by Hunter Shea
Someone yelled, “Hey, who the hell did that?”
In seconds, it was pandemonium.
Bam-Bam reared on his hind legs with a high-pitched whinny.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Rey said to the horse, keeping his voice as calm as possible.
All he could see was the white of Bam-Bam’s eyes.
Rey tripped backward as he desperately attempted to move out from under the massive, frightened animal.
6
The bus ride home from School 7 always felt like it took hours to Gabby. Going to school was the opposite. She’d barely have time to tell her friend Cynthia about last night’s episode of American Idol before the dreaded, big brick building loomed outside the bus doors.
Today was worse than ever. Her mother had promised to take her out to look for a dress for this Friday’s daddy-daughter dance. She couldn’t wait to try on dresses and shoes, and if she was lucky, she could convince her mom she needed the new Selena Gomez perfume. Cynthia got a bottle for Christmas, and Gabby had been green with envy ever since.
The bus was its usual riotous self. Ed, the bus driver, was deaf in one ear and didn’t mind the noise. He was one of the few cool grown-ups.
“Do you know what color you want?” Cynthia asked.
A stray ball of paper bounced off the top of Gabby’s hair, landing on Timmy Doyle behind her. He whizzed it over her head, just missing Jerry Adams.
“Definitely purple,” Gabby replied, ignoring the paper war. “I saw this awesome dress in a Forever 21 catalog.”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “They only sell clothes for teens and adults, Gabby. They won’t have dresses in your size at Forever 21.”
That’s exactly what her mother had said to her. Gabby remained confident. She might be ten, but she was tall for her age.
“You’ll see,” she said to her friend.
The bus crashed into a pothole and the girls bounced in their seats. All of the kids gave a cheer. Some shouted for Ed to do it again. The old bus groaned in reply.
Gabby checked her watch. Still at least twenty minutes until her stop.
Come on, come on. Why couldn’t this be a day when a lot of kids were sick and there were less stops?
Her little brother, Miguel, came up the aisle, swaying from side to side in rhythm with the bus’s overworked suspension. He looked pale and his eyes were wide.
“What’s wrong?” Gabby asked him.
Up close, she could hear him wheeze.
“Where’s your inhaler?”
He shook his head. Escalating fear shone in his eyes.
“Hold on. Sit down.” Gabby got up and guided him to her seat. Taking a knee, she fumbled with her backpack. Miguel was always losing things, even the one that was so important it meant life or death. When Gabby was eight, like him, she hadn’t been so forgetful. Now at age ten, she often had to play the role of mommy when they were at school.
She found the blue plastic inhaler in her backpack’s side pocket. Giving it a quick shake, she placed it in his mouth and gave him two quick puffs. His breathing regulated almost immediately. The color slowly returned to his normally walnut cheeks.
“You feel better?”
Cynthia had placed a protective arm over his shoulders. Miguel smiled, taking a deep breath.
“Lots,” he said.
“Sit between us until we get home. I’ll grab your bag on the way out,” Gabby said.
The bus came to a jerky stop. The doors opened so three kids in Miguel’s grade could get out. Two mothers and one dad stood on the curb waiting, receiving hugs, and waving to Ed.
Miguel nudged Gabby’s side. “Look. There’s a big fire.”
“Where?” Cynthia asked.
He pointed at the window opposite them. A big, black, roiling cloud billowed high into the sky. It was hard to tell how far away it was. Other kids saw the smoke, as well, quieting down long enough for the distant blare of fire engines to be heard.
“I wonder if it’s coming from the apartment buildings on Bronx River Road,” Gabby said.
“I bet it’s a car fire on the parkway,” Miguel said. “I wish we could drive there and see.”
Like most boys his age, Miguel wanted to be a fireman. He was hooked the day the local fire department showed up at school last year and let him ride in the fire truck. He’d gotten himself so excited that day, he’d had to use his inhaler twice.
The ebony plumes of smoke looked sinister, like an evil, living villain straight out of a Disney cartoon.
Gabby had no desire to see what was causing such a terrifying thing to blot out the blue, cloudless sky.
7
Today was not Max’s day. And things didn’t look like they were going to get any better.
“Give me your iPod,” his mother said, her arm thrust out, palm flat.
“But it wasn’t my fault,” he pleaded, knowing it was a losing cause.
“I don’t care whose fault it was. This is the second time this semester I’ve had to get you from the principal’s office for fighting. Did you not listen to a word your father and I told you the last time?” He could hear her grinding her teeth. “Well, did you?”
He flinched when she shouted.
“I did,” he mumbled into his chest.
“What?”
Max looked up, but couldn’t go so far as to meet his mother’s eyes. “I did.”
He pulled his iPod out of his pocket and handed it over. She snatched it away, jamming it into her pocketbook.
“You can forget seeing that for the next month.”
A protest died in his throat, withering under her stare.
“And that’s just the start of your punishment. When your father gets home, we’ll talk about what else will be in store for you. When we’re through, you’ll think twice before fighting again¸ I promise you.”
