A New World: Untold Stories

by O'Brien, John

  That’s one reason he chooses to live out of town, having found a small shack to rent beyond the city limits. It may make his commute much longer, but in his eyes, it’s worth it. His brother also lives nearby, which makes it easier. Besides, the commute isn’t that bad. At least he misses the rush hour traffic. Even if the mass exodus out of the cities stalls, he’s going the other way.

  I’ll have to replace the old truck this year, he thinks, mopping another portion of the floor.

  Finishing the last of the duties, he stows his equipment and heads to one of the executive offices to enjoy the last hours of his shift. Sitting in the comfortable leather chair, he contemplates the times he’s been offered a supervisor position and wonders if he made the right decision turning it down each time. It would mean working days and his peaceful existence would change dramatically.

  No, I’ll take this life over more pay any day, he thinks, looking out over the city from within the darkened office. Even if it means I would see the kids each night, things are working out well the way they are. No use rocking the boat.

  Staring through the tinted windows at the early morning life of San Francisco, Carlos notes an inordinately large number of flashing lights scattered throughout the city from emergency vehicles. Red and blue lights strobe off the sides of buildings, the vehicles racing through the night streets to one emergency or another. To Carlos, it seems like every emergency vehicle in the city must be out on the streets. With the flu virus in full swing, he’s used to seeing a vast amount of ambulances and rescue fire trucks rushing through the city, but now police cars have joined. Enclosed within the building, the sights aren’t accompanied by sound, but even if the windows were open, he wouldn’t hear anything through the ear pieces connected to his iPod.

  That’s another reason he’s glad to have the job he does; he isn’t caught up in the mess happening below, whether a pandemic or not. He watches several vehicles as they speed along the streets, merely observing without too much thought.

  Taking a sip of warm coffee from his dented thermos, he reaches into his small pack and pulls out his binoculars. Bringing them to his eyes, he begins roaming the city, stopping momentarily to follow people along the streets until they disappear from view around a corner or behind a building, finding the next one when he loses sight.

  He spots a group of people running down the middle of the road, flashing under one street light after another. They’re dashing along a street leading away from him so he is able to track their progress. He shakes his head, glad that he doesn’t live in the city and that his kids aren’t involved with groups like that. As far as he’s concerned, there’s no good reason for a group like he’s watching to be running through the early morning streets.

  They’re obviously up to no good, he thinks, having witnessed similar things.

  He shifts his view behind the group to see what they may be running from, fully expecting to see them being chased by one of the police cars with lights flashing. Nothing. He looks ahead and sees two people running a block and a half ahead of the group. This is another thing he’s seen before although, admittedly, not as often. Reaching into the pocket of his lightweight jacket, he pulls out his phone and sets it in his lap. Resuming his observation, it takes a moment until he can locate the group again.

  They are several blocks from where he last saw them, the group behind gaining on the two ahead. He’s not one to interfere without knowing what’s going on, but if the two look to be in greater danger, he’ll make a call to the police. To Carlos, greater danger means that they are actually getting beaten.

  Carlos leans forward as the distance between the two groups closes quickly. He’s amazed at how fast the ones behind appear to be moving. Of course, the two ahead keep looking over their shoulder, which slows them down. However, the quickness with which the latter group is moving through the streets, well, it just doesn’t seem natural.

  He watches with interest, and a little fear, for the two running. In his magnified view, he sees the lead runner leap and slam into one of the people being chased. It’s hard to tell from his vantage point, but it looks like the attacker wrapped their arms around the person’s legs. Regardless of what happened, the one goes down hard, falling face first with the attacker scrambling on top.

  The second person stops to look back at their companion and is immediately swarmed by numerous bodies. Carlos lowers the binoculars and picks up his phone. Dialing 911, he gets a recording that all circuits are busy. Thinking that odd, but remembering all of the lights flashing through the city, he tries again, only to get the same recording.

  Even if the circuits are busy, I should be able to get through to nine one one, he thinks, stabbing at the phone again.

  This time the phone rings through, but all he gets are rings before a recording comes on telling him that, due to the high call volume, no one is able to take his call. Either hang up and try again, or stay on the line to leave the details of their emergency. Carlos hangs up, staring momentarily at the phone and then out over the city where blue and red lights flash in almost every quadrant that he can observe.

  With a sense of morbidity mixed with dread about what he’ll see, Carlos gazes through the binoculars again. The two who were being chased are lost beneath a mound of bodies. With the darkness and distance, he is barely able to make out individual figures squatting or hunched over what he assumes are the two who were caught.

  This is something I haven’t seen before, he thinks, watching the scene. Usually they are punching or kicking the unlucky people.

  As one, the entire group turns their heads to the side, looking down one of the side streets. They don’t move from their positions, but stare down the road. Shortly, red and blue lights begin flashing off the sides of one of the buildings near the group, strobing the entire area with their rapid pulses.

