"No, help me . . ."
He ran down the halls with his flashlight waving madly. The ele- vators. They were out, too. Maybe the phone on the console. Dead. He picked up the walkie-talkie and pushed the button. Nothing. He banged the two way radio several times on the coun- ter in the futile hope that violence was an electronic cure-all. Dead. Tony panicked and threw it violently into the blackness.
Neither the small TV, nor his portable radio worked.
* * * * *
"I know it's almost midnight," Ben Shellhorne said into the cellular phone. He cupped his other ear to hear over the commo- tion at the Stock Exchange building.
"Quit your bitching. Look at it this way; you might see dawn for the first time in your life." Ben joked. All time was equal to Ben but he knew that Scott said he didn't do mornings. "Sure, I'll wait," Ben said in disgust and waited with agitation until Scott came back to the phone. "Good. But don't forget that beer isn't just for breakfast."
He craned his neck to see that the NYPD Bomb Squad had just left and gave the forensics team the go ahead. No danger.
"Listen," Ben said hurriedly. "I gotta make it quick, I'm going in for some pictures." He paused and then said, "Yes, of course after the bodies are gone. God, you can be gross." He paused again. "I'll meet you in the lobby. One hour."
Ben Shellhorn, a denizen of the streets, reported stories that sometimes didn't fit within the all-the-news-that's-fit-to-print maxim. Many barely bordered on the decent, but they were all well done. For some reason, unknown even to Ben, he attracted news whose repulsiveness made them that much more magnetic to readers. Gruesome lot we are, he thought.
That's why one of his police contacts called him to say that a bunch of computer nerds were sliced to death. The Cheers rerun was bringing him no pleasure, so sure, what the hell; it was a nice night for a mutilation.