LYRA
07.06.15
Unrelenting gunshots mixed with earsplitting screams ricochet through the thick, humid air as time stops abruptly. The man—who I’m fairly certain is American based on his accent, or lack thereof to my Yankee ears—and I race across a driveway. It’s blocked by two burning buses and littered with bloodied dismembered body parts. We rush to a parking lot filled with what I assume are rental cars, since they all look nearly identical. Not once do I pause to look back at the gruesome scene we’re fleeing, afraid if I stop it’ll be the last thing I do in this life.
“C’mon! I think it’s this way!” he shouts over his shoulder as he makes a hard left down one of the rows of white compact cars.
I keep pace, thankful for the hours of cardio I put in a week, while yelling back, “What’s this way? Where are we going?”
“My rental,” he answers, slowing to a jog as he glances down at something in the hand that’s not gripping tightly onto mine then searches the nearby vehicles. “I’d just picked up the key before you ran into me. It’s car number 303128. Should be on the windshield. You check the right side and I’ll get the left.”
We split up and frantically scan the numbers on the windshields, both of us slightly hunched over as if that will save us from the steady string of bullets being fired in what sounds like every direction around us. The irony that I’ve spent every day of the last twelve years avoiding six-digit numbers like the plague and I’m now desperately searching for just that isn’t lost on me. But I don’t have time to tell Fate I think she’s a cruel bitch with a jacked sense of humor.
“There it is!” I point at the vehicle marked with the number we’re looking for, and we both dash toward it.
Not thinking about being in Europe and the steering wheel being on the opposite side of the car than in America, I try to get in on the wrong side at first, but quickly realize my mistake when the man heads for the same door.
“You’re more than welcome to drive, if you want,” he offers, holding the key out in my direction, chest heaving, hand trembling.
“That will only lower our chance of survival,” I bark out a gruff laugh void of amusement while circling around the hood and jumping inside, my backpack still strapped to me, and my camera dangling from my neck.
Once we’re safely inside in the two-seater car, a quick surge of relief buzzes through me, but when a third explosion rocks the concrete beneath us and a ball of fire hurtles into the blue sky above, I realize we’re still in the epicenter of the danger.
“Fucking shit! What the fuck is happening? Who the hell is doing this?” the man cries as he turns the key in the ignition and the engine comes to life.
I don’t bother answering—not that I think he expects me to—as he slams his foot on the accelerator and we peel out of the lot. Thankfully, he seems to know how to drive one of these damn things, and as we weave our way through the airport-turned-warzone, I instinctively raise my camera and roll down the window then begin snapping away, capturing image after image of the bone-chilling scene.
How can anyone be so cruel? So many innocent lives erased in the blink of an eye.
For as rapid as my heart was pounding when I hightailed it off that bus, damn near ready to burst right through my ribcage, now I don’t think it’s beating at all. I’m not sure when I took my last breath or the last time I blinked. My brain refuses to believe what my eyes claim to be true. Denial, my favorite defense mechanism.
I see the devastation and destruction and death through my lens, but it’s the living I seek out to zoom in on. Those fleeing alongside us—some hysterical from the horrors they just witnessed, others stone-faced and determined to escape the attack, most on foot, all changed forever. I capture every tragic ounce of it. Weight I’ll carry the rest of my life.
It feels like an hour passes by the time we finally escape the airport area, but in reality, it’s probably closer to three or four minutes. As soon we hit the main road, the guy floors it, putting pedal to the metal, trying to get as far away as quickly as possible. I don’t even have a chance to put my camera down when we hear the sirens and bullhorns from emergency vehicles growing near then see the charging wall of flashing lights in front of us.
And suddenly, we have a whole new problem.
We are not going to die today. We are not going to die today.
Like a deadly game of Red Rover, we fly toward them, our car going as fast as it can as they speed in our direction. Nobody has time to stop or slow down before we meet, and collision seems inevitable. All the while, I’m still taking pictures like an idiot documenting her own death.
The funny thing is I’m not taking the photos for any other reason than I don’t know what else to do. My camera is my security blanket, and it seems fitting I die using it since my parents died in a car accident on their way home from buying me my first Nikon. The same one that still sits on my nightstand in my apartment, next to a picture of the three of us.
I am not dying today, because he is not dying today. The numbers are never wrong.
“Hang on!” he calls out as he somehow, someway, transforms himself into a race car driver and maneuvers the rental between a police car and an odd-looking fire truck.
We miraculously slingshot out the other side without a single scratch on the vehicle, and immediately I turn to look out the rear window. I find the cavalry continuing on toward the multiple clouds of thick black smoke billowing up into the air and the constant sound of gunfire. Not a single one concerned with us. Twisting back around, I sink down into the seat and stare straight ahead at the road.
Holy shit, we really didn’t die.
Once we’re in the clear, or at least presumably so, the car begins to slow as we pull off the road and onto the shoulder, finally rolling to a complete stop. We sit in silence for a minute or two, neither of us knowing what to say after whatever that was we just experienced.
Every muscle in my body is flexed tight, each nerve ending on full alert. I’m shivering yet pouring sweat. My teeth chatter uncontrollably while a scorching blaze burns in my stomach. I’m sensitive to everything but feel nothing at all. There’s one thing for sure, though—we’re both still alive.
“I really don’t have a plan here, so if you’ve got any ideas…” the guy eventually says, and though I sense his eyes on me, I make no attempt to acknowledge or answer him. Not because I don’t want to… I physically can’t.
So he tries again. “Look, I realize you don’t know me from Adam and you’re freaked out. Shit, I’m freaked the fuck out, too, and have no clue what we should do or where the hell we should go. All I know is, until we figure out what in the fucking hell is going on here, we need to stick together. Neither of us needs to be left alone after whatever the fuck that was we just witnessed.”
