by G. B. Hope
‘Yeah, freaking scary. Is your lady not in town?’
‘No, she’s working at the country club. I’m trying not to think about her. Should I try to get to her?’
‘Don’t talk stupid, man. She’ll be fine. Lots of good people with her over there. You have to look after Tony and defend your home.’
Their attention was taken by an extraordinary sight. Along the cross junction at the end of the road came four mounted policemen, at walking pace. In day to day life it was rare to see one mounted officer, maybe two together - four was bizarre. People moved to talk to them as they rode by. Gibbs watched one cop lean out of the saddle to reassure a woman, the last rays of the sun catching his helmet. Then they were gone from view behind buildings. Word filtered along, that the police were patrolling as best they could, but that they had no new information to pass on.
‘On our own again,’ said Ben Jones.
Mrs Woods made a big show of holding up her lifeless cell phone, and several people concurred that the situation was indeed desperate because of that fact of modern life. Discussions continued, with Mr Jeter putting his thoughts into the pot. Gibbs turned to see his son and two male friends approaching. Gibbs junior was of a similar build to his father and starting to cultivate some facial hair of his own. They embraced.
‘What’s up, man?’ asked Gibbs.
Tony Gibbs indicated his friends. ‘We’re going off with a patrol, to check some of the more remote buildings.’
‘Remember what we agreed. Any trouble, you get back here.’
Tony wanted to be cool in front of his friends. He just nodded, let his dad hug him again, then they sauntered off.
‘He’s a good kid,’ said Ben Jones.
‘Yeah, he’s a good kid.’
In the early hours, Mrs Woods had made coffee for everyone, and she and her husband went about distributing it on trays, in mugs and tea cups and an assortment of glasses. Gibbs gratefully drank his coffee. He could smell smoke in the air, which was nothing to do with his fire fighter training; it was just very pungent and suggested a major blaze within a few blocks. The noises of the night had changed; gunfire was closer and there were far more screams and sounds of rage. Gibbs put down his empty mug and checked his Sig Sauer rifle for the umpteenth time.
It was the quiet, unassuming Mr Jeter who shouted out the alarm, causing everyone to turn and face the two clandestine figures, standing where the police horses had been earlier. Two hooded males, teenagers, not obviously carrying weapons, just there, looking at the group of vigilantes. The standoff lasted only for about half a minute, but it seemed much longer, with some people looking at their friends to see if someone should approach the strangers. But then the two men moved off, disappearing behind the corner of a building.
From nearby, automatic gunfire reverberated off the surrounding buildings as if it were a canyon.
‘Mrs Woods,’ said Gibbs, ‘I think you and the other ladies should go inside.’
Mr Woods was in agreement. Ben Jones, alongside Gibbs, finished his coffee, then threw out any dregs. He looked worried for the first time.
Two things then happened simultaneously; young Tony Gibbs and his group came sprinting to them in a highly agitated state, news to impart, fears to express. Then, flares began to drop all about them, spewing smoke out in all directions. Mrs Woods headed inside. The men moved together, keen to hear what the other group had to say and for someone to make an instant decision on the meaning of the flares. Gibbs cocked his Sig Sauer.
Automatic gunfire sounded again, but not just as echoes off the rooftops. They were coming under attack.
TEN
“My scouts have returned…” was Lester Ferguson’s opening line, in his position as owner, as he addressed all the people still remaining at the Country Club. Including members, wedding guests, staff and golf-playing associates of Ferguson, there totalled seventy-six people altogether. Basically, the news was that the local area had suffered the same power outage and, in fact, had quite a lot of social unrest taking place. A heated discussion followed, in one of the conference rooms, before Ferguson repeated his offer for everyone to stay for free, that there was enough food for six months or so. That when things changed for the better then surely they would immediately find that out.
