by Steve Alten
And in the end, that was why Mayor Kushner had relented in playing the dutiful role of press secretary, not because he believed the story but because he had to believe it… because sometimes the difference between civil obedience and civil destruction was the white lie of politics.
“Good afternoon. As most of you know by now, all bridges, tunnels, walkways, highways… basically all means of leaving or entering Manhattan, have been temporarily shut down. This order, which came directly from the White House, is a precautionary action that allows medical personal from the Centers for Disease Control to manage, maintain, and monitor a small outbreak of a flulike virus that was detected earlier today at the United Nations Plaza. For your own safety, and to allow gridlock conditions to ease, I am asking everyone in Manhattan, whether resident or guest, to remain indoors until the CDC officially gives us the all clear sign.”
“Mayor Kushner—”
“Mr. Mayor!”
Ignoring the press, Mathew Kushner followed his aides back inside City Hall, preparing to unleash his fury at the first Kogelo administration staffer foolish enough to answer his phone call.
143 Houston Street
Lower Manhattan
12:55 P.M.
Built in 1898, the Sunshine Cinema first housed the Houston Hippodrome motion-picture theater, then a Yiddish vaudeville house before being converted to a warehouse. Fifty years later, the Cinema was restored as a theater, featuring five state-of-the-art screens, stadium seating, Dolby Digital Surround EX sound and gourmet concessions, along with a Japanese rock garden and a bridge that offered breathtaking city views from its third-story glass annex.
Thirteen-year-old Gavi Kantor stood outside the box office with her two best friends, Shelby Morrison and Jamie Rumson. Having voted earlier to skip the last day of school before Christmas break, the three seventh graders were arguing over which matinee to see.
“How about Sisters of the Traveling Pants-3?”
“Are you gay, Jamie? Seriously. What about you, Gavi?”
“I don’t care. I would have been fine watching Blu-Ray movies in Mrs. Jenkins’s class.”
“You mean, watching Blu-Ray movies with Shawn-Ray Dalinky.”
“Shut up, Shelby.”
“Don’t even try to deny it. He’s practically all over your Facebook page.”
Shelby’s cell phone rang. She checked the number. “Gavi, it’s your mom! What should I do?”
“Don’t answer it!”
“Hello? Oh, hi, Mrs. Kantor. No, I haven’t seen Gavi… I mean, I missed her in second period. I, uh, had bad cramps and had to go to the nurse’s office. Why? Is anything wrong?” The teenager’s eyes widened. “For real? Okay, when I see her, I’ll have her call.” She hung up.
“What?”
“There’s some kind of emergency going on. Your mom said they closed down the roads and trains.”
“How do we get home?”
“As of now, we don’t. We’ll probably have to camp out in the gymnasium.”
“Oh, yeah, baby. Gavi and Shawn-Ray Dalinky, snuggling together on the hardwood floor.”
Jamie laughed.
Gavi worried. “We’d better get back to school.”
Ignoring her friend, Shelby handed the woman working the box office her debit card. “Three for Stranglehold.”
“Shelby, what are you doing?”
“We’re here, Gavi. Why should we rush back to school? Call your mom later and tell her your phone died.”
“Forget it. I’m going back. Jamie?”
“I’m staying.”
Gavi hesitated, then left, crossing Houston Street, heading for Chinatown.
“Gavi, don’t go. Gavi!”
“Forget her, Jamie. I’m surprised she even came with us. Come on, you’re buying the candy and popcorn.”
George Washington Bridge
1:07 P.M.
The traffic on the New Jersey side of the bridge was backed up for miles. Center barriers had been removed, forcing drivers to make U-turns onto the eastbound lanes of Interstate 95, returning them to Fort Lee.
