by Steve Alten
— his reaction compelling dozens of enraged, grief-stricken parents to hurl the infected remains of their dead offspring from their balconies and windows, pinning down the militia in the middle of Broadway’s southbound lanes.
The change in tactics energized the revolt. Within minutes, hundreds of locals were streaming out of their apartment buildings, armed with baseball bats and knives, handguns and assault weapons. A final outburst of flames, and the battle was over, the masses victorious, their burning rage quelled, but only for the moment.
Reclaiming the streets, the multitudes scattered, unleashing their wrath upon local businesses, smashing windows as they looted their own neighborhood.
Virgil pulled Shep from the scene, leading him around rows of abandoned cars, the campus of Columbia University in the distance. “The breakdown of social order… it’s always followed by chaos. We’re bearing witness to a test of faith, Patrick. It appears as if Satan has won.”
* * *
The Reaper hovered a thousand feet above Broadway, its scarlet eyes focused on the street below—
— its remote operator, thirty miles away, scanning faces in the crowd on his monitor. Each head shot was sent to a physiognomic range finder, which created a two-dimensional facial map using eighteen plotted points. The reciprocal points were then compared to a three-dimensional morphology of the targeted subject’s face, already loaded into the computer.
The optical scanner zoomed in on the old man and his younger companion as they moved quickly south down Broadway. The younger man’s image was acquired, pixelized, refocused, and plotted.
match confirmed: target acquired.
“Major, we found him! Subject is heading south on Broadway, approaching West 125th Street.”
Rosemarie Leipply leaned over the drone pilot’s shoulder, confirming the match. “Well done. Lock onto the subject, then alert Captain Zwawa’s people on Governor’s Island. Be sure they’re receiving the live feed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Governor’s Island, New York
1:53 A.M.
The MH-60G Pave Hawk reverberated on its landing struts, the combat helicopter’s rotors violating the cold December night. The nine members of the Army Ranger extraction team were already seated in back, waiting impatiently for the last recruit to climb aboard.
David Kantor willed his exhausted body to carry him and the forty pounds of equipment strapped to his back across the lawn to the waiting airship. As he approached the open side door, two Rangers reached down and dragged him on board, practically tossing him onto the far bench.
Major Steve Downey leaned in next to him, powering on the headset built into David’s mask. “You Kantor?”
David nodded.
The Ranger offered a gloved handshake, shouting to be heard. “Major Downey, welcome aboard. I understand you’re familiar with our target.”
David grabbed on to the bench as the helicopter lurched into the air. “We served a tour together in Iraq.”
“That it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Downey pulled his mask and hood off, revealing spiked hair, a goatee, and harsh hazel eyes. “Your record shows you crossed paths on at least three tours. Your personnel records indicate you invited him to your oldest daughter’s wedding, though he never showed. Don’t screw with me, Kantor. There are lives at stake… the president’s life, the UN delegates, and just maybe every person fortunate enough not to be in Manhattan. My mission is simple — get the vaccine. Whether your pal survives the night is up to him… and you. Am I being clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once we land in Morningside Heights, we’ll divide the squad into two awaiting military vehicles. I want you seated next to me.”
“Yes, sir. Wait… did you say Morningside Heights? I was told we’d be landing in the Battery.”
“One of our drones spotted Shepherd in the vicinity of Columbia University, that’s our new destination. The wife’s strictly backup at this time. Is that a problem, Captain?”
David closed his eyes behind the tinted mask. “No, sir.”
Cathedral of St. John the Divine
Amsterdam Avenue, Morningside Heights
1:57 A.M.
There were thousands of them. Some had traveled miles on foot, others lived in the surrounding neighborhoods. Their government had abandoned them, the medical industry had no answers, and so they sought help from a higher power, pushing their infected loved ones in wheelbarrows and shopping carts. They pounded the sealed arched doors and shouted into the night, their pleas for last rites and salvation falling upon deaf ears… just as they had in Europe 666 years ago.
