I gotta get home. Everything I know is there. So I start walking toward the Queensboro Bridge.
The closer I get to the bridge the worse I feel. My stomach is pissin’ me off, and my head hurts. I jump a small iron gate that surrounds a restaurant patio and sit at a table. The black metal chairs and matching tables are covered in an ash-like dust. They look hundreds of years old. I sweep away a layer of dust then I chug some water. The wind picks up and cools me off, but the gross odor in the wind gets worse. I gag, then throw up over the backside of the chair. I’m ready to see another person alive. I’m ready to be home.
I hear deep explosions somewhere toward Central Park. Then a bunch of pops. Someone is alive over there. I’d go looking for them except I don’t want to mess with anyone packin’ a machine gun. I get up and decide to get going. Call it instinct, but I move faster and closer to the buildings, trying to stay out of sight as best I can. I wish I had my rifle. I’d gotten a twenty-two caliber hunting rifle from my Dad last year. It has a serious scope with infrared tech and an insulated barrel for quiet recoil. I’ve been to the gun range with my Dad many times, so I know how to use it.
I turn the corner at 2nd Street. I can see the massive build up of cars on the Queensboro Bridge onramp. Good thing I’m not in a car ‘cause it would be impossible to navigate this mess, unless I had a monster truck.
I jump on a red Jeep then hop onto the hood of some old, crappy car. Then I hopscotch up to the straightaway. Most of the cars are deserted, but I can see a few people still buckled in. They are all stiff and dead like crash test dummies. Some look like they’re just sleeping. I hop on a beat-up yellow cab and then to the bed of a blue truck.
I see an overturned cop car that’s upside down on other cars. The cop car is smashed. I follow the path of destruction the cop car must have caused. It had tumbled from the upper ramp. Damn messy fall. I work my way around it then stop. There might be guns in the cop car, a shotgun or something, in the trunk.
I look it over. The doors are smashed, but I notice a bent up piece of the Lincoln’s hood is blocking the passenger side door and preventing it from opening. I wrestle to bend it out of the way. Doesn’t budge. There are probably no guns inside anyway. I start to leave.
“Hey, you! Help me!”
Someone’s inside the car. A cop! I run back to the Lincoln hood and pull as hard as I can.
“I got you!” I yell. I feel a rush of power in my arms.
Finally, the black hood gives way. I bend it as far down as it will go. With the cop car door unblocked I grab its handle and try to wrench the door open. It’s stuck.
“Oh my god,” a lady cop yells. “Get me out! Get me out! You’ve got to help me!” She kicks the door like a rabid dog. She’d have chewed her arm off if that would have freed her.
“Can you, like, kick at the same time I pull?” I ask, not sure how we’re going to get the door open.
“Grab the edge that is closest to the handle,” she says. “I’ll count to three.”
We simultaneously kick and pull. The door makes a loud creaking sound and opens. I reach in and help her out. She has barely enough room to slip by the twisted metal. Not quite enough room, actually, her shirt rips on a jagged metal piece and cuts into her side. She takes it like a man. She’s a cop after all. I should’ve expected it.
I give her some of my water. “I’m Tanis.”
“I’m Officer . . . scratch that, just call me Hana.” She’s in bad shape and looks how I feel.
“You been in there for a while?” She’s pretty for a cop. Dirty blond hair, nice lips, green eyes, and buff. She’s wearing a white tank top and just panties. She sees me lookin’, so she finds her pants and puts them on.
Hana attempts to stop her side from bleeding by holding her blue shirt on the wound. “I’ve been trapped for three days.”
I give her some beef jerky I grabbed from the market.
“Thank you.” She devours the jerky.
“I was trapped, too. In a building, though. I have no idea how long I was in there. I don’t even know what happened,” I say, intentionally leaving out the fact that I was the hacker that brought down the satellites, and the fact that I was saved by the guy that helped me do it. I’m only fifteen, but I’m smart enough to see that I was stupid for trusting Zilla. He’d given me a computer virus that did way more than steal a bunch of emails. I never even looked over the final code he’d given me. Stupid! Well, there is a bigger plot here, a conspiracy, and I’m the stupid kid that let ‘em do it. I opened the door. Now the city has been wiped out and everyone murdered. Someone will be after me. I have to be careful what I say. No one can know I helped take the city down. I’ll never speak of it again. I tell myself over and over in my head. Maybe I won’t get caught.