  Good. Someone must have gotten through and called the police, he thinks, feeling relieved. Although it’s probably too late for those poor ones who were trying to escape.

  Carlos watches as a police car edges past the corner of one of the buildings along the side street and comes to a halt. None of the people have moved, but continue to gaze at the vehicle. Neither is anyone getting out of the car. Listening to the soft music playing in his ears, he can imagine the loudspeaker telling the group to get on the ground. If that’s the case, they aren’t complying and, if anything, are becoming more agitated.

  Both the driver and passenger side doors open. Two officers step out using the doors as cover and point drawn weapons toward the group. The crowd rises, seemingly as a single entity, and rushes the two policemen.

  Through his binoculars, Carlos sees small white flashes of light from where the police are standing. The strobe-like flashes seem like sparks compared to the red and blue lights flashing from the top of the car. Several in the group fall to the ground only to be trampled by those behind. The officers continue firing, but the crowd closes the distance quickly.

  Carlos watches as the two officers, aware that they aren’t going to take down the entire group before becoming surrounded, hustle back into their car. They are too slow to close the doors as the mob, fewer now, encircles the car. A few hop onto the hood and start pounding on the windshield. Others rip the closing doors open. He watches helplessly as the officers are dragged from the vehicle and thrown to the ground. He can’t see the driver from his vantage point, but he sees the one riding in the passenger seat become engulfed.

  Unable to help himself, he continues watching the horrible scene, thankful that the distance is as far as it is and he doesn’t have to watch the attack in close up, gory detail. The group of people rise after a while and race down a side street, disappearing from view. Carlos sees the unmoving forms of the original two lying in the circular beam of a streetlight. By the side of the police car lays the still form of the officer, the fast-moving red and blue lights flashing over the body.

  With a sick feeling in his stomach having witnessed the terrible slaughter,
he sighs and stows his binoculars. It’s not like he hasn’t witnessed a murder or two from his many years of watching the city, but this goes beyond anything he’s experienced before. Zipping his bag closed, he doubts at this particular moment that he’ll bring out his binoculars again anytime soon.

  The lightening of the sky above the hills to the east signals two things. One, the most obvious, dawn is approaching, and two, his shift is about over. Rising from his comfortable perch, he stows his bag in the janitor’s closet. Grabbing the last load of garbage, he enters the maintenance elevator to deposit it in the large dumpster downstairs.

  A short time later, he stows the cart and grabs his gear. With his shift over and with the sun about to crest the horizon, he heads back downstairs to his truck. One more day and he’ll have the weekend with the kids, something he’s looking forward to. He knows the things that he’s seen will haunt him from time to time but, at the moment, they are already fading from his thoughts.

  Those are other people’s problems. Even though his life is moderately settled, he still has his own to think of.

  The battered Ford pickup cranks a few times before roaring to life. It’s actually more dents and wrinkles than anything else. The truck is rusted in spots but it gets him where he needs to go. Driving out of the parking garage, Carlos notes the nearly empty streets.

  That’s odd for this time of the morning, even with the sickness.

  Normally, the streets would begin filling with cars carrying commuters who are attempting to beat the rush hour, especially with this being the last work day of the week. Along with the empty roads, the sidewalks are also bare of the usual pedestrian traffic.

  Driving down the avenue leading to the freeway onramp, he feels a momentary surge of panic. He wonders if he may have missed a day and that last night was actually Friday.

  Shit. I should have waxed the floors rather than mopping them.

  He quickly glances at the watch that’s been with him for a number of years, another of his luxury purchases.

  No, today is Friday. Did he miss a holiday? No, those are usually on Monday.

  Shrugging, feeling relieved that he didn’t miss anything that would jeopardize his job, he turns onto the onramp and enters the freeway. The sun breaks over the hills and casts its rays across the brown landscape. The light shines brightly through his windshield causing him to blink with its radiance. A large crack, spreading across the entirety of the windshield, catches the beams and throws off small prisms of light.

  Driving down the mostly empty road, he notes there are a few commuters speeding by in the other lanes. He imagines they are probably happy that they don’t have to contend with the usual early morning crowds. Without much to occupy his mind, Carlos wonders if the number of emergency vehicles he saw during his shift might have something to do with the lack of cars on the freeway.

  Arriving at the turnoff for his shack, he pushes the events of the evening, and what they might portend, to the back of his mind. All he wants is to get home, find something to eat, and try to sleep through the heat of the day.

  Sitting down with a meager dinner, he turns on the radio perched on the wobbly table. Turning through the stations, he finds that each one mentions attacks in the surrounding cities throughout the night by unknown assailants.

  Having lived in the area for some time, he’s used to the occasional protests in the city by different elements. It’s certainly not what they experience down in the LA region, but they do sometimes get out of control. Perhaps what he saw was a small group branching off from some protest. That would explain the number of emergency vehicles. To an extent, it explains the attacks he witnessed, if not how they came about. It may even explain the lack of cars. Perhaps people were too worried about the continuing protests to venture into the city. Turning off the radio, he pulls the blackout curtains over the windows and falls asleep.

