by Morgan Rice
We reach the southern side of the square, and I’m saddened to see the huge statue of George Washington mounted on a horse toppled, lying in pieces on its side, half-covered in snow. There is really nothing left. Anything and everything that was good in the city seems to have been ruined. It is astonishing.
I stop, grabbing onto Logan’s shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My leg hurts so bad, I need to rest it.
Logan stops and is about to say something—when we both hear a commotion and turn. Across the square, dozens of Crazies suddenly rise up from the subway entrance, heading right for us. There seems to be a never-ending stream of them.
Worse, Logan takes aim and pulls the trigger, and this time we hear nothing but an empty, horrifying click. His eyes open wide in surprise and fear. Now we have nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. This huge group of Crazies, at least a hundred and growing, are closing in. I turn in every direction, looking frantically for any source of escape, any vehicles, any weapons. Any source of shelter. But I find none.
It seems we have reached the end of our luck.
T W E N T Y S E V E N
I frantically scan our surroundings and spot the façade of what was once a Whole Foods. It is abandoned, like everything else, completely gutted. But unlike the other stores, it appears the doors are still intact. I wonder if maybe we can get in and lock them behind us.
“This way!” I scream to Logan, who stands there, frozen in indecision.
We run to the entrance of the Whole Foods, the Crazies just 30 yards behind us. I expect them to be yelling, but they are dead silent. With all the snow, they don’t even make a sound, and that somehow is even more eerie than if they were screaming.
We reach the doors and I try the handle and am relieved it’s open. I run in, Logan behind me, then turn and slam it behind us. Logan removes the heavy machinegun from his shoulder and shoves it between the door handles, barring the doors. He wedges it in there, and it is a perfect fit. I test the doors, and they don’t budge.
We turn and run deeper into the store. It is cold in here, empty, gutted. There are no remnants of food, just torn and empty packaging all over the floor. No weapons, no supplies. No hiding places. Nothing. Whatever was once here was looted long ago. I scan for exits, but see none.
“Now what?” Logan asks.
There’s a sudden crash against the metal door as dozens of Crazies slam into it. Our lock won’t last long. I search the store again, frantic for an idea. And then, in the distance, I spot something: a stairwell.
“There!” I yell, pointing.
We both run across the store, burst through the door, and into the stairwell. Logan looks at me.
“Up or down?” he asks.
It’s a good question. If we go down, maybe there’s a basement. Maybe there are some sort of supplies, and maybe we can barricade ourselves in down there. Then again, it could be a death trap. And judging from the look of this place, I doubt there are any supplies. If we go up, maybe there’s something on a higher floor. Maybe an exit through the roof.
My claustrophobic side gets the better of me.
“UP!” I say, despite the pain in my leg.
We start ascending the metal steps. Logan climbs so fast, it is a struggle for me to catch up. He runs back, wraps an arm around me, holds me tight, and pulls me up the steps faster than I can manage on my own. Each step is torture, feels like a knife entering my calf. I curse the day that snake was born.
We run up flight after flight. When we cross the fourth flight I have to stop, gasping for breath. My breath is raspy, and sounds scary even to me: I sound like a 90-year-old woman. My body has endured too much in the last 48 hours.
Suddenly, there is a horrific crash. We both look at each other, then look down the stairwell. We both realize at the same time that the Crazies have broken in.
“COME ON!” he screams.
He grabs me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline as we run twice as fast up the steps. We clear the sixth flight, then the seventh. I hear the sound of the Crazies barging into the stairwell. They’re starting to sprint up the steps. They know exactly where we are.
We have only one more flight to go. I force myself, gasping for breath, up the last flight of steps. We reach the landing and race for the metal door to the roof. Logan puts a shoulder into it, but it won’t open. It’s locked. Apparently, from the outside. I can’t believe it.
The mob of Crazies is getting closer, the sound of them on the metal stairwell deafening. In moments, we will be torn to bits.
“STAND BACK!” I scream to Logan, getting an idea.
