Charges

by Stephen Knight

  “There’s no food in the grocery stores, man!” another added.

  Similar cries were taken up by the crowd. Many were like Vincenzo, well heeled and probably well-to-do, sweaty from a lack of air-conditioning, expressions of quiet desperation flavored with liberal doses of fear. Others were more blue-collar than blue blood, and they were the confrontational ones, the ones with a lot on the line, probably with more mouths to feed than food in their homes. From that second group, he felt an undercurrent of simmering violence. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the power failed, and they were already starting to get riled up.

  “From what we know,” the officer in the white shirt said, “from what Con Edison has told the mayor’s emergency management people, the lights aren’t going to come on for a while. The power grid has been fried. I mean totally fried, people. It’s going to take months, if not years, to restore it. Everything we’ve heard from the rest of the state and surrounding communities says exactly the same thing. Long Island Power, Connecticut Light and Power, Northeast Utilities, Jersey Central Power and Light, everybody is saying all the infrastructure is history. Same thing for mass transit. The only way you’re going to get around now is by foot, bike, or horse, until things get straightened out.”

  “What about the food?” someone shouted.

  “Aid stations are being set up throughout the city,” the cop replied. “In fact, one will be positioned right where I’m standing in a couple of hours. It takes time because we have to haul everything on our backs or by horses. If you want to help out with the distribution, see this group of officers behind me.” He pointed at another collection of white-shirted police officers standing in a rough line behind him.

  From where he stood, Vincenzo saw the officers didn’t have happy faces. No one wanted to deal with angry New Yorkers, especially when they were asking those pissed-off people to man up and do something for themselves. People often said that in times of crisis, New Yorkers came together, but the vibe he got from the crowd around him was that it was just a hair’s breadth from every man for himself.

  “My kids are sick!” a woman yelled.

  Vincenzo turned and saw a lady in black jeans and a white top, holding an infant in one of those chest slings. The child’s head lolled against her big breasts. Her hair was already frizzed out from the growing humidity, and her tanned face was a study in anxiety. A slight man with a scruffy beard stood next to her, and he put an arm around her shoulder. Beside him was a girl of about four or five, dressed in red jeans and a wrinkled blue top. Her eyes were hollow and downcast, and she listlessly held her father’s hand. She looked dehydrated, and Vincenzo thought about offering her some water.

  Then, he realized the act might make him a target. If he handed the girl water, someone else would want some. If it wanted to, the crowd could take everything he had, and he knew the cops wouldn’t be able to stop them. Jesus, I’m already worried about that?

  “Medicine and water and all types of supplies will be made available at the aid stations,” the officer said. “Like I said, it’s taking us time to get them set up, but believe me, the city has a lot of stock to offer you. No one’s going to go without what they need. Bring a list to the aid stations as soon as they’ve been set up, and we’ll get you what you need.”

  “I want the goddamn lights and telephones back!” a man hollered. “Last night, the apartment below mine was busted into, and the woman there was raped!”

  “The NYPD is going to remain active throughout the day and night,” the officer said, but the crowd booed him loudly, drowning him out despite the loudspeaker. “Listen, the best thing for you to do is to make lists of what you need! Those who work for the city need to go to their job sites, where you’ll be assigned support duties. Police, fire, sanitation, and emergency medical services are all still available to you. Mounted police and bike patrols will be accessible to those who need to report a crime, and all precincts, fire houses, and hospitals are open. Things are moving slowly, but everything is still available. Be patient. Everything is going to be pulled together. The City of New York is responding as quickly as it can—”

  More boos rose, along with angry shouts. The line of mounted cops stirred, and the posture of patrolmen in riot gear changed. Face shields came down, and their ranks tightened as they quickly organized themselves. A tremor ran through the crowd, so strong it was almost palpable. Vincenzo’s guts began to tighten, and for an instant, he thought his bowels felt loose as he looked around the crowd that was pressing in on him from all sides. He had heard what he needed to hear: modern transportation, such as cars, airplanes, and trains, was practically a dream. Instant communication with other parts of the nation, so long taken for granted, was ancient history. Electricity, which had first come to Manhattan in 1882 and had formed the heart of not just the city but the entire planet, was no more. No one in any of the fancy condos and co-ops would be able to get their gourmet coffee from Keurig coffeemakers or the Starbucks on the corner. Refrigerators, washers and dryers, even the vast sprawl of the Internet, all had been obliterated by the sun’s daylong tantrum. Things had changed, and the scope of that change was becoming known to the crowd. And it didn’t like it.