Max stared at the black-and-white tiled floor. He felt hollow inside. The knuckles on his right hand hurt from punching Chris Nichols in the forehead—he was aiming for the jackwad’s nose—but he knew better than to ask for ice right now. His mother had to talk herself down first.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you this year. You think because you filled out a little you have the right to push other kids around?”
“Chris is a jerk. He’s picked on everyone in the ninth grade, even the girls. Someone had to stand up to him.”
His mother put her hands on her hips. “Are you going to tell me you were defending a girl?”
If he said yes, he knew she’d go easier on him. What actually happened was far, far worse, and not something he could readily tell his mom. It would be embarrassing. It might even hurt her.
No. He wasn’t going to lie. But he wasn’t going to tell her everything, either.
Before he could answer, a loud, piercing wail sounded from outside. It was like a thousand penny rockets going off at once. Even his mother stopped, her mouth half-open.
They both ran to the kitchen window, looking up.
“I don’t see anything,” his mother said.
“Me, either. Maybe it’s coming from another direction.”
The back door slammed behind them as they stepped into the yard, turning in slow circles, scanning the sky.
The screeching grew louder, coming closer with each passing second.
8
Daniel Padilla was putting the finishing touches on a new web design project for a national car rental company when the lights in the four-man office flickered.
“Don’t you die on me,” he pleaded with his computer. All he needed was another two seconds to save his work.
His partner, Tim Giordano, popped his head over the partition. “I think that’s a sign,” he said.
“Oh yeah, of what?”
Tim ran his fingers through his unruly hair. They’d met working at a major design company in the city in the late nineties. Eight years ago, they broke free from working for The
Man and started their own company. A handful of clients followed, and word of mouth spread.
“When the lights start to go out, it’s time to go home. Especially on a nice day like today,” Tim said.
The beauty of being your own boss was that they could pick up and leave any time they wanted. Two junior designers, Vinod and Uday, worked part-time and weren’t in the office today. The biggest project they had was now done. Tim had a point. After all, they’d gone out on their own so they could strike a better work-life balance.
Daniel pocketed the thumb drive and made a second backup. This one would go in the small fireproof safe tucked under his desk.
“I think you’re right. I have to take Miguel to Little League practice in an hour anyway,” Daniel said.
Tim let out a long groan. “Lucky me, I just remembered that Stacey wants me to do the food shopping.” He pulled a list out of his shirt pocket. “Maybe I’ll stay here a little bit longer.”
Daniel laughed. “You can’t hide here forever. Might as well get it over with.”
“Yeah, but it’s only three thirty. Every blue hair with a walker will be clogging the aisles. It’s like stepping into a zombie flick.”
He patted Tim on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t knock them. You’ll be one of those doddering old folks sooner than you think. Some young guy will be stuck behind you, fuming that you can’t decide which brand of prune juice to buy.”
“Laugh it up now, Dan. You’re only two years behind me.”
Daniel hit the lights and was locking the door when a deep, drawn-out rumble of thunder reverberated through the building.
“Sun storm?” Tim said.
The key was in the lock, but Daniel had yet to give it the final turn. He stood still as a stone, listening.
It started again, sounding closer. The doorknob vibrated in his hand.
“I don’t think that’s thunder,” Dan whispered.
Turning the key, he bolted down the hall, stopping at the big window overlooking the parking lot.
Towers of black smoke loomed in the horizon.
Tim bumped into him, breathless. “What the fuck?”
They saw a flash of white arc across the sky. It exploded in a brilliant blaze of sparks and flame over what appeared to be the center of Yonkers. Daniel’s eyes slammed shut, the image of the fireball burned onto his retinas.
He and Tim both turned away from the window, shielding their faces.
The building went eerily quiet. The lights shut off, as well as the air-circulation system.
“Jesus Christ, we’re under attack,” Tim said, rubbing his eyes.
Grabbing his shirt, Daniel led him to the stairs. “Come on, we have to get home!”
Running down the emergency stairwell, Dan fumbled for his cell phone.
I have to call Elizabeth. Please, God, let the kids be home. I’ll tell her to take them all to the basement and stay calm. I’ll be there in five minutes.
The phone was dead. It had been sitting in its charger all day.
Tim hit the steel door to the parking lot. A few people were standing around, looking to the sky.
“Is your phone working, Tim?”
Tim looked at his smartphone. “No. How the hell can that be?”
“I’ll call you from my landline phone when I get home, make sure you and the family are okay.”
They ran to their cars, Daniel clipping a portly man in a disheveled suit who was mesmerized by the sky’s horrid tableau.
“I don’t have a landline phone anymore, Dan. I’ll plug my phone in when I get home. Call me on that.”
“Be safe!” Dan shouted, pressing the entry button for his car. The car didn’t chirp back and his door didn’t unlock. The keys felt like lead weights in his fingers. He managed to slip the correct one into the door lock. It was the first time he’d ever used the key to get into his car.
He jumped behind the wheel, praying to God his family was safe and to guide him home to them.
9
Rey rolled out from under a terrified Bam-Bam a second before the horse brought its powerful legs down on the very spot where he’d fallen. He scrambled to his feet, running a safe distance from the riled horse.