This is as good a place as any to use my last round. I pull out my gun, take aim, and with the last round I have left, fire at the knob. I know it’s risky to fire in such close quarters—but I don’t see what choice we have.
The bullet ricochets off the metal, missing us by an inch, and the lock opens.
We run through the door, out into daylight. I survey the roof, wondering where we can go, if there’s any possible escape. But I see nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Logan takes my hand and runs with me to the far corner. As we reach the edge I look over and see, below us, a huge stone wall. It spans University Place, running across 14th Street and blocking off everything south of it.
“The 14th Street wall!” Logan screams. “It separates the wasteland from the desert.”
“The desert?” I ask.
“It’s where the bomb went off. It’s all radiated—everything south of 14th street. No one goes there. Not even the Crazies. It’s too dangerous.”
There’s a sudden crash of metal, and the door to the roof slams open. The mob pours out, running right for us.
Far below I see a snow bank, about eight feet high. The snow is thick, and if we land just right, maybe, just maybe, it can cushion our fall. But it is a far jump, about fifty feet. And it would put us on the Desert side of the wall.
But I don’t see what choice we have.
“That snow bank!” I yell, pointing. “We can jump for it!”
Logan looks down and shakes his head, looking scared.
I check over our shoulder: the Crazies are 30 yards away.
“We have no choice!” I yell.
“I’m scared of heights,” he finally admits, looking very pale.
I reach over and take his hand, and step up on the ledge. He pauses for a second, fear his eyes, but then comes.
“Close your eyes!” I yell. “Trust me!”
And then, with the Crazies only a few feet away, we jump.
T W E N T Y E I G H T
As we plummet through the air, screaming, I hope my aim is accurate. We rush towards the ground so fast, if we miss, we will surely die.
A moment later we are immersed in a cloud of snow as we land dead center in the eight-foot snow bank, Logan still holding my hand. We hit it with tremendous speed and sink down into it, all the way to the bottom, until our feet hit hard on the cement. Luckily, the snow is thick, and it cushions most of the impact of the fall. When I hit bottom, it only feels as if I’ve jumped from a few feet up.
I sit at the bottom, snow piled high above my head, in complete shock. Sunlight pokes through the snow several feet above me. I sit there, frozen, afraid to move, to claw my way out of the mountain of snow, to find out if anything is broken. I feel like I’m on the beach, buried under a pile of sand.
Slowly, I move a hand, then an arm, then a shoulder…. I gradually pull myself out, free myself from the hole I’m in. It is awkward, but I claw my way up and out of the pile of snow. I stick my head out, like a gopher coming up from a hole in a lawn. I turn and see Logan doing the same.
I crane my neck and look up: all the way up there, still standing on the roof, looking down, is the mob of crazies. They are arguing amongst themselves, and it appears they aren’t willing to do the jump we just did. I don’t blame them: I look up at the height and marvel I had the guts to take such a leap myself. I probably wouldn’t do it again if I stopped to think abo
ut it.
I stand, breaking free of the snow bank, and Logan does, too. I am completely covered in snow and reach up and brush it off. I take a few steps, testing myself, checking to see if anything is broken. My calf still hurts—worse than ever—but otherwise, remarkably, I think I survived relatively intact, with only a few more aches and bruises to show for it.
Logan is walking, and I am relieved to see he didn’t break anything, either. Just as importantly, I’m relieved we are now on this side of the wall. The desert. It might mean a slow death—but at least we’re safe for now.
I look down the desolate, abandoned University Place: all the stores are burnt out, some of them crumbled to the ground. There is no one and nothing here. As chaotic and violent as the wasteland was, the desert is quiet. Peaceful. Finally, for the first time in a while, I let my guard down.
But I know I shouldn’t. If this part of the city really is radiated, then it holds more danger than all the other places combined. Every second here could contaminate us. And who knows who—or what—still survives in the zone. I’d hate to run into it.
“Let’s move,” Logan says, following the bus tracks, which go straight through the arch in the wall, and continue down University.
