Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse

by G. B. Hope

  Michael was about to step up out of the tree line, cross the fairway and warmly accost the man with the cigar, when another figure came into view, a bit further back. Michael decided to wait, let one or the other move off. He watched the second man, who seemed to be following the first. Maybe they were talking; it was hard to tell at that distance. The second man also had no golf paraphernalia, but he was carrying something in front of him, turning it in his hands. Michael finally figured out that the man was screwing something into something else. Michael’s stomach rumbled. He would have to go back to his backpack at the bike if this situation didn’t resolve itself soon. But for some reason the second man fascinated Michael; he seemed to be stalking the first, only moving when cigar man moved. The thing he was carrying came down to his side in his right hand. Jesus Christ! thought Michael. It was a gun, and the thing being screwed on had been a bulbous silencer. A murder was about to happen. An execution. A bullet to the back of the head, right in front of him. Michael’s heart went ten to the dozen. Should he call out a warning? Should he rush into view? Or just slink away, ignore it as none of his business and get back on the road to his girlfriend? But he couldn’t drag himself away. And he couldn’t even raise a squeak, so horrified was he. He was an Englishman - murder did happen in England, but never in front of him, and never like a gangland execution. And, being an Englishman, he had an in-bred view on fair play. He could not let this abomination take place without doing anything about it. He reached for his rifle, searched for and aimed at the men. The assassin was close now. Michael thought of firing a warning shot, but knew that might not do the trick, it would just cause confusion, and the man could still pull the trigger. The killer was almost ready to raise the right arm and shoot. Michael focussed and fired three times at the would-be assassin.

  TWENTY

  Crossing the Atlantic ocean on a cruise liner offered excitement and the freedom of the seas. You could go on deck and watch the waves crashing by. You could stand at the stern rail and imagine you were on the Titanic. Forget all the modern-day gluttony, the moronic people who never left the pool, and the amateurish entertainment - the basic joy was there if you wanted to experience it.

  But it was nothing to the feeling of being out there on a small boat, Liam concluded. Even with the shoreline almost always in sight, and the sea quite calm, to be bobbing along under a large white sail, with a sailor who threw himself from side to side and worked like a magician to keep her moving, it was exhilarating. To feel the spray hit your face, it made him laugh, feel refreshed, and to see Sabrina, her hair in a ponytail, loving it as well, that just topped the lot.

  Allison wasn’t enjoying it, though. She stayed in the cabin, from where her ashen face poked out, perhaps begging to be told that they were nearly there.

  ‘Were you sick on the liner, Allison?’ asked Liam. ‘No, you weren’t? Oh, well, never mind.’

  Allison disappeared, leaving Liam to hug a grinning Sabrina. Sabrina liked nothing more than to have her head on his chest. Liam watched Mr Manning controlling the craft. He had offered his services as a deckhand before they left, but had been told there was no need; just to enjoy the trip.

  ‘Mr Manning,’ Liam called, ‘you’re very impressive to watch. Could you take this baby across the Atlantic?’

  Mr Manning looked at Liam with an old salty dog expression. He appeared to be weighing up the pros and cons, then gave the slightest of nods.

  Sabrina was talking to Liam, with her voice lost in the wind. He lifted her chin with a fingertip and enquired about what she had said. Her face was tanned a darker shade from the days on the road. Her smile, pretty but not perfect, made his day.

  ‘I’m happy,’ she repeated. ‘I feel safe with you, Liam.’

  ‘You do?’ He chuckled. ‘At least one of us feels safe, then.’

  He thought about the chances of getting her home to Jakarta, if the situation remained the same, or got worse. The line from Jaws came to mind, “I think we’re going to need a bigger boat”.

