table had been assembled and a percolator had been set atop of it. I strolled over, took a Styrofoam cup from the top of the stack and poured myself a cup of coffee. Looking around once again, I saw the glow of a few cigarettes dot around the outer ends of the rooftop and took that as a sign that smoking was permitted for the time being. I lit up a cigarette and sauntered away from the coffee table. Most of the crowd had broken off into smaller groups, consisting of people who worked together, and the majority of these assemblages had set up their residencies along the front edge of the building. I headed in that direction and found a vacant spot for myself. Looking down from the side of the building, my eyes scrolled up and down the street below and I quickly found what the others had probably been watching before I joined them. The congregation of protestors who we had had to force our way through just moments ago seemed to be mounting in numbers and vigor with the passing of every new minute. From this distance, the scene appeared to be one large mass with no minutiae and no way of telling what exactly was taking place at street level. It was unclear from where I stood whether or not the military’s campaign for crowd control was still successful or if it had all been distorted into one large mob scene.

As I watched the situation continue to cultivate below me, I tried to make sense of it all.  The fact that the government was holding these secret meetings didn’t surprise me; I was sure that only a small fraction of the government’s actions were ever allowed to become public knowledge.  Other things still didn’t add up, though.  If the government wanted to have these meetings and not let the public know about them, then why make such an exhibition out of them?  How could they deny that these summits even existed while the writing was pretty much on the wall?  I considered all of those people down there on the streets; it was apprehension that had brought them all here tonight.  They feared that there was a world crisis of one type or another at hand and the government was being forced into these meetings in an attempt to safeguard the population against the, as yet, unnamed danger.  The government was shamelessly showcasing their behavior while telling the public that there was nothing to be seen.  The people on the streets were only reacting; they were asking questions simply because they were being dared to ask them. As the last traces of sunlight began to fade, the scene all but completely disappeared into the shadows, swallowing the last details into an indistinguishable mass of pulsing activity illuminated by the amber glow of the streetlights. It seemed almost a pity that their inquiries would hardly be heard at all. In the end, only us, those on security detail, would have drawn near enough to the scene to hear the protestors’ chants and read their signs and for all their efforts, their demands had been met by ignorant ears. I even played with the idea that I would compose my own sign to hang from the side of the bus for tomorrow’s passage through the demonstration. It would have to be a straightforward sign simply reading "YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE!"

By eight o’clock that evening, around the time the first of the delegates were scheduled to arrived, the entire demonstration had been veiled by remoteness and the dark, making all of the protestors’ efforts indiscernible to the eyes of the only people knowledgeable enough to answer their inquiries.  Meanwhile, up on the roof, we were all called to take our places as the first helicopter hovered into view.  As the spotlights drew nearer, the auditory blast of the engine and the blades beating against the air became deafening and all consuming.  Finally, while the craft skulked in for its final landing, dust clouds kicked up, sandblasting my face and any other flesh I had exposed.  It made it very difficult for us all to stand in place and retain our composure.  After landing, the engine remained on and the blades continued to beat so the helicopter would be ready to make way for the next one which was already easily visibly from the rooftop.  The sliding door on the side of the set down helicopter opened to reveal its key passenger who, along with his entourage, quickly disembarked from the vehicle and rushed hurriedly inside, passing me by so quickly I did not have the opportunity to make a proper identification.

The helicopters continued to land in this fashion, one right after the other like clockwork, until all of the delegates had arrived and were sequestered indoors.  As far as I could tell, amidst all of the confusion brought on by the helicopters, the attendees had been the same cast of characters included in the first New York City summit.  After the final arrival, there was nothing left for the rooftop security effort to do but return to our idle wait for the next eight hours while the meetings took place behind closed doors.  By the end of the night, after the last delegate had made their departure in the same fashion they had arrived, via airlift, the street security teams below had been successful in making over a dozen arrests, mostly for disorderly conduct on the part of some overly excitable protestors.

