This time Dawson walked over to a map of the Tri-state area, where colored rings showed a bull’s-eye that centered on Manhattan and radiated outward. He pointed to targets as he spoke. “We’re talking about dropping no more than four precision, extremely low yield neutron bombs. These are called Enhanced Radiation Warheads, meaning they produce a minimal blast and large amounts of radiation.
“Yes, we all know about clean bombs,” said Hastings. “They leave the buildings standing and vaporize all the people. They’re the scariest motherfuckers on the planet, which is why they’ve been banned by every country, and why they’ve never even been tested.”
Dawson returned his focus to the president. “The W-70 has a one kiloton of explosive yield, confined to an area of only a few hundred yards in radius. However, it throws off a massive wave of neutron and gamma radiation, which will penetrate every building and the earth itself, destroying all living tissue. Taking into account the expected weather and wind velocity, we believe the fallout will be minimized, and certainly contained within the areas we’ve already evacuated. Any radioactive dust will be blown out to sea in a southeasterly direction, where it will dissipate rather quickly.
“These red areas are blast zones, absorbing forty percent of total energy and causing the most structural damage, so we plan to detonate the bombs over these four areas: Riverside Park, Washington Square, Central Park North and Central Park South. The orange areas depict the massive wave of radiation that will kill most if not all of the ants, while penetrating structures, ground surface, any place they might be nesting underground, and leaving most of the buildings intact. This blue area is the ionized and residual radiation, confined to Manhattan, although we’ll have to test some pockets of Queens, New Jersey and the Bronx. Within a generation,” he added, “Manhattan will be livable.”
“How do we even know this will work?” the president asked. “What if we nuke the city and the insects aren’t destroyed?”
“Exactly,” chimed in the majority leader. “Maybe it will even make them harder to kill. Doesn’t radiation do weird things to insects?”
“I believe you’re thinking of Godzilla,” chided the minority leader.
“You think this is funny?” scolded the president.
Dawson had dreaded this kind of thing. He told the group, “We know for a fact that radiation kills the ants.”
“I don’t believe this,” the New York senator gasped. “It’s a bloody nightmare beyond our wildest dreams. We’ll be the laughingstock of the world.”
“Correction,” cried Hastings. “Our military will be the laughingstock of the world, which I think is a fitting depiction, considering—”
“Just a moment,” Garrett interrupted. “Do you honestly believe that possession of the single most deadly weapon in the history of mankind is something to be ashamed of?”
“General, get that man out of this room!” Hastings cried.
“I apologize, sir,” Garrett said mildly. “This is no time to be congratulating ourselves.” His nerve returned with his voice. “However, you mentioned how we’ll look to other nations. Did you think about how we will look if we don’t do anything about these ants? I’ll tell you. Weak. Fearful. Easily strikable.”
Dawson knew this was coming. They had discussed it on the flight to Washington as their best line of defense. “The colonel is right. If other state leaders think these ants are out of control, that the insects are spreading across the planet, how long do you think it will be before they take matters into their own hands? And it won’t just be New York but all the surrounding states. There are nations just waiting for an excuse to blow us up. Surely, you all remember the global panic over the last pandemic. This is a thousand times worse.”
The room fell silent, everyone thinking the same thing, and Dawson knew he had won them over in fifteen minutes. He had given the president an out.
“So you’re saying,” the president said slowly, “if other countries insist we take care of the problem immediately, we’re defenseless to argue. It’s not in our hands.”
“I can guarantee you, there are heads of state preparing their own nuclear arsenal in the name of global security,” Dawson replied.
As he spoke, Garrett used a remote to turn on a television screen that began flashing photos of New York City victims, chewed to the bone, inside an abandoned city. It was the most startling testimony yet of what the entire country might face in just weeks. There was no doubt that stopping this heinous enemy warranted extreme measures.