Again, nothing. My brain is directing my head to swivel so I can face him and instructing my mouth to open and make sound, but nothing is happening. I’m paralyzed by my current reality.
Strong yet tender fingers unexpectedly find my face, cradling my jaw and chin, as my neck twists with gentle force and my forehead surprisingly meets his. “I need you to stay with me, okay, sweetheart? I’m gonna get us out of here safely, but you’ve gotta get ahold of your shit and talk to me. I need words from you.”
The gruffness in his voice is oddly familiar, though I know we’ve never met before, and when I lock in on his electric blue eyes, his numbers are muted by a lightning storm of courage and willpower. I jolt back to life, sucking in a sharp intake of his air.
Then, the panic sets back in. “I can’t… You did… We almost… Oh my God!” I gasp between each broken thought, hyperventilation suddenly a real possibility.
Breathe, Lyra, breathe.
“Hey there, hey there. Settle down now. We’re okay. We’re just fine,” he soothes, sweeping the pads of his rough, calloused thumbs across my cheeks. His breath is warm against my face as the tips of our noses are only a few inches apart. I’ve never been this close to a man, unless you count the times my dad kissed me as a child, and despite the horrific chain of events that led up to this moment, it feels somewhat natural.
“We’re good, and we’re gonna stay good,” he continues. “You hear me? But right now, we gotta get away from here and figure out what the hell’s going on and who’s responsible for this shit. Someplace safe… maybe one of our hotels or the consulate’s office, if we can figure out where that is.”
Keeping my gaze fastened to his, I focus all my concentration on how to regain my composure and steady my breathing. He gives me the few seconds I need, providing silent strength and support as if we’ve known each other forever instead of being complete strangers. I finally nod my head and whisper, “La Perla. I’m supposed to be staying at the Gran Hotel La Perla.”
His cheeks lift and his eyes crinkle with a reassuring smile. “Perfect, me, too. We’ll start there!” He presses his lips to my forehead, again like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world for him to do—as if he’s done it a hundred times before—then releases my face and grips the steering wheel as the car lurches forward, back onto the road.
What the… what?
Before I can even process the chaste kiss he just dropped on me like a bomb, a phone trills loudly through the cab of the car. The guy digs into his pocket and retrieves the device then pushes a few buttons to silence it. He tosses it into my lap with a shake of his head and returns his attention to the road.
“We can call everyone later and let them know we’re all right, but right now, I need you to read off the directions to the hotel. I already have the address saved in my GPS app,” he instructs, his tone controlled and commanding. “My name’s Tavian, by the way. Tavian West from Philadelphia. You?”
Summoning every ounce of courage I have left in me, I instruct myself to pull my head out of my ass and do my part in getting us to safety. “Lyra Jennings,” I answer while pulling up the street map and selecting the hotel’s address. “I live in Brooklyn.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lyra Jennings who lives in Brooklyn. Though I must admit I wish the circumstances were a lot fucking different than they are.” He steals a glimpse over at me and I’m treated to a tight-lipped, crooked smile.
I quickly drop my eyes down to the illuminated screen on the phone, ignoring the weird fizzy sensation in my stomach. There’s no time to worry about anything except survival, especially not the fact I almost always cringe when people even try to talk to me… and right now, I don’t want him to stop.
For the next fifteen minutes, I guide Tavian through the foreign streets of Pamplona, Spain, where it seems like the entire city’s population is outside on the sidewalks in front of their homes and workplaces, everyone facing the direction of the airport. We draw to a halt in the valet line of the hotel, but no one is around to give the keys to or check us in, so we just park here and jump out, rushing toward the building.
As we stride through the automatic sliding glass doors, Tavian’s hand finds mine and he tugs me close to his side, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Remember, we’re stronger staying together,” he murmurs softly. “Whatever I have to do, sweetheart, I promise we’re gonna make it out of here just fine.”
I nod, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. My other hand grips my camera securely, holding it right up against my chest. This is a combination of the strangest and scariest day of my entire life, and part of me still isn’t convinced it’s not a dream. I fall into step with him as he keeps a tight grip of my hand, and we soon discover that seemingly everyone in the hotel, what looks like uniformed staff and guests alike, are all huddled into a large group around the three giant flat screen TVs hanging over the lobby bar. There’s a different news station projected on each one, all of them broadcasting similar footage of the aftermath of the airport massacre.
We join the crowd, and I listen intently to the report in Spanish. The initial reports are a militant terrorist group has already claimed responsibility for the attack, targeting Americans and other tourists arriving for the San Fermin Festival. The current confirmed death count is at seventy-eight and climbing, with hundreds more still missing.
A wave of nausea rolls through me. I was one of their targets. Tavian was one of their targets. They know nothing about us, but they wanted us to die. So many innocent lives stolen. Like Chloe and her mom. And the woman next to me in the airport. And all the others who are now just… gone.
gone.
Gone.
GONE.
I automatically reach behind me with my free hand and feel for the wood box through the canvas of my backpack. Touching it, knowing they’re still with me, appeases me a tiny bit.
“Do you understand Spanish?” Tavian asks low in my ear.
“Yes, you?”
He grumbles the word “enough” while pointing to the TV farthest away from where we stand. My attention shifts to follow his finger, and I see the report at the bottom of the screen alleging the terrorists have warned the strikes on the city are not over, and the airports, train stations, and all other public transportation are on lockdown indefinitely. More attacks are likely, but there’s no way for the thousands upon thousands of tourists to leave.
“We’ve gotta get out of here,” I whisper-shout with a fresh surge of panic coursing through me.
A firm yank on my arm triggers me to look over at Tavian, who is staring at me with an intensity that steals my breath. I have no idea what he’s about to say… but I know my answer will be yes.
“Come with me.”