  During the first evening, Allison went on deck to keep Mr Manning company, whether he wanted it or not. At least she had stopped throwing up. After taking a moment to get used to the Englishwoman being so near, Mr Manning proceeded to tell her absolutely everything about Maria, every technical detail, and was amused when her eyes glazed over with boredom. Liam and Sabrina were in charge of the cooking, providing more soup, and some very thick corned beef sandwiches. Mr Manning intended to stay at his post. Once the rations had been distributed, Liam and Sabrina ate near the open hatch, as Allison’s earlier sickness still lingered slightly, down below. Their knees were touching, and they kept looking into each other’s eyes. Their conversation covered various topics. By the end, they agreed she would try to understand English football better, that in Indonesia they never ate anything that was still moving, and they had a date lined up at the Tower of London.

  There were two bunks. Following an attempt to suggest a rota for them with Allison, her perplexed expression meant it was easier to give one to her outright, and for Liam to share with Sabrina. As the two people cuddled, Allison didn’t bat an eyelid - she didn’t want either of them, so it was of no interest to her. Allison came and went from the cabin, depending on how unwell she felt, leaving Liam to share intimacy with Sabrina. Intimacy by Indonesian standards, though, which basically meant just kissing.

  ‘This is so nice,’ she said.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘No, I meant the bunk. On the ship I think my cabin was right on top of the propeller. I rarely slept.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re not going to sleep much here, either.’

  She gave him a playful expression of shock, which made her appear even cuter, and prompted further kissing. Surprisingly, her tongue probed his mouth first. He needed to touch her, fumbled at her waist. She whispered his name in warning, so his hand went upwards instead of down, inside her clothing, to cup her left breast.

  Whether it was intentional or not, sea-sick Allison on the next bunk made a gagging noise. Liam and Sabrina muffled their laughter as best they could.

  In the early hours, Liam was called up to help Mr Manning. He was given a basic lesson in how to keep the craft moving on the same route, so that Mr Manning could get forty winks; but the old sailor stayed right there, just slumped down, so that Liam could wake him if anything at all changed. Sabrina popped her head up once to laugh at him and he playfully took offence.

  Liam delighted in being in charge of the yacht, even if it was only pretending. He concentrated hard, kept a thorough lookout, loving the cold spray hitting his face. The panorama of stars blew his mind. It gave him chance to think about the craziness of what had happened. He thought about Gus and about Julius. Then his thoughts turned to his sister. He had her hotel details in his personal possessions, but would she still be there? What would he find when they got to New York? Anyway, he was looking forward to seeing the Statue of Liberty, if they sailed in that way.

  Mr Manning made great time and they reached their destination on the fourth morning. By then, Allison was thoroughly miserable and starving hungry, and Liam and Sabrina were completely loved up. Though showing her the utmost respect, Liam had managed to get some intimacy by English standards.

  They had arrived, but the weather was pretty bad and the coast clouded in mist. Mr Manning, very tired, drifted Maria in. Out of the gloom they could make out ghostly skyscrapers - not obviously the famous New York skyline, but they were relieved to be there somewhere, and that was all that mattered. By pure chance they came to a pier, docking between larger vessels. Mr Manning shouted instructions to Liam, and between them they managed to get the yacht tied up. Allison retched one last time, then they helped her ashore. The men brought their guns to the fore, as they all looked along the pier. There were no obvious signs of life, nor any sounds apart from the lapping of the water.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Manning, ‘let’s get our bearings. Allison, are you fit to move?’

  ‘I
want away from this fucking boat for a while,’ she replied. ‘Oh, let’s go!’

  They moved inland, crossing abandoned car-parks, heading towards those overbearing buildings. Something moved to the left, making Sabrina scream, but it proved to be only a feral cat. They crossed the main road, sprinkled with its own RTA’s and litter. The glow of fires could be made out in the near distance, at least five separate conflagrations.

  Mr Manning strained to make out any landmark. He pushed on down a deserted road, with large shops either side. Allison brought up the rear, nibbling on a dry biscuit. To Liam, from what he could make out of the buildings, they seemed to be in an extravagant, even gaudy part of New York, so possibly they were on Manhattan. He had memorised the name of his sister’s hotel by then, but wondered how Mr Manning would connect it to wherever he eventually announced they were. But then Trump Plaza came out at them through the mist and Mr Manning exclaimed excitement and waved his shotgun in the air.