David Kantor held on to the bench seat in the back of the Army transport vehicle as it raced east across the now-empty upper deck of the George Washington bridge, heading toward Manhattan. The suffocating breathing apparatus covering his face echoed each labored breath. The forty pounds of gear strapped to his back caused the muscles in his shoulders to ache. The tear-gas canisters clipped to his utility belt and the assault rifle loaded with rubber bullets scared the hell out of him. But not as much as what he saw out of the truck’s open tailgate.
While an Army demolition team duct-taped munitions to suspension cables, a team in rebreathers and jumpsuits spray-painted the bridge’s roadway and undercarriage, using long reach poles.
David knew what was mixed in with the paint, and that was what unnerved him. This is insane. Something bad has happened. He cursed himself for giving up his cell phone before calling his wife to see if Gavi ever made it home.
The military vehicle skidded to a halt. As the senior officer present, David instructed the ten National Guardsmen and three Army Reservists to line up behind the back of the vehicle.
“Captain Kantor?” The booming voice rattled the two-way radio inside David’s hood. He turned to face an imposing bearded man, his physique bulging beneath a uniform marked un.
“I am Commander Oyvind Herstad. My men are in charge of this outpost. You are the senior officer for the domestic force?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Your people will be used strictly to communicate; we will maintain the gauntlet.”
“Gauntlet? What gauntlet?”
Commander Herstad led him around the truck.
At the end of the road where the bridge met Manhattan was an impediment of military Hummers positioned across all eight lanes of Interstate 95. Beyond the vehicles were coils of barbed wire, stretched across the upper-bridge roadway and the two pedestrian crossings, all backed by heavily armed soldiers in camouflage khaki uniforms, protective headgear, and hoods.
Beyond the gauntlet into Manhattan, pedestrian traffic was ensnared as far as the eye could see. Most civilians remained in their vehicles to stay warm. Others milled about in packs, yelling at the soldiers, demanding answers. Several men waited their turns to defecate behind a steel bridge support, the public having designated it a makeshift bathroom. Farther to the east, David could see the 178th Street ramp, its bridge-bound lanes lined bumper to bumper with thousands of cars, buses, and trucks. Both upper and lower arteries remained blocked on the Manhattan side of the bridge.
“Why?”
“Manhattan is now under a strict quarantine. No one is permitted to enter or leave the city until further notice.”
“What happened? Was there a terrorist attack?”
“Biological attack. Plague. Very contagious. Your men will take positions closest to the civilian walkways. Reason with the people. Keep them calm. The Freedom Force will maintain the quarantine.”
“What the hell is the Freedom Force?”
“We’re an international division. Professional soldiers.”
“Since when does the United States use professional soldiers in domestic emergencies?”
“Field studies have shown that a domestic militia will hesitate to use the force necessary to combat their fellow citizens. The Freedom Force was created to address those situations. Our militia recruits from the Canadian Military Police, Royal Netherlands Brigade, and the Norwegian Armed Forces, among others.”
“This is insane.”
“This is the world in which we now live.”
“We passed a demolition team working on the bridge. What are they doing?”
“Ensuring we do not lose the quarantine.”
“You’re planning to blow up the George Washington Bridge?”
“It is a fail-safe only. Rest assured, my men will maintain the gauntlet. Do your job and—” Herstad cocked his head and listened to commands coming
over his earpiece. “Bring your men, quickly!”
David hurried back behind the truck. “Detail — with me!”
The soldiers formed two lines and fell in behind their commanding officer, double-timing it across the asphalt highway, heading for the commuter walkway located on the south side of the bridge, where a growing mob of several hundred people were threatening to push their way through the barricade, using spare tires and tire irons to attack the barbed wire. A dozen civilians were waving handguns.
“Let us through now, Comrade!”
“None of us are sick! Let us go!”
“My wife’s in the car, she’s going into labor.”
Commander Herstad pulled David aside, handing him a bullhorn fitted with a plug-in attachment for his headgear. “Order them back, or they leave us no choice.” The Norwegian fingered the trigger of his weapon. “These are not rubber bullets.”