Inside the cathedral, the Reverend Canon Jeffrey Hoch moved through the massive hall, his face cloaked behind a red silk scarf. Several thousand people were scattered throughout the chapel, many asleep in the pews.
They had started arriving just before noon, senior citizens at first, as if they could sense the threatening storm. By two o’clock, hundreds were pouring in — angry families and frustrated tourists caught in the chaos, everyone seeking a warm place to wait out the hours, preferably one with a clean restroom.
The rush began an hour before dusk, when anger and confusion turned to desperation, desperation to fear. A mandatory curfew meant several hundred thousand people would be channeled into school gymnasiums, missions, and Madison Square Garden, the latter igniting memories of Hurricane Katrina and the chaos of the Superdome — only this time the desperate, destitute, and poor would be sharing space with the infected. As the multitudes began lining up along Amsterdam Avenue to be screened, Bishop Janet Saunders had ordered the clergymen inside, the cathedral sealed.
The Reverend Hoch paused to light a prayer candle, joined by Mike McDowell, the dean of the religious school. “Reverend, this isn’t right. How can we keep the public from sanctuary? How can we continue to deny the dying their last rites.”
“I am no longer in charge. You must speak with Bishop Saunders.”
“John the Divine is a multidenominational cathedral. I don’t recognize the bishop’s authority.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. McDowell, I do.”
The pounding on the three-ton bronze doors continued unabated, the sound dispersed throughout the cavernous 601-foot-long nave. McDowell headed down the center aisle for the apse, where Janet D. Saunders, the second woman elected primate in the Anglican Communion, was leading a small group of worshippers in prayer.
“Bishop Saunders, may I have a word with you in private?”
The sixty-seven-year-old Kansas native looked up. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my flock.”
“With all due respect, Bishop, the majority of your flock are locked outside the cathedral, and they’re terrified. St. John’s can take them in; we can provide them with sanctuary.”
“The Almighty has unleashed His plague upon this city, Mr. McDowell. Everyone outside these walls has been exposed. Open the doors now, and you’ll condemn the few whom Jesus has chosen to survive the night.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
McDowell felt his face flush. “And if we are being punished by the Almighty, is this not a prime example of our wickedness? Of our corruption? If we simply allowed those in need to seek refuge in our basement away from the uninfected, would this not convince God that we are worthy of being saved?”
The worshippers looked to the bishop for rebuttal.
“I considered this, Mr. McDowell. As the hour grew late, I consulted the Bible for answers. The first time God decided to strike down the wicked, he instructed Noah to build an ark, a vessel of salvation similar in size to the dwelling in which we now find ourselves. Noah warned the people, but they refused to listen. Once the rains began, no one else was allowed inside the ark, for the Angel of Death had come. The ark is now closed, Mr. McDowell. The Angel of Death shall not enter these premises.”
Thirty-seven worshippers breathed a sigh of relief, a few actually applauding.
&nb
sp; * * *
The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors reached them seconds before the spotlight isolated them from the darkness.
Patrick and Virgil looked up, the Army chopper hovering overhead, preparing to land.
“We need to find cover… better yet, a crowd.”
“This way.” Virgil led him down West 113th Street past rows of candlelit apartments, the spotlight staying on them like an angel’s halo. They emerged on Amsterdam Avenue, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine looming across the street, the grounds a refugee camp for tens of thousands. They quickly melted into the crowd, ducking low as they gradually made their way around the Peace Fountain—
— the spotlight losing them as they cut across a snow-covered expanse of lawn, emerging on Cathedral Parkway.
The night swirled. Patrick’s vision blurred. He looked up—
— shocked to see a black winged demon hovering eighty feet overhead, its unblinking scarlet eyes staring at him, as if looking through the void into his soul.
Virgil grabbed him by the arm, tugging him hard. The two men cut through an alleyway sandwiched between apartment buildings, only to find the passage blocked by stacks of human corpses. Retracing their steps, they zigzagged around abandoned vehicles.
