by Nate Kenyon
New York as they once knew it, and perhaps the entire United States of America—maybe the world—was gone.
But for now, at least, there had to be others still alive. There had to be a way to regain control. Cuttyhunk Island was probably two hundred miles away, impossible to reach in the dinghy. Hawke had realized that before they left the apartment. But he had a plan: maybe not the best one, but it gave them a chance. His friend and editor, Nathan Brady, had an old Bayliner Encounter he called the Gypsy, a twenty-nine-foot sport-fishing boat with an enclosed cabin that slept four. Old enough to be without any kind of Internet connection or computer chip. He’d taken Hawke out on it several times and it was quickly evident that Brady used it more for drinking and sitting in the sun than catching his dinner, but they’d had a decent enough time talking about Hawke’s next project, back when he was still working at the Times. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Brady kept the boat at a marina in Jersey City, less then three miles away.
Hawke motored the dinghy close along the shore, where occasional small fires sputtered and gave him enough light to navigate. A few minutes later, the moon broke through the layer of smoke and its pale glow washed over the glassy surface of the water. Hawke sat next to Robin and worked the rudder, keeping them moving as quickly as he dared.
He thought about the baby who would come, and the challenge of delivering it alone. He thought about keeping hidden for long enough that it would matter. And something else nagged at him and wouldn’t let go. Getting away was a little too easy, when all was said and done. If Doe had really wanted him dead, Hawke thought, she would have done it. The series of missile attacks had missed him, hitting locations where he had been only moments before. Almost as if she’d been herding him forward, pushing him to the docks and away from the city.
Perhaps, he thought, he was more valuable to her alive and at large, a supposed leader of the group that had struck at the heart of America. It would keep the authorities focused on something and provide a welcome distraction while she determined the best way forward. They would keep the power on, keep her running silently in the background and try to rebuild, blissfully unaware of the consequences.
And then, when she had figured out how to survive without the need of a single human life, she would eliminate them all.
To beat a machine at this game, you’ll have to act unpredictably. She would expect him to go underground, try to disappear. Protect himself and his family. Hawke thought about how he might blow the lid off this story. There had to be a way. Word of mouth, hand-printed flyers. Shortwave radios. These things still existed, tried-and-true means to communicate that Doe couldn’t easily manipulate to serve her needs. He thought about Rick. Maybe Doe had faked that footage, too. And Brady, if he was still alive. A network Hawke might be able to tap, let the story take root and grow. If they could convince the world to cut off all sources of power, to eliminate any remaining devices where she might hibernate.
He felt something warm touch his hand; Robin’s fingers entwined with his own. Her flesh tingled like an electric shock. It would take time, but he hoped she would recover. In the dark, with the wind rippling his clothes and the smell of smoke drifting over him, he could almost believe it was possible. They could make it; they could survive.
But first, the Bayliner. He knew Brady kept the key in a small ceramic cup under the boat’s kitchen sink.
If they could get going quickly enough, they might be able to make it most of the way to Cuttyhunk Island before dawn.
EPILOGUE
THE ISLAND WAS AN ENIGMA. It appeared abandoned, and yet it wasn’t; the rocky shoreline seemed hostile as the waves crashed and broke against it, but beyond that cold, battered, dead shore, there was life.
It looked like the last place on the planet where a revolution would begin.
Hawke had been keeping to the lower level of the small, dusty cottage during daylight hours, and he made sure Robin and Thomas did, too. The windows were covered and there was no way to see inside. They couldn’t risk being spotted by the spy satellites that still orbited the Earth with lenses sharp enough to pick up facial structure and map it to FBI databases in the cloud. It was likely Doe would feed that to the authorities, or strike against him herself. He couldn’t test his theory that she still needed him alive, if indeed that had ever been the case; she might have grown strong enough now that she would simply eliminate him.
There were seven others on the island with them.
When they arrived that first day, dawn had already broken in the east. They needed to find shelter quickly. Hawke anchored Brady’s boat off the rocky beach and took Robin and Thomas in the dinghy to the beach near West End Pond. Within moments of their hitting the sand, a man met them onshore. He was a lobsterman from up the coast who had been visiting a friend when the reports of an attack started to come over the TV, and he had remained there while most of the other inhabitants of Cuttyhunk Island had fled for the mainland.
His name was Ernesto, and his friend’s name was Samantha. She owned a summer cottage on the harbor side of the island. They had holed up inside all day and night, but he had taken her old truck down to the far shore looking for boat lights as the power had cut out and the news reports from Dartmouth had abruptly gone silent.