So, by the afternoon of the third day, Ferguson and his cronies, four in total, sat drinking in the bar, while all the other refugees clustered in groups about the foyer, the restaurant conservatory and on sofas on the nearby corridors, which went off in several directions. Assistant Manager, Fassbender, had a camp bed put in his office and was rarely seen, just eating and drinking in there, while pining for his family. Food and Beverage Manager, Jane Flynn, Taylor’s boss, tried to keep busy, organising dining times and play areas for the children, while also persuading some of her staff to engage in keeping the place from turning into a hovel. As for her own family; her elderly mother lived in rural Texas, surrounded by decent people, so she tried not to worry about her. She herself had a partner, Joseph, who was in New Haven. It was an internet romance, which was fully consummated and made real - just that they were yet to decide which one of them would relocate.
Taylor and Kacie decided to keep busy with general chores around the building, while wearing their own clothes. It was a novelty, working for just bed and board, doing helpful things whenever they wanted, chatting with some of the nice people who found themselves stranded. A number of times they played with the children, and a softball game took place on the front lawns.
A number of people, both members and wedding guests, went off playing golf. In the grand scheme of things, what better thing to do?
***
Michael Clavell was going to hell in a handcart.
He knew he was hurt, but there was no pain. He was on his back, looking up at a darkening sky, trundling along on some kind of squeaky trolley. Upside down as he was, he could see the two men pushing him, and, bizarrely, they were both singing a pop song that he didn’t quite recognise, and both wore black helmets, as if they were skateboarders. Then a hand touched his shoulder and a woman’s voice urged him to relax. He looked at her - old, but also in a helmet. Then the other way were two boys, who suited their headgear, although from their expressions they clearly didn’t like the look of him.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘We found you on the road,’ said the woman. ‘I’m a doctor. I patched you up and gave you something for the pain.’
‘It’s good stuff,’ he said, joking right then, because he wasn’t quite himself.
‘Just lie still.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘You took a heavy blow, young man. I don’t think anything’s broken. But you’ve lost a little bit of your scalp at the back.’
Michael looked up at the sky again as he tried to remember what a scalp was. He felt nauseous.
‘I cleaned the wound,’ continued the lady doctor, ‘and stitched it. You’ll probably have a scar but the hair should grow back eventually.’ He looked again at the children. ‘You took their ride.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m Doctor Neeson. My sons, Luke and James, pushing the trolley, and the young ones are Luke’s sons.’
Michael could have done without the introductions. He seemed to remember being with a girl. Not his girlfriend. The Australian. What was her name?
‘You must be thinking about your friend,’ guessed Dr Neeson.
‘Shit. Yeah.’
‘I’m so sorry, she was dead when we arrived.’
‘Dead?’
‘Luke and James buried the young lady. I am so sorry.’
Michael stopped trying to remember the Australian girl’s name as he lapsed into unconsciousness again.
It was pitch dark when he next woke up, and for a moment he thought he was dead. Then he remembered Molly. He should have made her stay in Wethersfield. He had never been associated with a violent death before, and the adrenalin of the feelings flowing through h
im made his legs shake. He sat up slowly to try to regain control. There was pain now, but not crippling.
When he turned slightly he could see a few golden flashes from a fire. His rescuers seemed to be eating round a camp fire. He put his legs over the side of the trolley. He didn’t feel too bad, all considered - a few more inches to one side and he would have been dead. He took a moment to let his eyes become accustomed to the dark, then made out the faces of Dr Neeson and her family. They still wore their crash helmets, as if they expected a riot to break out at any moment, and at any other time it would have been funny.
One of the doctor’s sons, he couldn’t remember their names, came across and squatted down before him to offer a bowl of soup. Michael accepted gratefully and wolfed it down.
Dr Neeson looked across.
‘How are you feeling, young man?’
‘Like I’ve been run over by a horse and cart.’
‘The sun will be up soon, then I’ll change that dressing.’
Michael mimed his thanks as he lowered himself onto his elbows. The man took his bowl, replacing it with a bottle of water. Michael opened that and drank. Dr Neeson finished her food and came to him.
