offering plenty of potential for excitement. Yet, after a few years dealing with crime in the small town of Flagstaff, before relocating to the smaller-still Boulder City, just south of Vegas, he had come to realise that excitement was overrated. Sure, policing in Vegas itself would have been more thrilling, but it also might have killed him. Once he had started a family of his own, staying alive seemed way more important.
Thus far, there was little chance of danger at the dam, and there were probably thousands of cops out there in the bigger cities who would gladly trade with him.
Besides, Vegas offered up some spectacular sights, but nothing quite like this .
Behind Chris, the force of the mighty Colorado River was corralled by the gigantic stone slab that was the dam. In front of him, hundreds of feet below, the river re-emerged as a thin trickle. He could see for miles.
Screams weren’t unusual at the dam, but they were almost always screams of delight, usually drawn from children seeing the vast structure for the first time. A couple of times over the previous two years, Chris had heard cries of pain while on patrol: on each occasion the source had turned out to be a visitor suffering a heart attack.
When the scream rang out through the thick mid-morning air, and Chris froze with his water bottle still tilted to his lips, he knew it was different immediately.
This was no scream of surprise, nor even of pain: it was a bestial shriek of pure terror. A male voice, Chris thought, though he couldn’t be entirely sure as it ripped up through the octaves, clawing at his nerves. Adrenaline began to pump through his system, sending his senses into a state of hyper-alert. Whoever had unleashed the awful noise wasn’t nearby, but they were close enough for the sound to carry easily to his ears in the soupy air. The background hum of the dam—the murmuring of sightseers and the purring engines of vehicles moving slowly—seemed to halt instantly.
He lowered the water bottle and scanned the people and traffic scattered across the dam. It wasn’t busy; certainly not as crowded as it usually was, perhaps because a lot of folks had stayed home, glued to the news reports of the disaster in England.
Chris saw immediately that those on foot were as confused as he was: they peered about inquisitively, searching for the source of the noise. None of the handful of cars and buses crossing the dam were moving erratically; it wasn’t likely that the yell had emanated from a vehicle. Whoever had screamed, it didn’t appear to have been a member of the visiting public.
That just leaves…
Chris frowned, and gazed out across the water at the intake towers.
Perhaps one of the maintenance staff?
He began to wheel his bike across the dam, lifting a hand to acknowledge the driver of a Prius who braked for him, keeping his eyes fixed on the nearest towers. He made it halfway before he saw it, and his footsteps slowed.
Movement.
He flicked his eyes to meet it.
On the farthest of the intake towers, a metal door opened, and a man wearing a maintenance uniform rocketed out into the light, making it all of two steps before something that Chris couldn’t see jerked him violently backward, yanking him back into the tower and out of sight.
He had only glimpsed the man for a second, just a heartbeat, but it had been long enough for Chris to recognize that the guy’s dirty white boilersuit had been stained red across the chest. Long enough for him to understand that something terrible was happening at the Hoover Dam.
He heard another scream. This time there was unmistakable pain in the yell, and this time, the scream ended abruptly, like someone had just pulled the plug that powered it.
Chris’ heart hammered, and he scurried across the road, throwing his bike to the ground and pulling out his radio. He depressed the button, preparing to call the incident in and request backup.
The words didn’t have time to leave his mouth.
Chris
Thus far, there was little chance of danger at the dam, and there were probably thousands of cops out there in the bigger cities who would gladly trade with him.
Besides, Vegas offered up some spectacular sights, but nothing quite like this .
Behind Chris, the force of the mighty Colorado River was corralled by the gigantic stone slab that was the dam. In front of him, hundreds of feet below, the river re-emerged as a thin trickle. He could see for miles.
Screams weren’t unusual at the dam, but they were almost always screams of delight, usually drawn from children seeing the vast structure for the first time. A couple of times over the previous two years, Chris had heard cries of pain while on patrol: on each occasion the source had turned out to be a visitor suffering a heart attack.
When the scream rang out through the thick mid-morning air, and Chris froze with his water bottle still tilted to his lips, he knew it was different immediately.
This was no scream of surprise, nor even of pain: it was a bestial shriek of pure terror. A male voice, Chris thought, though he couldn’t be entirely sure as it ripped up through the octaves, clawing at his nerves. Adrenaline began to pump through his system, sending his senses into a state of hyper-alert. Whoever had unleashed the awful noise wasn’t nearby, but they were close enough for the sound to carry easily to his ears in the soupy air. The background hum of the dam—the murmuring of sightseers and the purring engines of vehicles moving slowly—seemed to halt instantly.
He lowered the water bottle and scanned the people and traffic scattered across the dam. It wasn’t busy; certainly not as crowded as it usually was, perhaps because a lot of folks had stayed home, glued to the news reports of the disaster in England.
Chris saw immediately that those on foot were as confused as he was: they peered about inquisitively, searching for the source of the noise. None of the handful of cars and buses crossing the dam were moving erratically; it wasn’t likely that the yell had emanated from a vehicle. Whoever had screamed, it didn’t appear to have been a member of the visiting public.
That just leaves…
Chris frowned, and gazed out across the water at the intake towers.
Perhaps one of the maintenance staff?
He began to wheel his bike across the dam, lifting a hand to acknowledge the driver of a Prius who braked for him, keeping his eyes fixed on the nearest towers. He made it halfway before he saw it, and his footsteps slowed.
Movement.
He flicked his eyes to meet it.
On the farthest of the intake towers, a metal door opened, and a man wearing a maintenance uniform rocketed out into the light, making it all of two steps before something that Chris couldn’t see jerked him violently backward, yanking him back into the tower and out of sight.
He had only glimpsed the man for a second, just a heartbeat, but it had been long enough for Chris to recognize that the guy’s dirty white boilersuit had been stained red across the chest. Long enough for him to understand that something terrible was happening at the Hoover Dam.
He heard another scream. This time there was unmistakable pain in the yell, and this time, the scream ended abruptly, like someone had just pulled the plug that powered it.
Chris’ heart hammered, and he scurried across the road, throwing his bike to the ground and pulling out his radio. He depressed the button, preparing to call the incident in and request backup.
The words didn’t have time to leave his mouth.
Chris
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