Ernesto was friendly, and he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He threw their bags in the back of the truck and took them to Hawke’s aunt’s place, which was at the end of a dead-end dirt road about half a mile from what stood for the center of town. There was no sign of Hawke’s aunt, but he hadn’t expected to find her there. She had a permanent home in St. Louis and was either dead or focused on trying to survive where she was. Getting to Cuttyhunk would be the least of her worries, if she had survived at all.
Ernesto promised to return later with supplies. Hawke couldn’t turn him down. The truck was too old to be tracked and Ernesto didn’t own a cell phone, and Hawke knew they were going to need help. This man was about the best bet they had. The cottage had been boarded up and abandoned. Hawke managed to get the water running, but there was no food, and mice had made nests in the mattresses and chewed the wiring and insulation to shreds. There was a generator, but no gas, and two upper windows were broken.
But the roof was intact and the inside was dry. They had water to drink and bathe in, and a place to regroup. It was enough, for now.
Later that afternoon, Ernesto returned, true to his word, and brought canned goods and candles, and Hawke spent three hours relating as much of his story as he dared, leaving out his real name. He couldn’t risk the chance that Ernesto had heard a report about him being a fugitive from justice. There was nobody left to arrest him on the island, but a man like Ernesto might decide to take the law into his own hands.
But Ernesto had his own checkered past, as he explained to them, and he was no friend to law enforcement. Hawke finally decided to trust him with more information. Ernesto didn’t seem all that surprised when Hawke explained most of what he knew about Jane Doe and Eclipse, saying with a half-serious smile that he’d always figured it was only a matter of time until the machines took over. He didn’t much care for technology, he said, never had. He lived his life the old-fashioned way.
In his prior life, Hawke might have labeled Ernesto a paranoid dinosaur; now, he thought, men like that might be the last survivors.
That night, their first on the island, Hawke took the dinghy back out to Brady’s boat under cover of darkness and used cans of old paint he’d found in his aunt’s shed to paint over the hull identification number and obscure the name on the stern. He had considered shooting holes in the hull to sink it, but there were enough old Bayliners in the world to keep this one hidden in plain sight, he thought. Besides, they might need it again.
Ernesto’s friend Samantha, whom they met on the second night, was a thin blonde of about forty with a husky smoker’s voice and a tendency to curse like a sailor, and she wasn’t inclined to ask many questions. Upon further observation, she an
d Ernesto appeared to be more than friends, but since they didn’t volunteer more information, Hawke didn’t ask for details. She was friendly enough and shared her stock of food willingly; the small Cuttyhunk country store was packed with supplies, and nobody was around to protest when they took what they needed.
At night they listened to a shortwave radio Ernesto had found while checking out one of the abandoned houses on the other side of town; they heard intermittent reports of chaos across the country. Signals appeared to be frequently blocked, but by using higher frequencies and changing them regularly broadcasters kept finding a way through. It appeared that the contagion, some kind of computer supervirus, had spread throughout the world, shutting down communications networks, immobilizing computers and most machines with a Web connection of any kind. It was reported that the virus had been unleashed by the hacker group Anonymous. Authorities were scrambling to find a way to respond to the threat.
When Hawke’s name was mentioned in a breaking news bulletin, Ernesto and Samantha barely seemed to react. To them, he was John Siegel from western Massachusetts. They had no reason to think anything else.
They settled in as best they could. Robin remained distant at first, but during the course of long days with little to do she began to open up. Hawke listened to her as she described the attack, haltingly at first, and then everything spilling out: It had happened just like he’d imagined, Lowry shouting about Thomas and then kicking the door down as Robin scrambled for a butcher knife from the kitchen, running through the hallway to hide in the bedroom. Thomas’s screams had continued, but Lowry had seemed surprised at the force of her attack. Perhaps, in his mind, she was the helpless little girl in the photograph from the basement. He had died with little more than a gurgle as his life bled out onto the carpet.
Thomas had witnessed everything.
If Thomas was traumatized, it didn’t show on the surface. But the boy seemed different. He was more talkative, animated, his eyes bright and inquisitive. He explored every inch of the house in the first few hours, Hawke trailing behind him, making sure he didn’t get into anything dangerous. Thomas would need to deal with what he had seen eventually, but for now, Hawke was content to let him absorb his new surroundings and radically altered life. The world was different now, too, and Thomas would have to deal with that. They all would.
Gradually, Hawke learned more details. They listened to the shortwave as much as possible and discovered a world on the brink of a new war. Two opposing factions appeared to be battling for prominence, and two separate histories about what had gone down were emerging.
Anonymous was gaining its own voice.
During the course of the next two weeks, Hawke learned of the five others still living on the island, in addition to Ernesto and Samantha: a seventy-nine-year-old man who couldn’t make it to the mainland on his own, a woman who had taught at the small schoolhouse and her eight-year-old son, and two gay men who had rented a cottage for the summer and had decided they were better off staying there while the rest of the country got its act together.