  ‘I’ve got a good idea now!’

  Sabrina took Liam’s hand, concerned.

  ‘Mr Manning,’ called Liam. ‘So, where do you think we are? Shall we confer?’

  Figures moved over to the right, gunfire flashed, Allison screamed and sprinted forward, with bullets hitting the sidewalk and an abandoned white van with a tinny retort. Both Liam and Mr Manning returned fire, the shotgun booming on the silent street, then they were scampering after Allison, catching her and making her stop screaming. They hurried on, baffled as to why they had been fired on - maybe it had been nerves on the part of the other people.

  Two blocks further on, and even the distressed, downcast Allison was wondering where the hell they were in New York. She was looking at offices and conference buildings, burning stores, an overturned taxi cab, and then the first corpses, grouped together where they had been caught in a gun battle. She kept moving, in front of Liam and Sabrina, by then. Next she saw the body of a woman squashed between two trucks. She almost lost her biscuits at that scene.

  Then Allison stopped, making Liam and Sabrina halt, and Mr Manning turn back and stare at her. She was pointing at two granite obelisks standing outside a shopping mall.

  ‘What… the fuck… is that?’ asked Allison of Mr Manning.

  On the nearest obelisk was written: Atlantic City.

  TWENTY ONE

  Michael sat eating a pasta dish in a shrub-filled conservatory, attached to the main bar of the Golf club, as he called it. The food was delicious, with a side salad and sparkling mineral water, in a glass - it was exciting to drink out of a glass again. One of the women who had initially served him came over to check he was all right, and he nodded enthusiastically, with his mouth full. She, like her friend, was wearing a white shirt, tied at the waist with a black belt, with black socks up over the knees. No trousers or skirt, which he thought bizarre, but maybe they had laundry issues. At least the shirts covered their modesty. The sexy flash of thigh was disconcerting after his days of wandering through the mess that society apparently had become.

  The only thing to upset the pleasure of the meal was his semi-automatic rifle which stood by the side of the table, with which he had recently killed another human being. Albeit one who was about to execute another man, but it did consume all of Michael’s thoughts and emotions.

  He sat back and tried to enjoy the warm sun through the glass roof. Then the realisation of what he'd had to do hit him again, and he looked down at his hands on the table. Footsteps approached, and not the light ones of his waitresses. He had tried to retreat after firing across the fairway, moved in such a panic that he had stumbled over the first fallen tree, run on beyond his bike and had to go back for it. Black humour swamped his mind at the idea of fleeing on a tandem bicycle after shooting a man. It had been awful. Men had come after him through the woods, terrifying him, getting to him before he could even get back to the road. He had been held at gunpoint, fear and adrenalin running through his veins. But then the man with the cigar, the potential murder victim, had come jogging to the scene and ordered the men to stand down. Michael was a hero, he told them. Michael was this man’s new best friend. “Take a leaf out of this man’s… whatever, guys. Learn a lesson from him”. Much patting on the back had followed, he was offered and refused a cigar, led back towards the golf course, with a promise of food and shelter, with expressions of the deepest gratitude throughout the walk. The man’s name had been impossible to forget; any football fan in the UK hearing the name Ferguson instantly thought of Sir Alex Ferguson, the former Manchester United manager.

  Ferguson, the American, sat himself down with a big sigh at the table in the conservatory. ‘Michael, my guardian angel. Have some dessert. What about a beer?’

  ‘I’m good, thank you, Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘Now, listen, I can’t thank you continually for the rest of my life, so I’ll say it once more. You saw my predicament and you acted to save my life. I’m forever indebted to you, young man.’

  ‘Really, it was just instinct.’

  ‘You’ll stay with us, won’t you? I can never doubt your loyalty.’

  ‘Well, I’m on my way to New York to find my girlfriend.’