For this go around, the summit was scheduled to last for six consecutive nights instead of four, as the original event had been. By the third night, even the escapade of having to arrive amid an ever-growing number of protesters had waned in excitement for me as the whole experience, once again, became more and more of a mundane routine. This changed only once during the six nights of duty and even then the stimulation was short lived.

As the hours of the final night - Saturday - dwindled down, one of the security team members stationed closer to the edge of the building hollered out to the rest of us to come to his post.  There‘s some movement out on the street down there!  It looks like something‘s happening! 

I followed the others and from that vantage point I observed a surge in activity down at the demonstration site.  Word must have leaked that this was to be the final night the summit was planning to meet in New York City and the protestors had apparently decided to go out with a bang of violence and chaos.  A fellow officer by my side offered me a pair of binoculars so I could have a better view of the action in progress.  By the time I had raised the binoculars to my eyes and relocated the scene, I could see that the street security teams had already stepped up to regain control of the situation.  Finally, a human barricade of riot control officers, armed with shields and clubs emerged from our side of the line and forced the would-be rioters back.  The end came swift when several arcs of smoke emerged up from amidst the riot control officers before landing back on the ground in the core of the insurgents.  Once landed, the gas canisters released their loads, dispelling thick clouds of smoke which glowed orange under the street lights.  There was an immediate rush as the riot squad, now donning their gas masks, charged into the crowd, collecting as many protesters as possible for swift prosecution.  A few of the protestors did not go easily and the officers had to exude force before containing them.  And then it was over.  From my standpoint, even I was surprised at how quickly and completely the riot squad had squelched the situation before allowing it to get out of hand.  In the end, all that remained was a fraction of the original number of protestors; most of them had run timorously from the scene the moment things had turned ugly.

I returned the binoculars to their rightful owner who could not fight the urge to comment to me on the scenario we had just witnessed. Damn fools. All of them; just a bunch of goddamn fools!

Who? I teased. Us or them?

Those damn protestors, of course. What are they trying to prove, anyway? Did they really think that they’d get anywhere by acting up?

You can’t blame them. There are scared people down on those streets. They don’t know what’s going on in the world anymore and no one is willing to tell them much of anything. What other choice do they have in the matter? After this brief chat, I returned to my post on the rooftop.

A short time later, the first helicopter made its arrival as the delegates made their final migration from the U.N. Building. After that, it was only a matter of signing out and returning to the bus to be shuttled back to the precinct. Once returned, I found myself standing in the precinct’s parking lot, lamenting. It was Sunday morning and I eagerly walked alone back to my car. As I ambled across the asphalt lot, I glanced over to the building adjacent to the precinct; an unused municipal parking structure. At one time, use of the garage had been one of the fringe benefits offered by the force but had long since gone vacant when the entire structure had been closed for renovations, never again to be reopened. Since then, I, along with my colleagues, had been obligated to park in the lot behind the precinct, forced to leave our cars exposed to the elements while we worked.

Back home, despite how exhausted I was and prepared to close the lid on another day, Angie and Dawn were busy bustling about the house, their day having just begun.  To my delight, it quickly became apparent that Angie was completely unaware of the riot which had taken place.  Though it had, undoubtedly, been covered live by televised news broadcasts, she had fallen asleep hours prior to it happening.  This came as a relief to me, knowing that, had Angie heard of the situation before I had had a chance to arrive home, she would have worried herself half to death over my safety. Meanwhile, Dawn had drawn me a picture the previous evening and it was already proudly displayed on the refrigerator, hung in place by magnets and awaiting my approval. The drawing, created with colored markers, showed two stick figures standing next to the box-shaped outline of what was supposed to be our house. The two figures where intended to be Dawn and myself, distinguishable between each other only by size and the fact that the smaller one had longer hair and was holding a flower. The whole scene spread out in all of its magnificent innocence under a lemon-yellow sun. With my last ounce of strength, I hugged my daughter