  Time to go. Vincenzo tried to wend his way through the mass of people, repeating, “Excuse me,” constantly. He had gotten perhaps ten feet before the first roar went up, and he heard the clash of bodies and steel and wood and plastic as the crowd slammed into the police with a roar.

  “Don’t do this, people!” the police officer with the megaphone shouted. “Don’t do this!”

  Vincenzo continued trying to push his way out of the crowd. He wasn’t alone; others also attempted to move away from the growing sounds of carnage. But even more people surged forward behind him, and he was momentarily caught up in a virtual stampede. He wondered who in their right minds would want to go toward a growing brawl between the people and the police. And he couldn’t figure out had set off the crowd. There was a national emergency at hand, and the well-heeled people of Central Park South had already degenerated into a pack of thugs.

  He felt hands tug at his bag, and he slapped away a man who had been trying to reach inside his backpack. For an instant, he and the guy faced each other, jostled by the mob that flowed around them. The man was taller than Vincenzo and at least thirty pounds heavier, with a blond crew cut and a black T-shirt over frayed black jeans. His arms were heavily tattooed, and he had a wispy goatee. He glared at Vincenzo with ice-blue eyes, a curious half-smile on his face, as if he was goading Vincenzo to act: Yeah, I want what’s in your bag. You gonna stop me?

  Vincenzo considered pulling his pistol, but the last thing he wanted was to start a gunfight in the middle of a surging, angry mob. So he lashed out with his right fist and bashed the man straight in the face, a panicked, full-power shot that his opponent apparently hadn’t been expecting. The guy went down with a strangled squawk, his hands flying to his nose as blood began to flow. Vincenzo didn’t hang around to see how badly the man was hurt. He pushed back against the people behind him, almost running over the lady with the kids.

  “Get out of here,” he snapped to her and her small-shouldered husband.

  From the front of the crowd, gunshots rang out. People shrieked, and in an instant, the crowd tried to reverse itself. Vincenzo glanced over his shoulder and saw the mounted cops wading in, slamming their nightsticks into people. The other cops opened up from behind their shields, firing what looked like shotguns into the mob. He hoped they were loaded with beanbag rounds, nonlethal projectiles that could drop a big man in his tracks without killing him.

  Something sharp and acrid assaulted his nostrils, and he realized he had just gotten his first whiff of tear gas. An instant later, grayish smoke began to waft up out of the throng behind him. Vincenzo redoubled his efforts, struggling to push his way through the pack, his heart pounding. Sweat poured down his body. All he saw were fragments of frightened, sweaty faces as men, women, and children screamed
in fear and pain. He stumbled, and as he fought to maintain his balance, he was horrified to discover a toddler had fallen in the midst of the crowd. The small boy had already been trampled, and blood flowed from his nose and mouth. Vincenzo reached for the kid, but the crowd slammed into him like a sweaty tidal wave.

  “Watch out for the boy!” he screamed as loudly as he could.

  But the mass of people were fueled by terror, and Vincenzo had to watch helplessly as dozens of feet pummeled the boy before cutting him off from view. Someone plowed into Vincenzo, knocking him off balance, and he almost fell. By the time he recovered, he had already been carried far away from where he had seen the boy. He was almost on the southern sidewalk of Fifty-Ninth Street, and the child had been closer to the park.

  Vincenzo again thought of drawing his pistol. So what’re you going to do, champ? Shoot your way through to the kid?

  Realizing there was nothing he could do, he turned back toward midtown and joined the rest of the mob as it broke up and fled, his ears full of screams, gunfire, and the pounding of his own heart.