  ‘Holy shit! New York? The way things are right now? No. No. You rest up here a bit. Then when matters calm down, I’ll send you off with a couple of my men to find her. Maybe bring her back here. We’ve got it good here, mister.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mr Ferguson, but I really would prefer to press on. She’ll be frightened.’

  ‘No, you’re right, that’s understandable.’

  Ferguson stood up. Michael looked at the armed men nearby, feeling a Mafia vibe, if that was possible without any Italians. At least they had not disarmed him, which was a good thing, even if he felt unsafe being there.

  ‘Is she a good English girl?’ asked Ferguson. ‘I like good English girls.’ He looked at the nearest lackey, ‘what is it they say, Bill, an English Rose?’

  He moved to stand, but Ferguson insisted he remain. ‘Michael, have some apple pie. Freshly made by my chefs. Then, you rest here tonight, and we’ll provision you in the morning and bid you farewell. How fair is that?’

  ‘That would be great, Mr Ferguson. Thank you.’

  ‘Have that piece of pie, then Bill here (indicating said lackey) will find you a bunk for the night.’

  Then, with a puff on his cigar, Ferguson departed the conservatory. Michael noticed that the waitresses kept their eyes down as he passed; unpopular guy, no doubt. Certainly a bit creepy.

  Michael slept marvellously in a crisp, white bed. It was Bill who woke him; a bearded man with a sub-machine gun swinging round his fat ass, which was something Michael could have lived without.

  ‘Coffee.’ said Bill, placing down a tray.

  ‘Thank you, Mr…? Bill.’

  Bill was not unfriendly, just a bit odd. The events of the previous day flashed back to Michael and made him shiver, as he sat up in bed. Maybe that was why Bill and his colleagues were so weird, having an attempt on their boss’s life.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ asked Bill.

  There, thought Michael, the man is quite civilised. ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘Mr Ferguson wants to see you. Fifteen minutes, yeah? I’ll wait in the corridor.’

  As Bill made to leave, Michael asked, ‘Bill, the man I shot. Who was he?’

  ‘No-one of any importance. Mr Ferguson will explain if you ask.’

  With that, the man stepped out of the room. Michael drank his coffee. Then he got up, relieved himself in the bathroom, and dressed, having washed before going to sleep. He checked the view, out over wooded countryside. There was an armed two-man patrol passing below. Obviously these people were serious about protecting their property. The man who he killed came back to the front of his mind again. Perhaps, he thought, with tensions understandably extremely high, there had been an argument with Ferguson, and murder had not seemed so insane at the time.

  Michael shook his head to clear it, then stepped into
his boots, hitched up his holdall and rifle, and went out to follow Bill off down the corridors. The place seemed quiet, apart from a couple of chefs, in their whites, moving about, and one elderly man (unarmed) glanced over as he passed. Bill pushed through a fire exit, onto a patio area. Barbecue smoke hit Michael as he followed, finding Ferguson, in one of those naked-woman aprons, and again smoking a cigar, cooking a large joint of ham. He was alone, apart from the two guards sitting two hundred yards away on a low wall.

  ‘Michael! Good morning. Did you sleep well? I woke up with Arnold Schwarzenegger throttling me from behind, with me futilely kicking his shins with my heels. Very disconcerting. Please, grab a beer.’

  Michael looked to where Ferguson indicated and pulled a bottle of Miller from a pack. He found an opener and flicked off the cap.

  ‘Sorry, it’s not chilled, Michael. The ice machine was the first thing to fail. Take a seat.’ Michael sat. ‘I’m preparing this baby for lunch.’

  ‘It looks and smells amazing, Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘I told you we had it good here.’

  Ferguson basted the ham one more time before picking up his own beer and taking a seat himself. Michael watched Bill wander off to the other guards, perhaps given the nod by Ferguson.

  Michael felt great - he had always liked the smell of burning wood, so having the barbecue aroma mingled with the cigar was making him a little high. Add that to his refreshing sleep and he could have stayed in that chair forever.

  ‘Last reports we heard about New York, Michael, had it locked down by the National Guard. No-one getting in or out.’