Chapter 30: Chapter 29 – Down the Drain

The white hallway extends roughly one hundred feet in front of Peter and Karen. The floor is white washed like the walls and ceiling and is covered in a layered tapestry of dirt and grime footprints. The ceiling is just low enough for the top of Peter’s head to rub against the coarse, concrete surface when he stands up straight. Placards with Mickey Mouse ears are on the wall every twenty feet or so. Peter and Karen walk down the hall until they reach the end. 

To their left is an abandoned office, with papers scattered all over the floor, to the right, the hallway continues. They take the right pathway, and walk farther down the hall. The ceiling slopes a few inches down as they walk forward. The explosions outside become quieter and quieter as they walk down the sloped hallway. At the end of this hallway are two doors. One is labeled “employee exit.” One is labeled “drainage.” They open the door labeled “employee exit” and their stomachs drop. The hallway beyond the door is a collapsed pile of smoldering concrete. Whatever was once a staircase is now an impenetrable wall with steel melting through the cracks. The executives try to move a piece of broken concrete, but it won’t budge, even when they throw all of their weight against it. They let the door shut and open the one that says “drainage.” The sound of rushing water echoes from a distance and it smells like a combination of mildew and shit. They step in, their footsteps echoing. There is very little light.

“Damn, it’s wet down here.” 

“You sure this is a good idea?” 

“Yeah, c’mon, it’s just a dark, wet—” Peter’s foot slips on a walt spot— “slippery drain. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I don’t know, we could drown, or get stuck down here and starve to death, or suffocate. You know, that actually sounds kind of fun.” 

“Anyway, I think if we follow this thing upstream, it should take us to a maintenance door or something. It looks like it’s heading in the same direction that those collapsed stairs were headed.” They walk down the dark tunnel, their footsteps echoing in front of and behind them. The black water rushes by their feet, just a half missed step away. They grip imperfections in the concrete wall to steady themselves along the narrow pathway. Their feet slip on the mossy siding every once in a while, in places where the water has splashed up. The tunnel ceiling gets lower and lower. 

Over the sound of the water, Karen says, “What do you think is in this water? It fucking stinks.” 

“Probably shit and piss. Do you have any idea how many toilets are in this park? And how many fat asses are sitting and shitting on them every minute? I guarantee you each one has an ass on it almost constantly.” 

“You’re gross. Do you think your grandma’s ashes are in there too?” 

“Probably got drained out a while ago. I’m sure they’re in some sludge somewhere, or in a refinery. Wherever the hell this empties out to, they probably ended up there at some point.”

The tunnel narrows until it comes to a heavy concrete barrier. The drain goes down a steep drop off, and a couple of tunnels branch off either side. A ladder bolted into the wall stretches up into darkness. “Well, we either crawl into one of those tunnels or up that ladder. Or make like shit and go down the drain.” 

“Let’s do the ladder.” 

Peter goes first. The cold steel of the ladder rungs feel greasy in his palms. He begins his ascent, then Karen calls out to him. “Why don’t we just go back the way we came or hang out in here a while? Until help comes.” The explosions and gunshots from outside the tunnel are getting louder. 

“I don’t want to find out if those are good guys or bad guys. This whole place could become a sinkhole. I think we better take our chances on trying get the fuck out of here.” They climb up the ladder, empty air becomes another tunnel. Peter calls down to Karen, “It’s dark as shit. Keep going.”

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The drone operator focuses on dropping the “fireworks,” and is feeling like he’s doing a good job. They’re a bit bigger than usual, sure, but part of piloting a drone is focusing on the flight plan ahead to avoid crashing into birds and other flying objects while getting to the next drop off point in time; especially for a big budget fireworks show like this, timing is imperative. 

It was only after the third payload had been dropped that the drone operator saw the news push notification on his phone that there was a suspected shooting at Disneyland. It was weird timing for that to happen during a fireworks show, but the drone operator supposed that a smart shooter who planned out a thing like that would probably try to carry it out when a lot of people were gathered together, so maybe a fireworks show would be a good time to do something like that. The drone operator realizes he has a decision to make: keep piloting the drones to keep the fireworks show going, like he was being paid to do, or make an independent judgment call and stop the fireworks show, possibly prematurely. 