The Pavehawk’s searchlight picked them up again as they hurried down Amsterdam Avenue. Virgil bent over, out of breath. “Go on… without me.”
“No.” Shep looked around, desperate to find a place to hide—
— as a flock of winged demons dropped from the sky overhead. Time slowed to a crawl, each double cadence of his beating heart magnified in his ears, the night creatures descending from above, attempting to swoop him up in their talons—
The searchlight swiveled as the chopper battled a forty-mile-an-hour gust of wind, the airship’s heavenly blue light illuminating a storefront sign: minos pizzeria.
Every business on Amsterdam Avenue had been vandalized, every window broken, every store left in shambles except for Minos Pizzeria. As the light refocused on Shep, he could see sixty to eighty homeless people standing guard outside the premises — and not one looter dared cross their gauntlet.
Shep helped Virgil to the storefront, the ragged men and women blocking their way. “Please, we need a place to hide.”
A stocky Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair and an unruly goatee and glasses pulled out a large bowie knife. “Walk away or die.”
Shep saw the dog tags hanging around the man’s unshaven neck. “Patrick Shepherd, Sergeant, United States Marines, LIMA Company, Third Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment.”
“Paul Spatola, 101st Airborne.”
“Who are you guarding, Spatola?”
“The owners of the pizzeria. They’re good people.”
“I can save them.” Shep opened the polished wooden box, showing him the vials. “Plague vaccine. The government wants it to disappear. We need sanctuary — fast.”
Spatola looked around, his eyes drawn to the helicopter’s searchlight. Rangers were rappelling down to the street. “Come with me.” He led them through the crowd of homeless, then banged on the rolled-up aluminum security gate covering the front glass doors.
The door opened a crack. The man inside remained hidden in the shadows, his voice muffled behind a painter’s mask. “What’s wrong?”
“This vet and his grandfather need to get off the streets. He says he has a vaccine for the sickness.”
“A vaccine?”
Shep pushed in closer. “The military’s right behind us. Help us, and we’ll help you.”
A woman’s voice called out from inside the restaurant. “Paolo, don’t!”
A flashlight passed over Patrick’s face, the small box in his hand, then on Virgil. “Should I trust you?”
The old man nodded. “Only if you and your wife wish to survive this night.”
On Amsterdam Avenue, heavily armed Rangers moved through the crowd, searching faces. “Inside, quickly.” Unlocking the grating along its base, Paolo rolled the gate up high enough to allow the two strangers to enter.
Paul Spatola quickly slammed the security fencing back down so it locked, then passed the word, “No one gets through.”
The pizzeria was empty. An aroma of Italian meat coming from the dark recesses of the kitchen set Shep’s stomach to gurgle. He headed for the food—
— Paolo stopped him. “I need to check your skin for infection.”
They lifted their shirts and lowered their pants, Paolo’s light scanning their necks and armpits, legs and groins. Shep jumped as a cat nuzzled his left calf muscle from behind.
“You seem clean. Come with me.” They followed the Italian past checkerboard-clothed tables back through the kitchen. Spread out on a row of aluminum tables were half-sliced salamis and bricks of cheese, loaves of bread and a tray stacked with already prepared sandwiches. “Take what you want; the homeless get the rest. Everything’s spoiling anyway.”
Shep grabbed a sandwich, consuming it in three bites. “Virgil, take something.”
“I’ve eaten, and we don’t have much time. The soldiers will—”
The aluminum door of the walk-in refrigerator swung open, revealing a pregnant Italian woman with jet-black hair. In her hand was a shotgun.
“It’s okay, Francesca. They’re clean.”
“No one’s clean. This plague will kill us all.”
They heard men arguing outside. Shots were fired.
“Quickly, inside the cooler!” Paolo hurried Shep and Virgil inside the walk-in refrigerator, slamming the door closed behind them.