We walk at a quick pace down University, checking over our shoulders as we go. Now more than ever I wish I had a weapon. Logan checks his body habitually, and I can tell he wishes he had one, too. Our only hope now is just to follow these tracks, find Bree, and get out of here as soon as possible.
We pass 10th Street, then 9th, then 8th, and suddenly the sky opens up on our right. I look over and am shocked to see what was once Washington Square Park. I remember so many nights here, before the war, hanging out with friends, sitting around and watching the skateboarders do their tricks on the cement plaza. Now, as I look at it, I’m aghast: there is nothing left. The huge arch that marked its entrance is toppled and lies on the ground, crumbled, covered in snow. Even worse, where the park once was, there is now nothing but a vast crater, sinking hundreds of feet deep into the earth. It stretches as far as the eye can see. It is as if a whole section of the city has been scooped out.
Logan must see me staring.
“That’s where the bomb hit,” he explains. “The first to hit the city.”
I can’t believe it. It looks like the Grand Canyon. I can see the bomb’s rippling effect, radiating out, building façades melted away in every direction. Everything I once knew is gone. It now looks more like the surface of Mars.
“Let’s go,” Logan says impatiently, and I realize that the sight disturbs him, too.
The bus tracks continue down University until it ends, then go left on West 4th. We follow them as they cut through the Village and turn right on Bowery. This avenue is wider, and it is desolate here, too. There is not a soul in sight.
I should feel more relaxed, yet oddly enough, I feel more on edge than ever. It is too ominous, too quiet. All I hear is the howling of the wind, the snow whipping into my face. I can’t help feeling that at any moment something might jump out at me.
But nothing does. Instead, we walk and walk, block after block, always heading farther downtown. It’s like we are crossing a vast desert, with no end in sight. And this, it turns out, is the real danger of this zone. The distance. The cold. The bus tracks never seem to end, and with each step, my leg gets worse and I grow weaker.
Slowly, the late afternoon sky, heavy with storm clouds, grows darker. As we cross the huge street I once knew as Houston, I wonder how much farther I can go.
If Logan is right, if they are really taking Bree to the South Street Seaport, then we still have a ways to go. I’m already feeling dizzy, delirious with hunger. My leg feels five times its size, and, ironically, this walking might be the worst trial of all.
Somehow I continue on, trekking further down Bowery. We hike in silence, hardly saying a word to each other. There is so much I want to say to him. I want to thank him for saving my life; he’s already saved me three times in a single day, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s a debt I can repay. I also want to thank him for giving up his boat and coming with me. I think of how much he’s sacrificed for me, and it overwhelms me. I want to ask him why he did it.
I’m impressed by his fighting skills. Logan reminds me of what my Dad must have been like in battle—or, at least, my vision of him. I begin to wonder where Logan is from. If he is from here. If he has family here. Or family alive anywhere. I also want to ask him how he feels about me. Does he like me? Of course, I could never actually ask him. But still, I wonder. Does he have any feelings for me? Why didn’t he escape when he had the chance? Why did he risk his life to follow me? Thinking about it, I feel guilty. I have endangered him. He could be safe somewhere right now.
And most of all, despite myself, I want to know if he has a girlfriend. Or ever did. I immediately chide myself, feeling disloyal to Ben, who, after all, I just left. But these two guys—Logan and Ben—are so different from each other. They are like two different species. I reflect on the feelings I have for Ben, and I realize they are still there, and still genuine: there is something about him, a sensitivity, a vulnerability, that I really like. When I look into Ben’s large, suffering eyes, there is something I can relate to.
But when I look at Logan, I feel attracted to him in an entirely different way. Logan is big and strong and silent. He’s noble, a man of action, and can clearly handle himself. He’s a bit of a mystery to me, and I wish I knew more. But I like that.
I find myself really liking certain things about Ben, and certain, different, things about Logan. Somehow my feelings for both seem to be able to coexist, perhaps because they are so different that I don’t feel like they are competing with each other.
I allow myself to get lost in these thoughts as we trek on, directly into the blizzard. It takes my mind away from the pain, the hunger, the cold.