  5

  “Mister Vincenzo, what the hell happened out there?” Geraldo asked when he opened the battered glass door. His dark eyes were full of concern and no small dose of fear.

  “Nothing good,” Vincenzo said. “I gotta sit down for a sec.”

  Geraldo locked the door and, putting a hand on Vincenzo’s shoulder, steered him over to the group of barrel chairs in the lobby. Vincenzo shrugged off his backpack and collapsed into one chair’s dry leather embrace. He reached into the pack and pulled out a bottle of warm water. After twisting off the lid, he drank deeply.

  “You all right?” Geraldo asked.

  Vincenzo shot him a thumbs-up as he continued drinking, not stopping until he had drained half the bottle. “Just peachy,” he gasped after he had pulled the bottle from his lips.

  “What happened? Did I hear gunshots?”

  Vincenzo nodded. “You did. Police were making some announcements in Central Park, and the next thing I knew, the entire crowd turned into a mob. They tried to take down the cops, and the cops did what they had to do, I guess.”

  Geraldo gaped at him. “Jesus, they actually shot people?”

  Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wasn’t up front. I was more towards the back.” As he spoke, several people ran past outside, casting shadows that flitted across the green granite floor.

  “What did the cops say?”

  “Basically, that we’re screwed. No power and won’t be for months. They were talking about setting up aid stations throughout the city, but man, I gotta wonder how they’re going to be able to keep those things running. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and the city’s already starting to tear itself apart.”

  Geraldo slumped into the chair beside him. “Oh, man.”

  Vincenzo nodded and drank some more water. “Oh, man,” he echoed.

  “Months? For real, no power for months?”

  Vincenzo wished that was all he had on his mind. He couldn’t get the image of the toddler’s broken, bloodied body out of his mind, lying there in the middle of Fifty-Ninth Street. Oh, God. That poor kid…

  “Mister Vincenzo?”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, months, they said. Maybe years, even. Seems like some of those talking heads on TV were right. The entire world is pretty severely fucked right about now.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sir.”

  Vincenzo thought about telling Geraldo about the boy but shoved the notion aside. There was nothing to be gained from that, and the last thing he wanted to do was put the doorman in a position of having to try and administer comfort. “I’m fine.” He looked around the darkened lobby, which was mysteriously cool. “Pretty nice in here.”

  “It’ll stay cool for a bit longer,” Geraldo said. “I tell you, sir, your place is probably becoming an oven right about now.”

  “Yeah, I don’t doubt it. I’d better get up there and crack open some windows.” There were a few windows that could be opened in the condo but not many. Vincenzo wondered if he would be able to get any kind of airflow through the unit at all.

  “Maybe you can get some of the other owners to open their doors,” Geraldo suggested. “Get some air flowing along the floor. It’s going to be tough for everyone, I wonder how the older residents are going to be able to handle it.”

  “I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know how I’m going to be able to handle it.” He looked at the slight doorman. “When are you leaving, Geraldo?”

  “Huh?”

  “When are you going home?”

  Geraldo stirred uncomfortably. “Well, I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard from the building super, and—”

  “There’s going to be a curfew at dusk. Citywide. You don’t leave soon, you might not be able to make it home before dark.”

  “Oh. Thanks for telling me, sir.” Geraldo looked around the lobby, obviously torn between his desire to get home and his instinct to stay at the Metropolitan until he was officially relieved. Outside, Manhattanites were already succumbing to self-centered, selfish acts. In the lobby of the Metropolitan Tower, though, a man from the Bronx was almost having a crisis of faith.

  “You have to get home, Geraldo. Come back if you can, but get home and take care of things. We’ll be all right here.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for that, Mister Vincenzo. I’ll be hanging out for a bit longer. Listen, you know the elevators are still out. Are you going to be able to make it all the way to your floor?”

  Vincenzo sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be able to make it.” But he knew he would hate every moment of it.