“I was locked in my Dad’s office. Don’t know how the door got opened.” I shrug.
Hana tries to smile. “We’re lucky.” She drinks more water then looks around. “No one could hear me yelling, or they just ignored me. Lots of people were running around. When the bridge became gridlocked with the cars, people abandoned them. They ran from this city like rats escaping a sinking ship. Yesterday, there were a few stragglers stumbling down the bridge. I couldn’t see much, but I could hear people crying, yelling, and running. Then everything went quiet.”
I try not to watch her adjust her sport bra and reaffix her belt to her waist. She is nice lookin’, that’s for sure. Too old for me though. She’s maybe a bit younger than my Ma, but not by much. Hana checks her pistol, pulls the hammer back, then clips the holster strap over the cocked hammer.
Hana sees something then takes off. She hops over the black Lincoln and runs to a woman that’s lying in between the cars. “Hey!” she yells.
I follow her.
Hana rolls the woman over. “Whoa!” The woman is still holding on to a hospital mask that covers her mouth. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her jaw is covered in mucus. Her skin looks white and leathery, and the veins are swollen. The woman is dead, real dead.
“What happened?” Hana asks. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“I don’t know. But the whole city is dead.” I look away. “I walked through a million dead people.”
“Whatever made people sick ended up killing them. The CDC said it was non-lethal.” Hana mumbles to herself. “I thought I saw an EMP attack. That’s what killed all the cars and the electronics. Part of a major terrorist attack. A well planned attack.”
“Yeah, totally fucked everyone here.” I mumble. I feel shame. If I hadn’t done my part, none of this would have happened. Would the military have been able to organize a better response if they still had satellites?
Hana’s head sags. It looks like she’s crying. After a nanosecond of silence she snots into a handkerchief and dries her eyes. “Where were you going?” she asks me.
I nod toward the Queensboro Bridge. “I live across the river in Forest Hills. I’m going to try and find my family.”
“I’d like to go home, but I won’t. I live in the city. Something tells me I’ll never go home again. So, I’d like to see my folks too. They live in Long Beach. I can go with you until you get home. Then I’ll go find my folks.”
“That would be cool,” I say.
We start down the bridge, weaving in and out of the cars. The bridge is epic. The huge steel beams that crisscross over our heads are held in place by huge steel rivets. The brick towers are solid and thick. I used to love this bridge, but now it looks crooked. There must have been a few fires here because there are black marks on the tan girders.
When the cars get too thick to navigate in between, I jump on the hood of a Mercedes Benz. I intend to hopscotch again, but I stop short. Hana jumps onto the hood next to me. She grabs my arm and steadies herself. I look at the bridge. At the point where the bridge crosses Roosevelt Island, it’s mangled and bent down toward the river. The rest of the Queensboro Bridge is gone. It’s crooked and totally useless after being blown to bits.
> Hana hops off the Benz. “The bridge has been taken out. I heard the explosions. The blast rocked all the cars around me and gave me a bit of a concussion.”
We stand at the end of the bridge and stare. The water far below moves along. The Roosevelt Island towers are completely obliterated, just piles of rubble. So New York is screwed. I’ve never looked at something so real, so frickin’ scary, so wrong. Above me, the bridge’s metal girders are twisted and torn. Power cables are cut like beheaded snakes. Smoke and dust cling to the air and rips at my throat when I breathe. A small shutter rumbles through the bridge’s wrecked structure like its nerves still have pent-up energy coursing through them. It’s a corpse in its own right. Just like that dead and bloated body hanging out of the car back there.
“How we gonna cross the river?” I ask. “Use the subway tunnels?”
She scans the area. “No. This bridge was taken out on purpose. Maybe an F-18 dropped a couple of missiles on the last tower over there. The subway tunnels were probably taken out by some bunker busters as well. It looks like the government tried to keep people from getting off New York Island.” She had a worried look on her face. “We’re gonna have to swim it.”