Garrett added, “If you turn to page thirty-four of the reports in front of you, it’s clearly outlined that there is a zero percent chance of containing the ants if we wait twenty-four hours. That goes to ninety-eight percent if we hit them before nightfall.”
The president nodded thoughtfully. He would be phoning his closest allies in moments, Dawson was certain. If they were in agreement, he’d give the green light.
The attorney general had one last question, and his voice cracked over the silence. “What will we say to the rest of the world, after we drop the only neutron bomb in the history of mankind?”
The words rolled off the colonel’s tongue. “You’re welcome.”
There wasn’t a body not soaked in sweat. Heads were spinning and no doubt every person in the room wanted to run and hide in a closet. Dawson was asking for the unthinkable, and succeeding in convincing the powers that be that there was no other option.
In his mind, however, he was praying for one, and wondering if two scientists had found their queen.
* * *
General Dawson and Colonel Garrett left the Situation Room with a green light on Operation Colony Torch. Garrett was elated, bursting with pride at what he regarded as his own personal victory: setting the American military on a new course in history. However, Dawson felt sick to his stomach, and spoke not a word until they reached a military jeep waiting with a driver to take them to the Pentagon. He stopped and looked off into the distance, to a helicopter landing behind the White House.
“I’m going back to New York,” he told Garrett.
“What the hell for?”
“There are Americans who know nothing about this bombing, people in the city—our own soldiers—trying to help others get out.”
“A few thousand lost souls is not a great sacrifice considering—”
“Those are bogus numbers,” the general said. “Shit, Tom, do you think I’m an idiot? You may be able to fool those people in there, but I know there are a hell of a lot more casualties we’re facing. You’ll never get the military or the medical workers out on time. There are a hundred thousand wounded that need to be reached.”
“They’re dead, Leonard! Anyone in Manhattan after nightfall is dead. The only reason they’re still alive is that the damn ants rest during the day. After tonight there won’t be a soul left in Manhattan. We’re giving them a quicker, less painful death.”
“We’ll just see about that.” Dawson started toward the South Lawn, with Garrett quick on his heels.
“Hold on, General.” They stopped in a face-off. “By dusk that insect army will be on the march, spreading out by the billions to the rest of the world. I don’t want to lose those people, but there’s nothing else we can do. The president has ordered we proceed with Operation Colony Torch and that’s the end of it. Problem contained.”
“You don’t know that,” the general argued. “If we bomb the city, and even one queen escapes, it will be a free-for-all. Bombs dropping everywhere a fucking ant pops up.” He jabbed a finger in the colonel’s face. “We’ve seen them flying, Tom. Winged juvenile queens.”
“They won’t get far.” Garrett straightened in his uniform, nodded to a passing senator. “Stop worrying. Everything’s taken care of.”
The general shook his head and continued toward the Rose Garden. “I’m going back to New York. Maybe those scientists have found a blasted queen and can save both our asses, along with the city.”
“Not a ch
ance, General. The president will never sign off on an untested solution. We have our orders. Don’t waste any more time in New York.”
“You can come with me if you like, or stay here.”
Garrett shrugged and followed the general. “What do you hope to get out of it?”
Dawson replied, “My soul.”
CHAPTER 29
IT WAS WELL PAST midnight and the streets of New York City were lifeless and somber as a mortuary. Paul and Kendra walked along Thirty-sixth Street, past the procession of old apartment buildings that were built above small shops and cafés. They crossed Second Avenue, passed a dry cleaner’s and Paul stopped abruptly.
“Take a look at this.” He moved his flashlight beam up the sidewalk where dozens of corpses were sprawled out like X’s, as if they had been arranged in a line. A man lay facedown in a T-shirt and checkered briefs. Paul gently rolled him over. The side of his skull was smashed, the eyes pushed back in their sockets. All the front teeth were chipped inside his bloodied mouth. Kendra noticed a portion of cartilage ripped through the knee, and she gasped when Paul bent the bloody forearm in half.