‘Dr Neeson, isn’t it? Thank you. Where are we?’
‘We’re just north of Meriden. We’re heading to Wallingford. Where are you trying to get to? You should stay with us, until you’ve healed some.’
‘Thank you, but I must get to New York. My girlfriend’s there, all alone.’
Dr Neeson kept her thoughts on that to herself, and left him to rest.
Michael decided it was a lovely morning, weather-wise, at least, as the sun slowly crept up on him. He realised he had never actually watched a sunrise before. Of course, he had been out and about at dawn, maybe getting back from a club or setting off to work somewhere, but never sat there and let it warm his face.
The pain really wasn’t too bad. It just felt like a bad burn. He let the doctor change his bandage, then they were up out of the hollow at the side of the road and moving again. He was made to ride the trolley, even though he protested - those young boys would be glad to see the back of him.
Maybe the people on the road from the other day were still sleeping, because there were only a few stragglers moving along the highway. Immediately, they passed a town sign for Meriden. On that long ago journey to meet his internet friend (what had become of her? he wondered) Michael had forgotten place names as soon as he was beyond them in the hire car. Now he wanted to get through Meriden, on to the next town, until he went through New Haven. From there he would be almost at New York - clearly he was deluding himself, but he needed to think positively.
***
The Springsteen group walked slowly off Manhattan island, leaving behind fires, looted buildings, crashed and abandoned vehicles, and at least twelve corpses that they had personally witnessed. They joined up with other groups of people, mainly office workers, who had sat out the night before deciding to start walking. By the time they came off the Williamsburg bridge, and that had felt like a marathon in itself, there were about sixteen in the party. Plumes of acrid smoke had been welcoming them from far ahead on the bridge - Brooklyn obviously suffering the same fate, which wasn’t a surprise. Charlie had found herself in conversation with a black woman, a beauty therapist called Gabrielle, who Charlie envied her flat plimsolls. Gabrielle recounted several horror stories from the night before, including a gun battle between a Chinese shop owner and a gang of youths.
‘This is it!’ Gabrielle had pronounced, with dramatic body language. ‘End of the world. Mark my words, girl. No coming back from this.’
‘It might be temporary,’ suggested Charlie.
‘Hell, no!’ With that she had thrown her lifeless cell phone into the East river.
Then they had exchanged information about boyfriends.
‘Oh, my God, baby,’ said Gabrielle, ‘I know where my lover is, he’ll be hunkered down. But even if you can find yours, wow, you’re on the wrong continent.’
Charlie had not thought of that. Her restless night had been consumed with a desire to be reunited with her boyfriend, interspersed with thoughts of Harry Styles, and of family at home. Not once did she consider how far away they were trapped.
Jonathan came alongside and nudged her, indicating with his head some massive activity on the bridge approaches. White tents had been erected, with manned barriers all around. As they straggled closer still, it became apparent that here was authority; here was the police and government. Lulu turned and smiled at the mixed group, then she reclaimed David’s hand and marched everyone towards the waiting National Guard cordon.
ELEVEN
A few hours ahead of the Springsteen group, Elaine D’Acampo, the dentist who had treated Charlie’s cut head, also passed through the Aid Station at the bottom of the Williamsburg bridge. With her, she had her dental nurse, Kat, a nineteen-year-old, originally from the Philippines, and a man called Mr Murphy, who had been at the office to meet his wife and daughter for the latter’s appointment. Naturally, he was distraught when they failed to turn up, and had decided to stay with Elaine, as his house was on the route they were taking towards hers. Also along for the walk was a young woman by the name of Danielle: a striking brunette, who was one of those people who would quote four different nationalities if asked where she was from. A taxi driver had made a cack-handed attempt to rape her, after sitting in his cab for nearly two hours, going nowhere, while minor violence and social disorder erupted around them. She had fought the man off, escaped the cab and then bumped into Elaine’s group while in a highly distressed state and absolutely lost.
