by J.P Jackson
A hangover beat its drum inside his head, but Taylor was used to and sometimes grateful for the pain, the first and perhaps only thing he would feel on a given day. A lopsided smile curved across his face, he hadn't slept so long or drank so well in a long time. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his stomach cramped and he puked last night's liquor over Penelope's headstone. With vomit dripping from his nostrils, Taylor shielded his face from an uncomfortably bright light. When his stomach was empty and his eyes had adjusted to the morning, he looked over at the city and wondered if he was dreaming.
New York was on fire, a horizon of burning bridges, towering infernos and rising columns of smoke. Hell had come to Earth.
"What have we done?" he groaned, swaying back and forth.
Taylor knew the electromagnetic pulse would kill the grid and panic the populace, but that alone was not enough to bring down civilization. The secret was out, the nukes had failed, the comet was coming, and this was the beginning of the end.
Taylor slouched to his knees, tapped a finger to his temple. "Donald! Call Donald!"
Nothing came from the lens - no calls incoming or outgoing. He stuffed his shirt into his jeans and reached into his back pocket. It was Lanza's note, with directions to a location an hour or so outside of town. If he left now he might still make it. "Fuck you," he growled, scrunching and tossing it. An hour out of town was an hour away from the only family Taylor had left.
He approached the gates of Calvary Cemetery, cringing at the sound of wailing alarms and the cries of faraway victims. A young woman lay at the foot of the tall gate, her arms wrapped around the bars. She had delicate Scandinavian features, warped by a gnarled, frozen expression of terror.
Taylor bent to examine a hole the size of a baseball seared through the girl's sternum. The wound had likely come from a directed energy rifle, the sort issued only to the military. Taylor scratched the stubble on his chin in consideration. "Martial law," he whispered, closing the girl's eyes. Beyond the iron gates, the rule of law and fundamental freedoms, including a citizen's right to live, no longer applied.
Bodies were strewn about the streets, an indiscriminate collection of men and women, young and old. Sweat accumulated on Taylor's brow as he manoeuvred around the dead. He apologized for stepping on a man's hand, then winced when he noticed his brains painting the cemetery's exterior wall.
The poor bastard still held the antique six shot snub nose he had used to take his own life. After a respectful pat on the man's shoulder, Taylor took possession of the gun and flicked open the chamber.
"Typical," he exclaimed, stuffing the empty revolver down his belt. It'll keep, he thought, it'll come in handy.
He moved cautiously through the streets, jaw clenched tight as he past lost looking strangers and burning buildings. He ducked at the sound of gunshots and flinched at distant explosions. He was on his feet for an hour before reaching Madison Avenue and the valley of skyscrapers. Yesterday the block was home to the world's finest restaurants, fashion boutiques and art galleries; today it was the epicentre of unbridled chaos. The first things to strike Taylor was the collection of drones scattered around like litter, and the Sky Eyes blimp, skewered like a piñata on the spire of the Empire State Building.
The government's eyes were blinded, and with local law enforcement either distracted or disbanded, no barricade or security measure could prevent the tsunami of looters from breaking glass, emptying shelves and fleeing with merchandise. Thieves wore senseless grins as they ran from stores, grasping whatever appliances they could handle.
"Bollocks!" Taylor screamed, throwing himself out of the way as a group of rioters tipped over a car. Laying flat on his stomach, he cowered as a crack of thunder vibrated the asphalt. "For fuck's sake!" he screamed, covering both ears.
He peered up to witness a deluge made not of water, but of human bodies. The roofs of every building in sight were occupied with people lined up waiting to jump. The wait wasn't long and the fall wasn't either. Souls poured down from the rooftops, screaming or at peace, some even holding hands until the ground parted them. Taylor took cover in a jewellery store as a body impacting the ground burst open behind him. He crouched among the counters and broken glass as two women battled and pummelled each other over a jewel encrusted handbag. When the clash was over, the victor mindlessly followed the mob into another store, leaving her prize forgotten on the floor.
"COMET STRIKING SOON!" proclaimed a huge billboard. "We thank you for your patience! Be kind to your fellow man! Be grateful to your government!"
Taylor moved fast and kept to himself, taking several more hours to claw his way through the epidemic of fear and chaos that was the breakdown of society. Verbal disagreements turned into fights and fights descended into murder. The streets were lined with victims of stabbings, stranglings and shootings; bodies with knives in their chests or holes in their heads. Sex was rampant, with countless strangers fornicating against cars or on a bed of old newspapers. Nothing was off the menu.
