RISE, by Joe Holliman The turbines of the Bell 222 drown out almost everything. Almost. Dr.

Morgan Creed can still hear his thoughts; the ones that have haunted him since the 1998 incident. Idly pulling his Camels from his coat pocket, his attention is grabbed by Richard Holcourt rapping his knuckle against the no smoking sign above the door. Prick. Dr. Creed returns his gaze back out to the rainy cityscape of the Los Angeles Basin.
Maybe well forget in time. Maybe a generation. Maybe two. Maybe theyll stop asking questions about what we had to do, but theyll never know the truth. Sixteen thousand, four hundred fifty-two. Countless more injured. Everyone traumatized. You can feel the horror that still echoes in their lives Another decade or two. Maybe that will make it go away

The pilot banks the chopper starboard above the Crenshaw District and thumbs the Mic. LAX control, this is Teres Flight 166 on approach. Descending through flight level fifteenthousand. Requesting clearance into Area one-five-one-alpha. Roger, Teres 166. We have you inbound through LAX control at flight level twelve-five. The pattern is clear. Maintain current heading and descend to flight level six-five-zero. Standby for remote autopilot engage. Richard Holcourt cinches his belt tighter. Theyre still no good at this. Morgan shifts in his seat, slouching a little more. He glances at Holcourt for a moment, then stares back out the window. The chopper shudders as the rotor blades abruptly adjust their pitch. The remote autopilot spools the turbines up and down as Holcourt presses himself into the seat. Area one-five-one-alpha, we have Teres 166, remote autopilot profile engaged. Roger that, One-five-one. Youve got the stick The sleek, black helicopter pitches down, accelerating toward an immense, thirty-story wall. Creeds empty gaze remains fixed on the empty space between the window and the emptiness beyond the horizon of the Pacific.
Billions of dollars buys you an illusion. A sense of security. The only real security is in the enclosure. Beyond that, theres nothing we can do. Maybe we do this again. But this only bought us time

As thick as five city blocks, the barrier surrounds the fifty square-mile Santa Monica Quarantine and Defense Perimeter; a wasteland that stretches from The Palisades to the remains of Marina Del Rey. The rotors pound the dense, humid air as the chopper sails above the Perimeter wall.

Clusters of military hardware- missiles and focused energy weapons, ballistic munitions dispensers, and a battalion of VTOL aircraft- are all poised on alert. The eerie stillness of the concrete garrison overlooks the empty landscape that surrounds Area 051-Alpha, some 10 miles from the perimeter. Creed pulls his Camels from his pocket and lights one, taking a deep drag. Exhaling, Holcourt waves the smoke from his face. Honestly. Do you mind? Creed glances up at Holcourt over the rim of his glasses. He takes another drag as the chopper sets down. Heavily armed MPs open the door, and Creed steps out. The MP salutes, his form and tone are razor sharp, all business. Raising his voice above the turbines seems effortless. Sergeant Hiller, Senior Security Officer. Creed nods, and Sgt. Hiller turns, motioning Creed to follow him toward the immense cryogenic-facility. Holcourt calls after him, Thanks for the courtesy, Doc! Creed pauses, dropping the rest of the cigarette on the tarmac, crushing it beneath his shoe. He turns back to Holcourt. Unless you plan on offering something more constructive than your current bitchiness, you really should keep your mouth shut. I dont care who told you how happy they were that you know whatever it is you think you know. Is that clear? Holcourt nods, gathering his laptop case.
Even the ones we bring in dont get it. Even after theyve been briefed. I wonder how many people know. Everyone suspects, but how many people know that its alive?

2010 Joe Holliman