David approached the crowd. Men mostly. Driven by desperation. Fueled by fear and the need to save themselves and their loved ones. Outgunned, yet holding the numbers to win once organized. A hundred thousand cornered cats.
His heart pounded. “May I have your attention? My name is David Kantor, I’m a captain in the United States Army Reserve—”
“Let us through!”
“We can’t do that right now.”
“Then we’ll do it for you!” A revolver was raised above the crowd.
A firing line of Freedom Force fighters raised their assault weapons in response.
The crowd cowered, even as more handguns appeared.
“Wait!” David stepped in front of the firing line.
The foreign militia never budged, their fingers remaining on their triggers.
“Where’s the pregnant woman?” No reaction. “I’m a medic. If there’s someone who needs medical assistance, let her through.”
Heads turned. The crowd parted. A Hispanic couple in their early thirties approached the barbed wire. The woman was stooped over, supporting her swollen belly.
“What’s your name?”
“Naomi… Naomi Gutierrez. My water broke. This is my fourth. It won’t be long.”
Commander Herstad pulled David aside. “What are you doing?”
“Negotiating.”
“There is nothing to negotiate.”
“We’re negotiating for time, Commander. The 42nd IDSCOM hasn’t arrived yet with their armored vehicles, and I’m laying odds your demolition team isn’t quite ready to blow a gap through all fourteen lanes of a two-level suspension bridge. At the same time, I think we both know your men can’t stop hundreds of vehicles crashing your gauntlet simultaneously. So here’s the deal: You let the woman through. We set her up in the back of the truck with some blankets, and if need be, I help deliver her child. That buys us some time. In Iraq, we called that the human touch. But hey, I’m sure there’s a field study lying around somewhere if you need to read it.”
Herstad scanned the crowd, the mob having tripled in the last few minutes. “Lower your weapons. Allow the woman through. Just the woman.”
David scanned his command. Located one of the female National Guardsmen. “What’s your name, Corporal?”
“Sir, Collins, Stephanie, sir.”
“At ease. Corporal Collins, I want you to escort Mrs. Gutierrez to the truck we just rode in on. Make her comfortable, but do not compromise your protective gear. Is that clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
David watched Herstad’s men retract a small section of barbed wire, allowing the pregnant woman to pass through. Activating the bullhorn, he addressed the crowd once again. “The woman will be fine. Now please, for your own safety, go back to your vehicles and wait until the all clear sign is given.”
The mob slowly dispersed.
The Freedom Force lowered their assault weapons.
David Kantor followed the two women to the military vehicle, his eyes focused on the demolition crew a hundred yards away—
— continuing to spray paint the underside of the bridge.
VA Medical Center
East Side, Manhattan
1:32 P.M.
Leigh Nelson hustled to keep up with Dr. Clark, who was dictating orders to her even as he directed interns, relocating dozens of patients, who were organizing a ground-level isolation ward in the E.R. “We contacted the CDC in Albany. They’re already at the UN Apparently the outbreak started there.”
“Makes sense. The Russian woman’s a delegate.”
“We’ll perform the C-section in the E.R., then return both mother and child to the third-floor isolation ward. The infant will remain in a self-contained unit. The mother is to remain restrained.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are the antibiotics having any effect?”
“No, sir, not yet. Cold packs brought the fever down a little. Once the newborn’s delivered, we’ll start the mother on a morphine drip to deal with the pain.”
“No, keep her lucid. The CDC wants us to get as much information from her as we can. Who she came in contact with, what buildings she entered… that’s your job, Dr. Nelson. Find out everything. The CDC claims they’ll be able to contain this thing, but I know bullshit when I smell it, especially with the feds shutting down the transit system. I ordered a dozen environmental suits brought over from inventory and sent Myers on a bleach run. Prepare for the worst, Leigh, it’s going to be a long night.”