“I’m not a good swimmer. I’m a bit of a nerd. I do my thing on the computer.” I look at the water. It looks cold and terrible to swim in. “Besides, I was told you could get swept out to sea. The current is too strong here.”
She nods slowly. “Well, if you aren’t a good swimmer then that might be a death trap. We can try going north to the Kennedy Bridge. If that’s blown out then the river is a much shorter swim, and I can help you cross it. Maybe we’ll find a fishing boat up there.”
“That sounds okay to me. Don’t think we have a choice, huh?”
“I don’t think so.”
We head north in the heat and the stink, both wanting to go home, to ball games, crap on the TV, and good dinners.
Chapter 1.10
Isabella:
I wake up in my sleeping bag in the middle of a field in Central Park, just as big raindrops land on my head. I don’t get up right away. Instead, I open my mouth and let the rain splash on my tongue.
It should have tasted sweet, but it didn’t. It’s as rancid as the butt of an old cigarette. As I leap to my feet, a pinch of pain spikes in my lower back. “Sleeping on the ground is gonna mess up my figure,” I say out loud, though I’m the only living person around. I grab my bag of food and pull out a bagel. Dry, cold, stale, it is delicious.
I stand and stretch. The rain is a drizzle, but it’s gonna get heavier. I notice dark clouds churning above me. It’s gonna get bad real soon. Suddenly, I feel like throwing up. It’s the stench of the city. I gotta get outta here. Maybe there’s a quarantine line, and if I can get to it, I’ll have that bank account with my half million in it.
I grab my stuff and head north. I know from the jets two days ago and the explosions that the bridges were probably taken out. So I have to go north and cross the river at its shortest point. I hate swimming, but I don’t have a choice. Maybe the rain will keep at a drizzle.
I jog north through the park. The only sound is the patter of the damp grass under my feet. Just as I near the northwest end of the park, a huge explosion erupts somewhere around Fredrick’s Circle. There was a gas station there. The sound rattles the trees. My ears ring. Through the tall, thick trees I can see a ball of fire rolling up the sides of the tall buildings. Fresh black smoke fills the sky. I pick up the assault rifle I nabbed from those fools in the Bradley. I check the breach; it’s loaded. Check the clip; it’s full. Safety, off. I verify that the weapon is set on semi-automatic, look down the sight, and set off.
Somebody did blow up that gas station next to Fredrick’s Circle. I avoid it and instead head toward Seventh Avenue. Seventh Avenue goes north and is a few streets east of Fredrick’s Circle. It seems like a good choice because there’s a median with trees. That gives me a wider playing field and cover under the trees. I don’t worry too much about an attack from above. Looters aren’t usually hiding out in apartments with sniper rifles. This isn’t Iraq.
#
I did well in Iraq, at first. I kept my wits about me and kept my guys stocked. It was one of the things I did really well. I was infantry, one of the few women who kept the front line supplied with ammo, food, and water. We engaged the enemy just as much as they did on the front line, especially in Fallujah.
It was night when the enemy circled around the front line. We were awakened at dawn by sniper and AK-47 fire. I knew my shit. It had already been several weeks into the campaign. I was cut, bloody, infected, and cramping from a bad period, but I wasn’t worried. I could shut off the pain like a light switch. I could still hear, see, and fire straight. The army counselor asked me if I had something to prove. Hell yeah, I did.
It was still dark, so I flipped my night vision down and followed my company to the south courtyard. We had to secure that area for a supply delivery. Everything was quiet at first. They were waiting. Then one crazy towel head came out of the alley where we’d just come from. He must have been hiding in a hole. He should have sent a dozen rounds into my back, but he was a bad shot. I spun and hit my trigger. I rattled off twenty rounds into his chest and sprayed the wall with his guts.
J.C. walked up to him and shot a 9 millimeter round into his dead eyes just to make sure. That was one of ten, maybe fifteen, Mujahidin suicide fighters we had to put down that day. Fucking bloody day.