The streets narrow again as we pass through a neighborhood I once knew as Little Italy. I remember coming here with Dad, having an Italian dinner in one of the small, crowded restaurants packed with tourists. Now, nothing remains. All the storefronts are destroyed. There is nothing but waste. Emptiness.
We trudge on, and walking gets harder as the snow reaches our knees. I am counting the steps now, praying for our arrival. We reach another broad street, and the crooked sign reads “Delancey.” I look to my left, expecting to see the Williamsburg Bridge.
Incredibly, it is gone.
The enormous bridge is demolished, clearly destroyed in some battle, its metal entrance twisting up into the sky like some sort of modern sculpture. All that labor, all the design, all the manpower—all destroyed, and probably at a moment’s notice. For what? For nothing.
I look away in disgust.
We continue farther downtown, crossing Delancey. After several more blocks we hit the main artery of Canal Street, and I’m almost afraid to look for the Manhattan Bridge. I force myself to. I wish I hadn’t. Like the Williamsburg, this bridge is destroyed, too, nothing but shards of metal left, twisted and torn, leaving a gaping opening over the river.
We push on, my feet and hands so frozen I start to wonder if I have frostbite. We pass through what was once Chinatown, with its taller buildings and narrow streets, now unrecognizable. Like every other neighborhood, it is just an abandoned pile of rubble.
Bowery forks to the right, onto Park Row, and I’m breathing hard as we make it a few more blocks and finally reach a huge intersection. I stop and stare in awe.
To my right lies the structure that was one City Hall, now lying in ruins, a mere pile of rubble. It is awful. This incredible building, once so grand, is now nothing but a memory.
I’m afraid to turn around and look at the Brooklyn Bridge behind me—that beautiful work of art that I used to walk across with Bree on warm summer days. I pray it is still there, that at least one beautiful thing remains. I close my eyes and turn slowly.
I am horrified. Like the other two bridges, it is destroyed. Nothing
remains, not even the base, leaving a gaping hole over the river. In its place, where it once stood, are huge piles of twisted metal sticking up out of the river.
Even more startling, lying there, in the midst of the river, jutting up at a crooked angle, are the remnants of a huge military plane, half-submerged, its tail pointing up. It looks like it took a nosedive and never came up. It is shocking see such a huge plane sticking up out of the river, as if a child threw his toy into a bath and never bothered to take it out.
It is darker now, almost twilight, and I can’t go any farther. Amazingly, the winds and snow only continue to pick up. The snow is past my knees, and I feel as if I’m being slowly swallowed alive. I know the Seaport isn’t far, but it is too painful to take another step.
I reach up and lay a hand on Logan’s shoulder. He looks over at me, surprised.
“My leg,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I can’t walk.”
“Put your arm over my shoulder,” he says.
I do, and he leans over, places a hand behind my back and holds me tight, propping me up.
We walk together, and the pain lessens. I feel embarrassed, self-conscious: I never want to be dependent on a guy. On anyone. But now, I really need it.
We make a left, walking under the structure that once led to the bridge, and then make a right onto what was once Pearl Street. It is uncanny. After all this journeying, somehow we have ended up in the neighborhood I grew up in. It is so weird to be back here. On the day I left, I swore I’d never come back. Never. I was sure Manhattan would be destroyed and never even imagined I would see it again.
Walking back through here, down these narrow cobblestone streets, this old historic district, once teeming with tourists, with everything I knew, is the most painful of all. Memories come flooding back, places where, in every corner, Bree and I would play. I am flooded with memories of spending time here with Mom and Dad. When they were actually happy with each other.
Our apartment was in the shopping district, above one of the stores, in a small, historic building. I resented it growing up, all those annoying Saturday nights when the nightlife never seemed to end, when people would talk and smoke under my bedroom window until five in the morning. Now I would do anything for that noise, that activity. I would give anything to be able to walk across the street to a café and order breakfast. I get a sharp hunger pang just thinking of it.