* * *
The old man entered the emergency ward. His face was serene, contrasting with the chaos surrounding him. Bypassing the turmoil at the front desk, he strolled down a corridor lined with moaning patients in wheeled beds and confused interns seeking answers from frustrated nurses. Arriving at a row of elevators, he pushed the up button.
The middle elevator arrived first, its doors opening—
— releasing a hospital administrator and three interns, all wearing gowns, gloves, and masks. They were pushing a gurney enveloped in a portable plastic isolation tent, its patient — a ghostly pale pregnant woman, her wrists and ankles bound to the bed rails by restraining straps.
“Sir, please step back.”
Mary Louise Klipot opened her sunken eyes, staring aghast at the old man. He offered a simple wave hello before stepping onto the vacated elevator.
* * *
“Hey, Whitebread, phone call. It’s either your old lady or the whore you shacked up with last night.”
Patrick Shepherd grabs the payphone receiver. “Sorry, babe. Just one of my teammates messin’ with you. How’s your dad?”
“Not good. The cancer’s moved into his lymph nodes. The doctor says… it won’t be long.”
Tears roll down his cheeks. “Okay. I’m coming home.”
“Dad said no, and he meant it. He said if you leave the team now, you’ll lose your spot in the rotation.”
“I don’t care.”
“He does! Whenever the fever breaks, you’re all he talks about. How’s Shep? Did he pitch today? So… how is it going?”
Shep checks the hallway, making sure no one is listening. “Class A ball sucks. I’m surrounded by a bunch of eighteen-year-old Dominicans who can’t speak a lick of English. These guys are crazy, like they were just let off the boat.” He pinches away tears. “The truth is, I’m lonely. I miss you and the baby.”
“We’ll see you soon enough. How’s the competition?”
“Raw. But a few guys… you can tell they’re juicing.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“What if it’s my only chance?”
“Patrick—”
“Babe, I’m a nineteenth-round draft pick signed for fifteen hundred bucks out of Rutgers. A few needles, and I bet I could add at least four miles an hour to my fastball.”
“No steroids. Promise me, baby.”
“Okay. I promise.”
“When’s your next start?”
“Wednesday night.”
“Just remember what Dad taught you. Don’t take the rubber until you visualiz
e the pitch. When the first batter goes down flailing, no smile, no emotion, just the Iceman. Shep, are you even listening?”
“Sorry. I can’t think straight. Knowing what’s going on with your dad… not seeing you and the baby… it feels like I have a hole in my heart.”
“Stop it. Stop whining! You are not a victim.”
“He’s not just my coach, he’s the only father I’ve ever known.”
“You said your good-byes three weeks ago. We all knew that. We all cried. If you want to honor him, utilize the lessons he spent a lifetime teaching you. And don’t forget our deal. I’m not marrying you until you pitch in the majors.”
“Okay, tough guy.”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“We’re soul mates. You can’t leave your soul mate.”
“A deal’s a deal. Quit the team now, or start putting needles in your ass, and I’m gone in a New York minute. Me and your daughter.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because Dad’s too sick to slap you around himself. Because we agreed to a plan the day you found out I was pregnant. You need to succeed, Shep. Don’t back down now. We’re counting on you.”
* * *
Patrick Shepherd sat up in bed, panting. His body was lathered in sweat, his mind once more struggling to identify his new surroundings.
“That must have been quite the dream.”
Shep turned, startled.
The old man was leaning back in the desk chair, watching him. More aging hippie than senior citizen. A long mane of hair, silvery white, pulled back over a tan forehead into a six-inch ponytail. A matching mustache and trimmed beard framed his jaw line down to his Adam’s apple. The eyes were blue, kind but inquisitive, obscured behind teardrop glasses, their lenses tinted burgundy. He was wearing faded blue jeans, brown hiking boots, and a thick gray wool sweater over a black tee shirt. Bearing a slight paunch, he resembled an elderly, healthy version of the late Grateful Dead singer, Jerry Garcia, had he lived to see his mid to late seventies.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”