The most popular in the throng were the readers of scripture. Flocks gathered around them to be blessed, to confess their sins or to hear of what awaited them in the afterlife. Muslims prayed toward Mecca, but Allah wasn't listening.
Taylor didn't see the fist breaking across his jaw. His sight flashed red, a sharp pain shot up his cheek and he was flat on the curb, spitting out a molar and struggling to stay conscious.
He pulled himself by the nails into a nearby alley and when the stars left his eyes, he searched for his attacker. With the prick long gone, Taylor leaned up against a dumpster and took a moment to compose himself.
"Focus," he heaved, his jaw throbbing. "Washington Tower!"
A late 20th century station wagon idled in the alley, burning diesel and purring like a cat. Taylor crept towards the trunk of the antique. The windows were fogged over but he could still make out the distorted figures of a family inside. In the back seat, a mother squeezed her two young children close while the father read them the Tale of Peter Rabbit. Taylor went to knock on the glass when he noticed a hose attached to the exhaust, feeding the family a lethal dose of carbon monoxide. He kept his distance, minded his business, and left them to sleep.
Drones, those shielded by last night's blast, flew sporadically over and around buildings, observing crime rather than preventing it. One drone hovered 50 ft above Taylor's head.
“Lanza,“ he mumbled, giving his silver shadow the finger before pressing on towards the canopy of trees in Central Park.
The afternoon sun cast its powerful light over the Park's expansive lawn. It was quiet, serene and surreal, but Taylor couldn't be too careful. He crouched in the shrubs, taking time to scrutinize the landscape.
"Two miles," he said, eyeing the three Patriot Towers, rising majestically over Strawberry Fields. Suddenly a pair of feet ran past the bush. Taylor gasped and cowered further into his hiding place as just feet away, a terrified teenager ran for her life. Her attacker was a balding, naked man in his 40s, slightly built and wielding a knife.
The girl stumbled and the man pounced, landing on her back and pressing her face into the grass. Drool oozed from the pervert's bottom lip as he cut away her shirt and bra, tossing them over his shoulder as if unwrapping a gift.
"Let her go motherfucker!"
Taylor pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the man's head. "Drop the knife you filthy piece of shite!"
The man froze and Taylor's heart painfully thumped as he took a step back. The man climbed off the topless girl and the instant she was loose, she scurried off through the park without looking back.
The man was scab ridden, bruised and emaciated. He held the knife in-front of him and chuckled as he turned and crept toward Taylor. "You won't shoot me mister! Cunt won't shoot!"
Taylor cocked the gun. "You don't know me."
"I know there's no bullets in that gun, chambers are empty."
A chill trickled down Taylor's neck. He lowered the gun an
d wavered back but the stranger followed. "You interrupted me," he spat, aiming the knife at Taylor. "You lost me my toy mister, now I'm gonna have my fun with you instead."
Taylor observed the prison issue tattoo inked on the man's forearm, a QR code containing his date of birth, criminal record, date of sentencing and designated date of death.
"How'd you get out?" Taylor asked him.
"Big breakout a few hours back, all the locks died and then so did the guards. Every cunt's out and all havin' fun!"
The prisoner gestured over Taylor's shoulder and he flashed an eye back. Lying at the base of an oak tree were the dead bodies of two young girls, clothes tattered and faces slashed to ribbons.
"I love my girls!" the prisoner groaned. "Love 'em real bad, mister!"
Overwhelmed by fear, adrenaline and anger, Taylor gripped the revolver, gnashed his teeth then swatted the knife from the man's hand. It flew out of reach and the lunatic bawled and cradled his broken fingers. Taylor roared back, raised his arm and brought the butt of the gun down upon the prisoner's face, crushing his nose and caving in his eye socket. The prisoner crumpled over and Taylor, sweaty and blood drunk, lurched over him. As he raised his arm for another strike, two cars came plowing through the bushes, skidding on the wet grass and shattering glass as they collided.
Taylor sprang out of the way as a bumper clipped his heel. The cars ran over the naked lunatic, crushing his body and causing the vehicles to lose control. They flipped in unison, over and over again. Taylor shut his eyes and crouched into the fetal position until he no longer heard the sounds of twisting metal.
One of the cars was crushed like a tin can and a limp arm dangled from a window. The second car was upright, smoking and dented, its wheels intact and the engine still running. Taylor hobbled over the trail of debris and bent to look into the vehicle's driver side. The young male driver had been thrown into the passenger seat, alive but unconscious.
"Operational?" Taylor asked the car, whilst checking the kid's vitals.