Luckily, Elaine knew that Danielle’s hotel was on their route. They briefly discussed whether she should go back and stay there, but the girl was adamant that she wanted to remain with Elaine and go on to her house. And besides, when they reached the hotel with a mind to collect Danielle's possessions, the place was in uproar with desperate guests and staff alike. They quickly ran up to the hotel room, allowing Danielle to change into her trainers, and cram her rucksack with clothes and the contents of the mini-fridge.
Danielle and Kat had talked as they crossed the bridge, with the dawn just starting to wrestle away the day from what had been a clear, cool night. Family had been discussed, of course. Then boyfriends, home, brands of make-up, McDonald’s cheeseburgers, Christiano Ronaldo’s preened eyebrows, holidays in Ibiza and Bali, respectively. Kat brought up the topic of music, and favourite bands. Then she couldn’t get a word in as Danielle launched into expressing her love for One Direction, and Harry Styles in particular. Of course, Danielle was not the only visitor to New York at that particular time with those strong emotions for Mr Styles, but she was the only one with a likeness of the star tattooed on her upper right arm. She showed it to a fascinated Kat.
‘Whoah, girl. That’s some serious dedication. What if you go off them in time?’
‘But I’ll always love Harry. Of course I’ll move away from that kind of music as I get into my twenties, I suppose, but I can’t imagine my feelings changing towards Harry. I think he is beautiful and lovely. He’s my perfect man.’
Kat respected that. ‘Okay.’
Kat scanned the sky as they reached the far end of the bridge, with stars still shining brightly. ‘I love the stars. They’re so amazing.’
‘Stars annoy me, actually.’
‘What!? Girl, how can stars annoy you?’
‘My mother had this BBC programme on recently, about the Galaxy. They found a new star, and got all excited about it, saying it was eleven billion light years old, or something, and was now forty billion light years away. What’s that crap all about? How can people comprehend that, I ask you? I can’t get my head round stuff like that.’
Kat gave it some consideration. Then she resumed her all-round panning of the sky. ‘Pretty, though.’
During their period of rest on the floor of a large army tent, they had been provided with bottled water and rations, but no new
information of any kind. As it became more and more crowded with incoming refugees, they had decided to move on. Kat, of course, continued to talk with Danielle, rather than the depressed Mr Murphy, as they walked along.
‘People just watching us is so odd,’ she said, indicating the local residents, who stood observing the exodus. ‘But never mind them. When we get to Mrs D’Acampo’s house we’ll eat like there’s no tomorrow.’
Danielle laughed without mirth at that last comment.
‘I know Waterworld with Kevin Costner got panned by the critics, but I loved it.’
Danielle laughed with some joy at Kat’s latest bizarre statement. She found Kat to be nice, if a little vacuous. ‘Kat, you’re so funny.’
‘Happy to entertain. I was thinking how much I love big budget films. Well, I used to, anyway. World War Z, with Brad Pitt, I saw that recently. Oh, I watched something the other night, what was it? Demolition Man, with Sylvester Stallone.’
‘I know it.’
‘People say it’s trash, but what a plot! A future without violence, with a psychotic baddie who breaks out of Cryo Prison. So they have to defrost a maverick cop, Stallone, to go after him.’
So far, it had been an overcast day with very fine drizzle. But then the sun hit them from between two buildings and it lifted their spirits immensely. Even the worried Mr Murphy, in an anorak and baseball cap, looked up from the tarmac in front of his plodding feet.
‘Are we all good, people?’ called back Elaine. ‘We should be there before dark. Oh, no power, of course. Mr Murphy, can you make a fire?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘That’s super. We can all change our clothes. Mr Murphy, you are similar in size to my ex-boyfriend, so there are some of his clothes for you. Any you don’t fancy, we shall just burn.’
‘I don’t fancy putting on any of Elaine’s clothes,’ giggled Kat to Danielle.