“Broken,” he whispered, zigzagging the flashlight beam up the face of the building. Nearly all of the windows were thrown open or shattered. “He’s a jumper. Maybe they all jumped. That would explain the formation.”
“Shit. This is the worst.”
“Yeah. This is the building.”
He lit up the front doorway, where number 268 was printed in white letters.
Another soft tapping sound made Kendra orbit her flashlight. “Is it them?”
“No,” Paul answered. “Sounds like a person banging.” He stepped into the street to get a better view. “Up there.”
The beam hit a window on the fifth floor.
Banging on the glass were the hands of a small child, her face stricken white with terror. The little girl turned away briefly and then looked back, letting out a silent scream and banging faster.
“She can’t get out,” Kendra cried.
Paul ran to the fire escape and reached for the ladder, but the bottom rung was at least a foot too high. Kendra returned her flashlight to the window.
The girl was gone.
Come back. Come back. Kendra stared until her eyes burned. Seconds later, the child appeared, yelling so loud that the window seemed to vibrate.
Paul was clanging garbage can lids. “Kendra, I can’t see, dammit! Give me some light.”
Reluctantly, she turned the flashlight toward Paul.
He dragged the garbage cans below the fire escape and hopped onto a shaky lid. Balancing like an amateur surfer, Paul stood up slowly and raised his arms, flipping the metal catch and releasing the ladder to the ground. At that same moment, sharp blows hit the window. Kendra pivoted the beam and saw a flash of silver that came with an explosion. In one incomprehensible moment, she watched a metal toaster tumble through a shower of broken glass. It seemed to spiral downward in slow motion and then crashed onto the pavement.
Kendra frantically whipped the light back to the window. Behind the gaping hole, caught in the bright beam, was a woman. She was stark white and naked, with an unruly mess of long dark hair. Kendra squinted with disbelief. Parts of the woman’s face were torn to the muscle and her eyes were dripping with tears of blood. An oxygen mask, placed over her mouth, was covered in ants like the beak of a crow, and more insects dangled from her outstretched arms like delicate wings of a Greek mythological Siren: half woman, half bird.
The woman stooped down and raised the little girl, wrapped in a blanket. Kendra gasped when she shoved the child through the ruptured window and dropped her into the night air.
The body landed with a thud. Paul rushed to her side.
Kendra half expected to see the woman jump, but the figure was gone. She rushed to the girl, kneeling by Paul, and took the tiny hand in her own. There were no marks on the child but she let out a small moan. She had a slightly round face, skin as smooth and white as porcelain. As Paul put his ear to her chest, Kendra smelled the faint aroma of baby shampoo and Cheerios. She ran her fingers over the soft cheek.
“She’s moving,” Paul said, watching her leg jerk slightly. “Her spine’s okay.”
Paul and Kendra both got to their feet and painfully contemplated the situation in silence. The dilemma of what to do next was no longer obvious. The world had been turned upside down, the line between right and wrong blurred.
Paul flung the backpack across his shoulder and shifted hesitantly on his feet. “Kendra, we have a choice to make here.”
She could tell from his tone that his decision was already made, and she shot him a stern expression.
“It’s almost light,” he reasoned. “We have to find the queen now if we’re going to—”
“We’re not leaving her,” Kendra said flatly.
Paul took a deep breath and stooped down. He shook his head and delicately scooped the girl into his arms like a fragile bouquet. “New York Medical is close by.”
* * *
The electricity along East Thirty-fourth Street had been knocked out for hours and the clouds were unforgiving. Kendra had the frightening sense of being one of the last souls alive, and wondered what had happened to the alarms, helicopters and police sirens. Somehow, silence seemed louder than all that chaos. She tried to concentrate on the comforting rhythm of the little girl’s breaths and the violet glow from the flashlight on the pavement.