A robotic voice responded from the brightly lit driver's console. "Damage irreversible. 34 minutes until total engine failure. Current engine output at 47 percent. Auto-Drive unavailable. Manual controls available but limited. This incident will affect your premiums."
"Wee arsehole," Taylor spat, as he pulled the groaning kid to safety.
"Response does not compute!" the car blared. "Have you thought of attending a driver safety course?"
Taylor lay the kid on the grass and with nothing more to do for him, he jumped into the car, hit the gas and drove towards the Patriot Towers of Washington, Adams and Jefferson.
Taylor turned off Central Park and got as far as the Upper West Side before he could go no further. The remaining citizens of New York were packed like sardines from 79th to 85th. The air was thick with anarchy as tens of thousands marched towards the crown jewel of the city's elite - Patriot Towers. Hovering drones kept their distance, and with the early evening rapidly closing in, their twinkling lights lit up the sky. A dozen armoured trucks were entrenched around the towers, threatening the crowd with mounted sonic devastators.
"Disperse immediately!" an authoritarian voice boomed from a megaphone. "Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"
The order repeated but no-one cared. Projections over the face of other skyscrapers shared little news of the incoming comet, only educational videos on how to prepare for impact. School children hid under desks, while grandma tucked herself under a kitchen table. They were all smiling - they were going to be okay.
"Disperse immediately! Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"
Taylor fought his way toward Washington as the crowd clamoured onto the armoured trucks and pried open the access hatches. "There's no-one in here!” a voice bellowed. “They're fucking gone! Cops are gone!"
"Disperse immediately!" blared the megaphone. "Lawlessness will not be tolerated!"
The crowd roared in unison, fists thrashing the air. Dozens mounted the trucks like crazed hyenas, commandeering the sonic devastators and fighting over any weapons left inside. Not a moment later, a sudden punch of energy knocked Taylor backwards, bursting his eardrum in the process. Dozens of people were flung at cars, smashed into buildings or launched like human projectiles. The masses fled from the devastators, crushing each other underfoot while flinching from the flying debris and people. Blood dribbling from his damaged ear, Taylor slapped the wits back into his face then battled against the human tide as a second blast went off in front of Adams Tower, turning glass to powder.
Each of the dozen trucks had mounted weapons, and each were now in operation by a crazed member of the public with nothing to lose. Rolling clouds of vaporized glass particles consumed Taylor as he passed Adams, then Jefferson. With waves of sound shattering the world around him, he shielded his face and closed his eyes as another wave struck him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself upside down and spinning in what seemed like slow motion.
He hit the ground, spitting out a concoction of blood and glass as chunks of the towers fell around him. He exhaled a dusty breath and his vision cleared to reveal the pyramid-shaped water feature inside the lobby of Washington Tower. The lobby was filled with splintered wood, chunks of marble, and broken human bodies. The art deco walls were stripped of their plush finish and the once polished marble was shattered beyond repair. The waves of concentrated sound continued and before he could be struck again, Taylor bolted towards the golden elevator. With the scanner inoperative, rendering the elevator useless, the only option left available to him were the stairs, and 167 floors on foot.
Taylor felt the core of the tower vibrate due to sustained blasts from sonic devastators. Dust trickled down onto his head while the walls shook like stone speakers. Every time Taylor stopped for a breath his better judgement nagged at him: 'Donald and the boys aren't upstairs. The towers have been evacuated. Every step you take is one more into a soon-to-be-collapsing building.'
Taylor pressed on. He had to be certain.
By the time he made it to the 167th floor his legs felt like jello and his tobacco coated lungs were on fire. In the murky darkness, he could make out a heavyset man in a dust covered suit slouched against the door to the hallway, blocking all access. The stranger's head was drooped against his chest, and laying close to his hand was a blood-stained axe.
Taylor flopped against the handrail, five steps below the landing.
"Look mate," he heaved, his voice echoing around the crumbling stairwell. "I need to get past you, right."
The man kept his face down, shook his head and mumbled. "No-one gets in there. I can't let anyone see. Not anyone. No-one gets past."
The men made eye contact. It was the Mayor of New York, Jeff Watson. Taylor ascended a step and Watson reacted, wrapping his fingers around the axe handle. Taylor ignored the warning, and with palms open and time running out, he took another step.
"I was cooking dinner last night," Watson sobbed, his moustache saturated in snot. "We watched a movie!"
Taylor scowled at the bloody axe and whispered. "It's all fucked up. You should see what's going on outside. We do what we have to do."