  The climb through darkness, and in mounting heat and humidity, left Vincenzo exhausted and out of breath. By the time he reached the landing on the seventy-second floor, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and his entire body ached. His thighs burned as if on fire, and he felt light-headed with the sound of his pulsing blood loudly in his ears. The climb had been much more grueling than his earlier descent, and if he’d known how tough it was going to be, he might never have left his condo.

  The entire seventy-second floor was essentially a giant sauna. Some residents had already propped open their doors, but the weak breeze flowing through the hallway did little to dispel the heat. Vincenzo entered his condo and immediately likened it to stepping into an oven. He’d failed to lower the shades before leaving that morning, and he would be surprised if it wasn’t at least ninety-five degrees in there. He propped the front door open with a chair from the dining room then went around raising the few small windows that could be opened. The airflow picked up a bit, but it would take some time for the condo to cool, if it did at all. He remained hopeful, even though he wondered if retreating to a black glass tower on a hot summer day was in any way wise. But after what he’d witnessed on the streets below, he had little choice.

  Vincenzo made his way to the master bedroom and found it was a bit cooler. That side of the angular building hadn’t been exposed to direct sunlight. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water from the bathtub, and placed it inside the shower stall. After stripping off his sweaty clothes, he stepped into the shower, bringing the Beretta with him. With the front door hanging open and the city going to hell in a hand basket, there was no way he was going to let the weapon out of his sight. He parked it on one of the ledges inside the stall, grabbed a washcloth, and gave himself a quick rubdown with the tepid water. He decided then that one of the things he would miss most over the coming days and weeks would likely be running water. He dumped the bucket’s remaining contents over his head. The warm water did little to cool him, but at least he felt a bit cleaner.

  Momentarily sweat free, he returned to the bedroom and opened his backpack. He stuffed some shirts, socks, and underwear inside then went to the walk-in closet. Fumbling about in the dark, he found a leather messenger bag and tossed it onto the unmade bed. Reaction, by Kenneth Cole. Just the kind of trendy bag that would come in handy in New York Ci
ty. Vincenzo hoped it would hold up over the coming months. He transferred some of his supplies into the bag—water packets, food, bandages, Tylenol, ammunition—all the things he might need to get to in a hurry while out on the road.

  The night was riven by violence.

  The condo had cooled as the day slowly died, and starting in the late afternoon, Vincenzo heard the echoes of gunshots reverberating throughout the city. He ate some of the food he had prepared the night before and chased it down with some still-cool bottles of Anchor Steam beer. Sitting in the living room, looking out over the southeastern edge of Central Park and the glass façade of the One57 tower across the street, he watched flames dance against the darkening sky. An entire block in Manhattan’s Upper East Side was burning. The power hadn’t been out for even twenty-four hours, and the upper reaches of the city were already being engulfed by a miasma of black smoke. He wondered if the flames had started in Harlem and moved downward, or if some dotty old blueblood had inadvertently set her posh townhouse on fire.

  He checked his watch. Self-winding, the Rolex Submariner’s automatic action would keep going for as long as its bearer kept moving. It was ten minutes past eight, and the sun hadn’t yet fully set. But a gloom had descended over West Fifty-Seventh Street, as if someone had held a mirror up to Vincenzo’s heart. Alone in the dwindling heat of his apartment, he couldn’t think about anything but his wife and son, separated from him by the entirety of the continental United States. He’d never thought they would be so far away. In the era of jet travel, Los Angeles was only a little under five hours distant. But without transportation, they were months of travel away, maybe years if he got caught in the winter.

  Back in California, he’d always thought the full-on survivalists and preppers were a little bit nuts at best, and dangerous radicals at worst. With disaster upon them, the survivalists were the ones who would rule the coming years. They were prepared, they were ready, and a lot of them had been eager for some massive, catastrophic event like the one that had befallen the world. A good many wouldn’t be nice after suffering through years of ridicule and ostracism. There was probably a lot of schadenfreude out there among the prepper communities at the moment, and Vincenzo couldn’t outright blame them. He wanted to be one of those fringe radicals he and his California friends had always derided and held at a contemptible arm’s length.