Modus Operandi

The excruciating silence of the darkness had lost; the measurable misery was now put to an end. Queue of bodies; an ocean of blood, lay burdening the earth, exacerbating the macabre. Who was more sombre was a question worth asking. The rhythmic beating of uncharacteristically palpitating hearts had replaced the cacophony.

‘Dr. Price to O.R 1.’ ‘Dr. Wood to O.R 2.’ ‘Dr. Grace to E.R.’

The haphazard way of functioning was analogues to how an organisation deals with situations: Patients with welter of symptoms, doctors with shaking hands, nurses with fancy hair-dos; kith and kin with prayer beads and Bibles.

Let’s wind the clock back.

The departure time for the next metro is now being put up on the board.’ Allan was holding Sydney’s hand.

‘You think we can make it in time?’ Sydney was being herself; and Allan loved it.

‘Don’t you worry, we’re going to blow them off their belts.’

‘Wish you were as good at idiomatic phrases, too.’ Sydney blushed.

In some far corner:

‘I need a Wendy House!’

‘Alastair, we’ll get you one when we get home, sweetheart.’

‘How long JFK?’

‘You mean how far are we from the JFK International? Ha-Ha, we’re almost a day or tow away from breathing under the queen’s diktats, my child.’

Someplace far from the last place:

‘You really think Alexis should stay?’

‘I don’t give an arse’s hair if he stays or he leaves. Who cares what Arsenal does, mate. Let’s just pray Rooney plays the whole season.’

‘Yo, I’m gonna g’ grab’ em tickets, mate. You stayi’?’

‘Yesum.’

Someplace else:

‘You think Arana is aware of our flight plan?’

‘Oh, come on Sam, stop fretting about it, she knows we don’t like travel.’

‘I just wish to live to see her turn 25.’

‘Cancer takes 2 years to kill, the doctor said, you have 3 more months before your two years are up.’

“People travelling via the Sixth avenue Line, are now requested to be ready with their luggage.”

‘Come on, Alastair, we’re good to go.’

‘Yo, mate, train’s here.’

‘Oh, come on Sam, pack your bag.’

‘Sydney get the guitar.’

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There’s a thing about people’s believe in God: He’s almighty, because nobody dies before their time; He’s omnipotent, because everybody gets punished for whatever ‘sin’ they commit.

Ten minutes post the paraphernalia:

‘Can somebody call 911?’

‘What for?’

‘There was an explosion down under?’

Hospital:

‘Dr. Price, Dr. Price?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce, Your wife and kid are no more.’

‘Dr. Wood? Please say somethin’?

‘Sorry, Mr. Glass, Sydney suffered third degree burns.’

‘Allan? What –a-bout A -llan?

‘Sir, we have a list of unid’d corpses, you can look for him there.’

‘Be a man, Wood. Show some emotions.’

‘Sorry, Doctors are God. God is a cold hearted, merciless piece of shit.’

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Late that night, Price pulled out his coat, stains of blood still fresh on his hand, stench of B.O still reeking from his hair; from him. He pulled out his cigarette, drew his lighter out, and let a puff of smoke go rejuvenate the world, he let out a sigh; his heart started singing, his mind was still thinking; 10 seconds later, he felt the urge to die. 10 seconds after those 10 seconds, he decided to hang himself. He pulled out his keys, started moving towards his car…

‘Dr. Price, Sir, Dr. Price.’
‘What’s it, Linda?’
‘Sir, the causality list said 145 people were injured and another 39 died. The MTS report says, exactly 185 passengers had bought tickets to the train.’ ‘Let’s leave that to the NYPD, Linda. Go home.’
‘Okay, Sir. Thank you.’

As Price started walking towards his car, his phone rang:
‘Ann?’
‘Price, where are you? Are you OKAY?’
‘Ann, I’m fine. I’ll see you at home.’

‘Uh, listen, Ann, thank you for offering me a ride this morning, had I taken the subway, I would have been ‘late’.’