Chapter 4 - The Broadcast
By 11:30 PM, the storm had broken, and the last of the stranded passengers had been airlifted or transported to local hospitals. We returned to the base exhausted, freezing, and running on fumes.
I was sitting in the break room, my uniform soaked through, nursing a cup of stale, lukewarm coffee. My muscles ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
Alvarez walked in, wiping snow off her boots. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the small television mounted in the corner of the room.
“Major…” she said, her voice tight.
I looked up.
My own snow-covered face filled the screen.
The banner at the bottom read: BREAKING: ARMY OFFICER LEADS HIGHWAY RESCUE DURING COLORADO BLIZZARD.
The news anchor’s voice echoed in the quiet room. “In a stunning display of heroism tonight, military personnel from the nearby base arrived as first responders to a massive pileup on I-25. Viewers, this footage is incredible. Watch as this officer risks his own life to pull a trapped driver from a heavy tanker just seconds before it collapses.”
The footage showed me climbing the icy hill, ripping the bus hatch open, pulling out the little boy, and finally, diving out of the crushed semi-truck with Walt just as the trailer slid down the hill.
My phone, sitting on the table, immediately began to vibrate. Then it rang. Then it buzzed with a flood of text messages.
I stared at the screen, a sinking feeling hitting my stomach.
I didn't want this. I just wanted to do my job.
But what I didn't know was that forty minutes away, in a sprawling, wealthy suburb of Denver, my father’s pristine Christmas Eve dinner party had just reached the pie and coffee course.
My father’s house was warm, smelling of expensive roast and cinnamon. The long dining table was packed with guests—my father, his wife Helen, my stepbrother Jason, Jason’s wife Erica, Erica’s wealthy parents, and several of Jason’s corporate partners.
Jason had been holding court all night, bragging about his new promotion, his corner office, and his stock options. My father had beamed with pride, exactly as he had planned.
Then, someone had used the remote to switch on the television in the adjoining living room to catch the weather report.
The rescue footage appeared on the seventy-inch screen.
The room went quiet.
My father stared at the television. He watched his own son—the son he had banished so he wouldn't "overshadow" Jason—covered in snow, pulling people from a wreckage in freezing temperatures.
Jason lowered his wine glass, an annoyed smirk on his face. “Is that… Thomas? He couldn’t even stay off TV for one night? Always has to play the hero.”
But the news anchor kept speaking.
“Authorities have identified the heroic officer as Major Thomas Vance. Major Vance single-handedly pulled over a dozen passengers from this overturned charter bus, which was carrying travelers from Denver International Airport…”
My father’s wineglass slipped from his hand. It hit the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen pieces, dark red wine splashing across the Persian rug.
But Jason wasn’t looking at my father.
Jason was staring at the television. The annoyed smirk had completely vanished from his face. The color drained from his cheeks so fast he looked like a corpse. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched the camera pan across the terrified survivors wrapped in blankets.
Jason leaned forward, his hands trembling violently. He turned to his wife, Erica, who was also staring at the screen in confusion.
Jason’s lips moved, whispering a single, horrified word.
May you like
“Erica.”
And that was when Christmas dinner truly fell apart.