The drone operator picks up his half-drunk large Diet Coke and takes a pensive sip. The sip lasts until the straw makes a high pitched slurping noise and the ice shakes around as the liquid level in the cup lowers. The drone operator makes a decision, picks up the drone remote, and switches channels to the next drone, after putting the drone he’d left floating in the air in return mode. As he looks at the monitor, and flies the one over the lip of the building’s roof, he gets a bird’s eye view of downtown Anaheim. 

He squints as he sees the multiple plumes of smoke, and the shut down freeway. Humvees are driving towards Disneyland in a long procession, accompanied by police cars, S.W.A.T. trucks, and other emergency vehicles. “Hmm… must be a military exercise or something. Or maybe the President was in town.” The lack of civilian cars on the freeway and side streets was a bit worrying, but he guessed that Disneyland just didn’t draw the same crowds it used to— at any length, he had to get this drone to its mark and make sure the show choreographer got what they paid for— “the show must go on!” as they say. 

As the drone reaches the border of Disneyland, the bird’s eye view becomes even more worrying. It looks like Hell in the park. Countless structure fires, bodies strewn on the ground, rides collapsing. The drone operator’s heart pounds and he turns on the TV and scrolls to the news. The news is covering the shooting. The drone operator keeps flying the drone in the airspace above the park to see what’s going on. He texts the number of the company that hired him, “should I stop drone show? looks like emergency @ park”. He gets a bounce back message saying the number he texted is for a number that has been disconnected. 

The drone operator eats a french fry, gets up, and leaves the small, nondescript office. He comes back in and wipes off the drone controller with the hem of his t-shirt.

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FBI Director Harris watches the monitor in the war room. He’s one of sixteen in the cramped fluorescently lit room. The President, CIA director, Secretary of War, and multiple other high ranking officials watch intently, all jockeying for position— of importance, seriousness, calmness, and wisdom of what could happen. Intelligence had suggested that the shooter would be targeting Disneyland for his “big day.” 

They follow the ground movements of a special operations team. The FBI director curses to himself as the team on the ground makes a show of penetrating a building. The primary video feed shows the operator using bolt cutters to cut through a chainlink fence near the back of California Adventures. They’re surrounded by bushes and trees. The Secretary of War triumphantly mutters something about American ingenuity and patriotism. The soldiers make some headway into the park, but stop almost immediately after one of the soldiers is taken down by an explosion. The feed cuts out. “What the hell happened?” demands the President. 

“It looks like a drone strike, sir.” an over-age commanding officer chimes in. “Mr. President.” The officer adds seconds later, off the look or lack thereof on The President’s face. 

“Who the hell authorized a drone strike there? Right where our guys were going in? Whose ass is at fault here?” The President bellows. “Because whether this was gross incompetence or treason— they’re going to be charged for treason— and I will have their sentence accelerated so I get to watch their execution next month— so somebody tell me who the fuck is responsible for this.” The room is quiet. The commanding officer who had spoken previously stares at his shiny black shoes. 

Director Harris chews his nicorette furiously. He swallows a glob of saliva packed with a decent amount of dissolved nicotine crystals and speaks. “We have intelligence back channels suggesting they’ve spent upwards of $100 million on military contracts. They’re not fucking around.” The room is frozen again. The President slams his fist on the table, sending a stale half-eaten croissant flying. 

“Why the fuck didn’t I know about this earlier?” The President’s handler whispers to him. The President nods and rubs his eyes. “I guess I did— I didn’t realize how potentially serious a domestic terror attack such as this one was going to be. We are going to need to take into consideration a nuclear option.” The Secret Service agent who is carrying the nuclear football lights up. It takes all of his self discipline to keep from jumping into the air and cawing with joy.

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