The paddocks had erupted into a melee of screaming horses and shouting men. Rey was terrified; they were surrounded by one-thousand-pound animals that could easily crush a man.
Something crashed to the ground on the other side of the paddocks with a dull thud. Rey could feel it in his chest more than he could hear it. The ground shook, and he almost lost his footing again.
Where was Nick?
He knew he should probably help the trainers settle the horses down, but he was rooted to the spot.
The secretaries poured out of the race office, staring wide-eyed at the chaotic scene.
Someone shouted at them, “Get back inside!”
Like Rey, the secretaries couldn’t move.
A cloud of thick, white smoke wafted over the paddocks. The breeze carried its scent to Rey. It smelled sweet, with an underlying scent of something sharp and metallic, like an overheated blow-dryer.
“Are we on fire?” he heard one of the secretaries say.
“It looks like it. Come on, get your purse, and let’s get out of here,” another one replied, her voice high and trembling. Rey looked. There was no sign of Dakota. Was she still in the office?
A man shrieked, “Fire! Fire!”
Horses broke free from their stalls, splintering wooden barricades like they were made of toothpicks. They ran full tilt in every direction, nipping at anyone in their path. Men dove for cover. Rey watched in horror as a horse sideswiped Old Joe, a semi-retired trainer who liked to give Ray and Nick tips about who would win a couple of that night’s races. Of course, they were too young to bet, but Rey always checked the next day’s racing form and Old Joe would be right most of the time.
The old trainer went down, skidding on his back into a bale of hay. The horse wasn’t done with him. It turned back, reared on its hind legs, and came down full-force on Old Joe’s chest.
Rey shouted, “Nooooooo!”
A fountain of blood geysered from Old Joe’s mouth. The horse dipped its long head, opened its mouth wide, and bit off his face. With one quick jerk of its neck, Old Joe’s crimson skull was revealed.
Rey wanted to throw up. Men streamed past him. Even Nick’s father headed for the parking lot, not bothering to give him a second look. Someone who looked like Nick was right behind him.
“Nick!” Rey shouted. His friend didn’t even glance back.
If he stayed here much longer, it would just be him and the horses. Another one kicked a man in the small of his back, folding him in half.
He looked into the open race office door. What if Dakota was still in there? He hadn’t seen her come out yet.
Breaking his paralysis, he sprinted to the office. A pair of black horses taller than any man spotted his sudden movement and galloped for him like twin heat-seeking missiles.
10
Gabby knew something was wrong when she saw her mother and Max waiting for them at the bus stop. Their house was only two short blocks from the stop. Gabby had been allowed to walk home with Miguel since last year.
In fact, all of the parents were there, looking very worried.
After they’d spotted the boiling clouds of smoke, all playing and talking on the bus had stopped. When they heard the first explosion overhead, the littler kids started crying. Everyone, even the older kids, just wanted to be home.
Ed drove faster than usual and the bumps weren’t funny at all.
“Mommy!” Miguel cried, jumping into her waiting arms.
Max took Gabby’s backpack and hefted it onto his shoulder. “Come on, we have to get back home,” he said. He sounded calm, but something in his tone said he was not to be questioned. Her mother was already turning toward the house with Miguel pulled to her chest.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Gabby asked as they jogged down the block. People we
re out staring at the sky, clogging the streets. Sirens pealed in every direction.
“I don’t know, honey. We have to get home and wait for your brother and father. We’ll be safe at home.”
Max grabbed her hand. His palm was cold and sweaty.
Something shrieked high in the sky. There was a tremendous boom, and for a moment, it was as if there were two suns burning down on them.
Gabby clapped her hands to her ears. Everyone stopped.
“Was that a bomb?” Max asked.
“Let’s keep going,” her mother replied.
They jumped at the sound of cars crashing at the intersection behind them. Gabby turned around. All of the cars were rolling to a stop. It was like the drivers no longer had control. Intersecting lines of cars piled up at the light, which had gone dark.
Cynthia!
She hoped the school bus was all right. Cynthia’s stop was only five blocks away.
Gabby was afraid. She could see that Max and her mother were just as scared, and that made it even worse.
They ran.
Their two-story house with the gray shingles and white trim was just half a block away. They had to zigzag around everyone like football players. The whole neighborhood was out, some talking excitedly, most in silent awe.
Somebody was attacking Yonkers. Maybe they were bombing all of New York. Maybe even the whole country.
A surge of tears sprang to Gabby’s eyes, streaking across her cheeks as she ran. She looked over at Miguel. He was crying, too, burying his face in their mother’s shoulder.
Charging into the house, her mother shouted, “Rey! Daniel! Are you here?”
Miguel refused to be put down.
“Stand in the doorway,” her mother said.
“Why?” Max asked.
“Just stay there for now, please. Where’s my cell phone?”
Miguel pointed with a tiny finger at the living room table. She snatched it up, then whispered a long string of curses in Spanish.
“Max, let me have your phone.”
He took it from his back pocket. She fumbled with the screen and looked ready to throw it on the ground.