They huddled in the stifling darkness alive with meowing cats and the rotting stench of spoiling perishables. A dull circle of light from the woman’s dying flashlight settled on her husband, who had pushed aside crates of lettuce and was kneeling by the exposed wet patch of wood floor. In his hand was a thin piece of bent wire. Feeding it through a knothole, he fished until he found a loop of rope. Standing, he pulled hard, dragging open a trapdoor set on hinges. The flickering light from an oil lamp below illuminated a ladder leading down to what appeared to be a basement.
Paolo climbed halfway down, waiting on a rung to assist his pregnant wife.
Virgil was next, followed by Shep. Paolo climbed back up and called for the cats, who scrambled down the hole. Resetting the trapdoor, he slid down the ladder, joining the others.
They were in an old wine cellar, the stone walls and mortar dating back several centuries. The room was stuffy but dry. Cardboard boxes and an old dresser were stacked against the far wall. “Please.” The Italian handed the oil lamp to Virgil, then he began moving aside the stack of boxes, assisted by Shep. Hidden behind the chest of drawers was a small wooden door sealed with a padlock.
“The passage connects with the Eighth Avenue subway line. We can follow it south as far as 103rd Street, then cut through Central Park. Francesca’s brother has a small boat in the Battery that can take us off the island.”
“The Battery? My wife and daughter are in the Battery!”
“Then the vaccine for your safe passage.”
“Yes, absolutely.” Shep opened the box, removing two of the remaining eight vials.
Francesca snatched the lantern from Virgil. “How do we know it even works, Paolo? How do we know it won’t kill your son?” Francesca shined the light on her belly, then at Shep. “Are you a doctor, Mr. War Vet?”
“The name’s Patrick, my friends call me Shep. This is Virgil. I have no medical training, so I can’t even guess whether the vaccine will affect your baby. So far, the only side effect I’ve experienced are hallucinations—”
“—which is why I haven’t taken it yet,” adds Virgil.
“No medical training, huh?” She held the clear elixir up to the light while her husband opened the padlock sealing the small door. “Three years ago I was studying to become a registered nurse, only I had to quit. Now, instead of working in a hospital with a decent insurance plan, I get to serve pizzas and care for the homeless.”
“Darling, now is not the time. Forgive my wife, she’s due any day now.”
Virgil squinted against the raised lantern. “For what it’s worth, Francesca, I was at the VA hospital earlier with Patrick. They had a pregnant woman infected with plague in an isolation tent. I suspect all who worked there are probably dead by now. As for the homeless, it seems they have repaid their debt.”
Paolo dragged open the wood door, unleashing a howling gust of cold air into the basement. “The homeless are no match for assault weapons, Francesca. Yes or no, should we take the vaccine?”
“For the baby’s sake, I’ll wait. You take yours.”
“Yes, that’s wise… my wife is the wise one.” Paolo loosened the cork, then drained one of the vials of vaccine. Lantern in hand, his wife crawled through the opening, followed by Virgil, Shep, and the cats.
Tossing aside the empty vial, Paolo dropped down on all fours and crawled in after them.
United Nations
2:11 A.M.
They were connected to one another via audio headsets, their spoken words translated into text on their monitors in French, Russian, Chinese, and English — the languages of the five permanent Security Council nations.
President Eric Kogelo drained his bottled water, waiting for the President of the Security Council to take roll.
“Hello. This is Rajiv Kaushik, the Assistant Secretary General. I regret to inform you that the President and Secretary General were both exposed to plague; neither is well enough to participate on this call. Unless there are any objections, I will be fulfilling their duties during this emergency session. Is the gentlemen from France on the line?”
“Oui.”
“The gentlemen from the Russian Federation?”
“Da.”
“The gentleman from China?”
“This is Xi Jinping. President Jintao has taken ill. Since I am the senior member of our party, the Standing Committee has requested my presence at this meeting.”