For the next three hours we cleared our sector and secured the courtyard. It was starting to get hot, and it was only nine a.m.. As the dust settled, things wound down. After we’d pushed out everyone with a death wish, we fell back to our base and got some downtime. It was a lonely time for most, a time to think about what you’d left behind: your ma, pa, or baby brother. It wasn’t my lonely time. I listened to the quiet. It was as sweet as that first shot of whiskey. I could hear my heart beat. Was I still a woman? My gear strapped me down, flattened my chest, and hid my face and body. Here, I was just another soldier, not male, not female. My gear made me heavy, but now that I was lying there, propped up on a brick wall, I didn’t feel hot or achy, just relaxed. Then I slept. I slept like I’d died.
Three hours went by like a heart beat. Rodrigues shook me awake. After cramming food down my swollen throat, we were forced to take up residence in some luxurious mansion that just happened to be built like a fortress. We set up a second base further in the neighborhood. We stocked it with ammo, gear, MREs, smokes, and Band-Aids.
There had been skirmishes throughout the night, explosions, and more blood. But we held camp. We did our part. A week later we moved out. Redeployed. The worst was behind us. Command moved me to the Green Zone in Bagdad. I had to guard a checkpoint for eight hours a day. At least in Fallujah I got to run around at night when the sun wasn’t so evil. Every car that passed had the potential to blow off my face. And these towel heads would pass by me with bloodlust pooling in their eyes. It wasn’t that I was American, they hated me because I was a woman that carried a gun and barked orders.
Day after day of that bullshit and I finally snapped. This man came walking up to the checkpoint in a dirty thab and sandals, basically looked like every other Iraqi, but dirtier. He had his hands hidden. I yelled, “Raweenee edeek!” Which means show me your hands. He didn’t listen. “Ogaf bmkanek la tetharek!” (Stop where you are.) He didn’t stop. Only when I readied to blow his fucking head off did he listen to me. He stopped and held up his hands. I made him pull up his dress and spin around. No bomb, no weapon at all. I waved him on. But that moment he passed me he shot me a look that might as well been a punch to my face. I bashed his head with the butt of my rifle then leapt on him. I didn’t stop hitting him until my commander pulled me off. By that time he looked inside out.
At the time, I burned bright inside like a sun in some cold corner of the universe. The men around me still stared, but less hateful than before. They became afraid of me.
The next day I
was moved back to Kuwait. They tried me and formally kicked me out of the Army. Whatever, fuck ‘em. I didn’t regret a damn thing.
#
I exit Central Park and step over the small knee-high brick wall that surrounds the grounds. I move cautiously across the road. I look left where the explosion had come from. There’s a cloud of smoke still rising from the circle. No other movement. I head up Seventh with my assault rifle at the ready.
Chapter 1.11
Markus:
After a terribly long flight, one from which I thought I’d never recover, I land at the airport in Rome and take a taxi to Vatican City. The cab’s trunk is too small for my luggage, so I clip it onto the roof rack. I have never traveled in Europe before. I find myself pleasantly surprised. It’s bustling like New York but much older. The ghosts of a thousand centuries must be wandering these streets. There is also a more casual look on everyone’s face. I fall in love with the place almost immediately. I wish I’d brought Marian.
The taxi follows winding roads, snaking in and around brick buildings. I can almost see the hills from the back seat. Apartments and office buildings cluster the city like a packed bookshelf. The beauty of the city is only broken by occasional graffiti. The streets and sidewalks are filled with Italians in their little cars, zipping in and out of narrow streets. People love using their horns. Everyone is honking at each other. I laugh. My mother, God rest her soul, would have loved the homemade feel of this country.
My cab driver speeds up and turns more recklessly the farther we get from the airport. His speed gets to me, so I stare at my hands, feeling irritated. I’m not at a carnival. I didn’t pay for a roller coaster ride. I want to say something, but I don’t know how to say it in Italian, so I don’t. My stomach turns inside out. There’s a reason not many black folks drive in NASCAR.
6th Horseman, Extremist Edge Series: Part 1 Page 9