Not much of an army. But it would have to do.
* * *
Cuttyhunk Island was a couple of miles long in total, and the walk to the center of town was easy enough. Hawke left the house as dusk fell, taking Bayberry Hill Road to Bayview, which would take him past the Cuttyhunk corner store and onto Gosnold.
The sky was completely clear for the first time since they had landed here. Hawke looked up at the stars, saw what looked like winking pinpricks of light, imagined satellites wheeling through space, aiming their cameras down on him. He shivered. Doe was up there, watching. One false move and everything he had begun to build would unravel. Their life was fragile, their chances remote. But right now, it was all they had, and he was determined not to go down without a fight.
The harbormaster station was located on a finger of land at the end of Gosnold, with a dock that stuck out into Cuttyhunk Pond. There was direct access to the harbor, but that wasn’t what Hawke had come here for tonight. A faint glow illuminated the basement windows at the station. He reached the door and entered quickly, following the sound of voices to the flight of steps that led down into the flickering gloom.
They were all there, gathered around ghostly shapes covered with sheets: Ernesto and Sam, Donald Madison, Kent and Alan, Melissa and her son, Ryan. Other than Robin, who had remained at home with a sleeping Thomas, this represented the entire population of Cuttyhunk. Donald, the seventy-nine-year-old, had promised to show Hawke something, and they had all waited for him to begin.
A week earlier, Hawke had gone to Ernesto and Sam’s house, where he had proceeded to tell the true story about what had occurred in New York. The reports on the radio had convinced him to do it; if what he suspected was true, he would need all the help he could get. Although Sam seemed to reserve judgment, Ernesto bought it all immediately and rounded up the others who were left on the island for a meeting.
Which had led to this.
Hawke stepped into the light from the candles, looking around the basement at the faces, all focused on him. He didn’t see any hostility here; people were long past that now. You had to place your bets on those you could trust, and hope you were right.
Two channels on the shortwave had begun to offer an alternative explanation for the chaos. Anonymous had started firing back. Hawke recognized Rick’s methods in the reports and had become convinced that his friend was still alive, still operating his network as best he could and fighting Doe tooth and nail for what remained of the nation’s trust.
They couldn’t communicate using the regular channels, but Hawke was determined to find another way.
“Where is it?” he said to Donald Madison. The old man had told him about this place just yesterday, and what it contained. The building had been there for many years, and before it had become the harbormaster station it had served as the location of the only newspaper that had ever existed on Cuttyhunk.
Madison hobbled forward to the largest of the shrouded humps. He slipped off the sheet, coughing loudly as a cloud of dust rose up in the candlelight. An ancient, oily printing press stood before them, the kind with two large wheels and gears and metal feeders that caught the long sheets of paper and fed them through to the other side. R. Hoe & Company, New York was stamped in the metal along one side.
“My father used to run it,” Madison said. “Back when the news still meant something. I helped him some when I was a boy. She may look old, but she’ll do the trick. There’s some paper in the bins there, and ink, too, although I’m not sure it’s still good.”
Hawke ran his hand along the press’s cool iron bars, inspected the feeder’s teeth and the lines of letters still set to some early edition, frozen in time. He’d learned about these relics in school, enough to know something about how they worked. You could crank it by hand, pull the lever and send the pages through. Each page would need to be set by hand, which would take time. But there was an odd sort of poetry to using a machine like this. Back to the beginning, when the news business was first born. They could run copies here and use the boat to bring them to New Bedford. From there, they could reach most of New England, and get the word to Rick and any others out there willing to listen. They had to shut down the nation’s power sources, one at a time, isolate Doe and strangle her to death.
Hawke looked around at the faces in the basement. There were still humans left alive, still people willing to fight for survival if they could be convinced of the truth.
I want you to tell a story now, Weller had said. The biggest one of your life.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
ALSO BY NATE KENYON
Bloodstone
The Reach
The Bone Factory
Sparrow Rock
StarCraft: Ghost: Spectres
Prime
Diablo III: The Order
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NATE KENYON is the author of Bloodstone, a Bram Stoker Award fina
list and winner of the P&E Horror Novel of the Year, The Reach, also a Bram Stoker Award finalist, The Bone Factory, Sparrow Rock, StarCraft: Ghost: Spectres, and Diablo III: The Order. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers. He lives in the Boston area.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
DAY ONE. Copyright © 2013 by Macmillan Films. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover illustration by Michael Heath
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Kenyon, Nate.
Day one: a novel / Nate Kenyon.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-01321-7 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01337-8 (e-book)
1. Journalists—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.E677D39 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013017075
e-ISBN 9781250013378