  Later, preparing to drive into work, he tunes in the radio again. The focus of the evening show is on the attacks of the preceding night, telling of numerous, but without an exact number of casualties. The announcer cuts into several recordings made earlier.

  “…we don’t think we’re witnessing a new form of terrorist activities, but we haven’t ruled that out as yet. The fact that we’re seeing this outbreak across the nation, and the sheer ferocity of the attacks, may point to something larger. What that may be, we aren’t sure at this time.”

  More reports mention numerous break-ins, death tolls in the thousands, and some mention cannibalism.

  “More on this as we continue to get updates,” the DJ says and goes on to list the number of reported dead from the flu, just as he does every evening since the sickness arrived.

  Kids and their drugs, Carlos thinks, filling his thermos.

  * * * * * *

  Sitting in his usual comfortable chair, Carlos looks out over the city. The binoculars will stay in the bag, but he’ll still watch. Across the city, there are still a number of emergency vehicles running through the streets, but not as many as the previous night. Near the San Francisco entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge, there is a concentration of flashing red and blue lights.

  Curious, Carlos ventures to another executive office which affords him a better view of the bay. Near a long span that connects the city with Oakland, there is another concentration of emergency vehicles gathered. Across the bay, moonlight casts its rays on the water, highlighting cresting waves in silver ribbons. Near the Golden Gate Bridge, the city’s most prominent landmark, a fog bank hangs densely near the large suspension bridge, illuminated under the moonbeams like a solid silver wall.

  Protesters must be blocking the bridges, he thinks, settling into another chair.

  A series of bright flashes roll across the Golden Gate Bridge, lighting up the waters far below and the surrounding hills. Following the flashes, large flames of orange and yellow boil outward, fading quickly and leaving the darkness of night behind. Carlos sits up, his breath caught in his throat. Seconds later, a blast of wind crashes against the windows, bowing them in and out in waves. A rumbling shakes the building and then, everything becomes still.

  In the bright light of the moon, Carlos watches as the central span slowly tumbles into the waters below. Before he can react further, another series of exploding lights rocks the bridge to Oakland, knocking main sections into the chill waters of the bay.

  Carlos comes out of the chair, staring at the madness below, not believing what he is seeing. Without waiting to see what further events transpire, he hurriedly leaves the office. He has one goal in mind, his kids.

  He knows that when something as outrageous as this happens, things have gone way out of control. The more extreme the event, the more unruly things have become. Knocking the Golden Gate Bridge down is about as extreme as one can get.

  Passing the buffing machine in the hall, he grabs his bag. Making sure he has his keys, he boards the elevator for the long ride down. He doesn’t bother clocking out as he knows his job ended the moment the first charges went off.

  Starting the truck, he drives down the avenues, narrowly avoiding several groups who have charged into the streets. Screams, unheard from his safe perch atop the Transamerica building, erupt all around, and are perceived above the roar of the truck engine. He’s driven into madness, but nothing will stop him from getting out of town and to his kids. Several groups pound into the side of his truck as he passes, but he’s through them before they can slow him.

  The lights are out as he arrives at his brother’s house. He leaves the engine running and pauses, thinking about what he witnessed just a little while before. His heart races as the images of the night cycle through his mind. There were several times when he heard people pleading for him to stop and help, but he kept his foot on the gas pedal.

  Exiting his truck, he notices one of the front room lights come on. The door opens and his brother appears on the small concrete porch.

  “Get the kids up. Something terrible has happened,” he says, ba
rely able to speak with fear and dread filling him.

  “Carlos. What’s wrong?” his brother asks in Spanish.

  “There’s no time to explain. Get the kids, pack up what you can, and follow me,” Carlos replies.

  His brother hesitates for a moment, but knows Carlos isn’t prone to panic. If Carlos is frightened, then there’s a good reason. Without another word, his brother turns and goes inside, his shouting heard from outside. With his sleepy-eyed kids in the truck, Carlos drives to his place with his brother following in his own beaten-up truck.

  At his house, Carlos and his brother begin piling all of the belongings they can carry into the trucks, adding food and water. Carlos checks several of the fuel canisters around the house to make sure they’re full and adds them to the bed of the pickup.

  Shooing his kids’ questions and complaints, Carlos heads back to the freeway, turning south rather than his usual turn to the north. Retirement or not, he knows when things have broken loose. With the killings he’s witnessed and the bridges being blown, he wants no part of what is happening. Checking that he has an almost full tank, and with the full gas cans in the rear, he’s headed back to his hometown in Mexico. If things calm down, he has his documents and he’ll return. He may not have his current job upon his return, but there are always others.

  # # #

  Carlos, his brother, and his kids made it to the border as things were breaking loose. They never made it to their village, having discovered quickly that the night runners held sway. They drove into the hills where they eked out a living, foraging from nearby crops. The meager game in the area provided some sustenance.