Watson blow his nose on his sleeve. "We agreed to go together. The axe was all I could find. I tried to use it on myself but I..."
Taylor shook his head understandingly as he moved a step higher. "It's all fucked up mate."
Watson gripped the axe and pressed the wooden handle against his cheek. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't! I couldn't!"
"Mayor," Taylor interrupted, racking his head for options. "I get it and I'm sorry, but I need you to move. You did what you had to do. No one's judging you."
Watson turned his head and squinted at Taylor, his wild eyes burning. "Could you?" he begged, offering Taylor the axe. "Bury it in my chest. One good hit, that's all it'd take!"
Taylor instinctively accepted the weapon and Watson stood to prepare himself.
"Right here!" he frothed, pounding on his chest. "One strike! My
family are waiting!"
Taylor touched the bladed edge and considered it. To him, Watson was already dead, but then they all were. "Forget it," he baulked. "That's not what I do."
He tossed the axe down the stairs and Watson reached forward, snatching Taylor by the collar. "You think that's what I do?" he spat, pressing his fat nose against Taylor's. Taylor pushed him away, but Watson tightened his grip then locked his arm around Taylor's neck. Smothered by Watson's biceps, Taylor punched and scratched but his efforts were futile.
"This isn't happening!" Watson sobbed and squeezed, pushing them towards the handrail. Taylor forced against Watson's girth, straining every muscle and sinew as his lower back pressed painfully against the rail.
Taylor, low on energy and patience, dug his fingers into Watson's shirt and roared. "Fuck it!"
He threw himself backwards over the rail, taking Watson with him. They hit the concrete and tumbled down the steps until the lower landing brought them to an abrupt stop.
Through blurred eyes, Taylor saw Watson's mangled body. His head was cracked like an egg. He had gotten what he wanted.
Taylor grimaced as the tower gave another shudder. Dust showered his head and back, and as he climbed the last of the stairs, his logical mind recited the problems he detected in his body. "Left eardrum burst. Right leg paresthesia." he gasped. "Rotator cuff tear. Dizziness. Nausea. Whiplash. Fucked...right...off!"
The hall of the 167th floor was bleak and still. Taylor noticed Mayor Watson's apartment door laying ajar, the handle covered in blood. He closed his eyes and lowered his head when passing, as if refusing to see another nightmare.
"Donald!" he cried, kicking in his brother's apartment door. "Donald? It's Ham, where the fuck are you?"
The living room was strewn with clothes, photographs and broken mementos. The family had left in a hurry.
"Fuck!"
Taylor kicked over the coffee table, then threw a vase against the wall.
In the dining room, the table was clear and the floor was covered in plates and last night's dinner. The windows to the balcony were shattered, exposing the apartment to an early evening gale and the screams of the mob below. Curiosity took Taylor to the balcony, and squinting through a bitter wind, he witnessed every sonic devastator concentrating fire on the base of Washington Tower.
"Jesus Christ."
He drew back into the apartment just as the building began to sway. "What now you son of a bitch? What now?"
Instinct caused Taylor to turn and when he did, his eye was drawn immediately to a large red apple on the dinner table. It had an unnatural sheen, seeming to glow as if from the inside. Taylor stepped closer, reading two words carved on the side. - IT WORKS! -
"What works?” he shouted at the apple. Seconds later, the fruit exploded, covering his face in pulp. Taylor smeared off the gunk and glanced frantically around him, spotting yet another message, this one scrawled on the dining room wall; written in large black paint was the location Lanza had shared with him a few hours ago: West Mountain State Forest, Dutchess County.
The building swayed again and Taylor knew he wouldn't make it down167 flights of stairs. The only place left to run, was up.
He raced up the last thirteen flights of stairs through a hail of falling plaster and concrete dust. He slammed his shoulder into the rooftop door and threw himself over the threshold.
Cracks formed over the rooftop and expanding fissures ruptured a tank behind him, sending hundreds of gallons of water crashing down on-top of him. He rode the wave to the precipice, where he clung for life as the torrent broke against his back. The entire roof rumbled and sagged, beams growling, cables snapping. Shaking off the water, Taylor noticed his silver surveillance shadow. Still following, still watching, the orb hovered several feet off the edge of Washington Tower.
He stood, punched at his chest and slapped his cheeks, summoning all the balls and adrenaline he could muster. Moments before Washington Tower crumbled beneath him, Taylor sprinted for the edge. Arms outstretched, he jumped and screamed and snatched at the drone, dragging them both into a vortex of warping steel and acrid smoke.
— CHAPTER FIVE —