Paul took even steps and held the child carefully, trying not to jiggle her too much. Kendra noted the gentle touch and the way he kept making sure the girl was still breathing, the hopeful look on his face when she stirred. She had been ready for a fight, assumed the great and practical Dr. O’Keefe would try to ditch the child and resume the search for an ant queen, but in fact, he was intensely focused on the little girl.
For six blocks they walked in silence, until the child suddenly roused from a fitful sleep, flinging an arm around Paul’s neck and burying her face in his chest.
Kendra caught the smile on Paul’s face and felt a warmth move through her own body. The child stirred and opened her eyes. Paul looked down at the girl.
“Uh, hello,” he said awkwardly.
“Momma?”
“I’m Dr. O’Keefe,” he said, putting his sweaty face close so their noses almost touched. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” she whispered, and then asked, “Why is your head so big?”
Paul frowned and whispered to Kendra, “She must be hallucinating.”
“Actually, I think she’s rather perceptive.”
Hannah closed her eyes with a yawn and fell back to sleep.
It was getting cold, as they continued down the block. Dampness hung in the air and a light breeze kicked up the smell of blood. Kendra’s eyes were stung from the smoke and debris. Her contacts were drying up but the bottle of saline was zipped inside her ant suit.
They passed the abandoned playground of a school, where all the windows were broken. Kendra didn’t want to think about that, but a screaming in the distance brought her to a halt. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman but the sound faded and she continued.
They still had another few blocks to go and she tried to concentrate on the child, keeping her eye on Paul and wistfully imagining him walking with their own child someday. Calmness settled over her body. It was a feeling that lingered for only a moment.
Paul abruptly stopped. “Turn off the light.”
“Why?”
“Turn it off.”
Kendra reluctantly flipped the switch. Darkness shrouded the street like a black veil, making Kendra feel light and unsteady, and she leaned against Paul.
“Listen.”
There it was. A slight buzzing noise rushed toward them like a gust of wind. It was a hauntingly inhuman sound, yet it had a melody.
Kerka kerkosh ker kerkosh kerka kerkosh ker kerkosh
It resonated like waves of angry crickets in an orchard, growing louder
and closer until it surrounded them. Kendra threw her hand to her mouth.
“Quiet,” Paul said under his breath.
The little girl became stiff in his arms and Paul looked down to see Hannah’s eyes wide, her face frozen in a mask of terror.
As quickly as it started, the noise began to fade, receding like the evening tide. Hannah closed her eyes again.
Kendra didn’t know if it was cold sweat on her face or the sudden mist of rain.
CHAPTER 30
TWO SEARCHLIGHTS SHOT UP like geysers a thousand feet into the air behind New York University Medical Center. Paul and Kendra followed their beckoning call to a stadium-sized crowd gathered in a parking lot outside the emergency room, under a steady shower of horizontal rain.
Blinding rays from halogen lights spilled over the scene and Kendra realized it wasn’t a mob waiting to get inside, but a triage unit. There seemed to be as many medics as victims. Doctors and nurses worked swiftly and expertly in biohazard space suits, kept on hand since two airplanes changed New York City’s landscape and its definition of “emergency.”
Thousands of wounded ambled like zombies, pale and bloody with telltale red eyes and blackened lips. They lumbered like the living dead, minds less intact than their bodies. A toe tag dangled from each wrist listing name, address, injury, priority level and medications. Cadavers were wheeled on stretchers to an abandoned lot overlooking the East River. They lay in bunches stacked like kindling on top of plastic sheets.
Kendra bristled at the sight of so many bodies. Her protective suit now felt rigid and steamy, as the rain weighed down her shoulders. She and Paul searched for a medic, but it seemed like every emergency worker was far too busy with the critically wounded to help the little girl.
Paul approached a nurse who was bandaging a tattered arm. “Is there anyone who could help us with this child?”
The nurse didn’t look up. “You’re better off taking children to the front.”
He hoisted the child higher, wiped the dampness from her face and set off in a new direction, beckoning Kendra to follow.
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