“Hi, there,” the man said. “I see that Glock in your hand. Let’s not get carried away.”
Vincenzo came to an abrupt halt. “I come in peace,” he said stupidly.
“Cool. That makes two of us.” The guy had a huge pack on his back and a wide utility belt with lots of pouches on it. But most interesting were the night vision goggles on his head. The man had obviously been prepared for a catastrophe.
“Ah, are you military?” Vincenzo asked.
“Prior service. You come out from New York?”
“Yeah.” Vincenzo pointed at the night vision goggles. “How do those still work?”
“Had them stored in an electrostatic bag inside an old microwave oven. Mind telling me the situation over in New York City??”
Vincenzo shrugged, keeping the Glock pointed downward. “It’s not too great. Things were unraveling pretty quick when I left yesterday. There are aid stations set up, but the city probably doesn’t have the resources to take care of everyone.”
“Know anything about the Upper East Side? Around Eighty-Seventh Street?”
“Sorry. I came from midtown. Central Park South. But there were a lot of fires burning there, and it didn’t look like a ton of people were working very hard to put them out.”
“Okay. What about the NYPD?”
“They’re not really getting involved,” Vincenzo said. “They tried the day after the lights went out, but the mobs were already forming. When I left yesterday, the police were a lot more passive than they probably should be.”
“Any sign of a military presence? National Guard, anything like that?”
Vincenzo shook his head. “No. Not that I saw. I came up the west side and crossed the GWB, but I didn’t see anything other than the cops. And like I said, they don’t seem to be very interested in the job anymore.”
“As anti-cop as Manhattan is, I can’t blame them. Can you?”
Vincenzo didn’t know how to answer that, so he just shrugged again.
The man lowered his rifle a bit. He turned his head, looking toward the bridge and the creek. He removed the goggles and switched them off. His eyes were dark and had a predatory aura to them. Vincenzo was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to meet the guy when he had his war face on. When he looked back at Vincenzo, he asked, “What’s the situation between here and the George?”
“Wasn’t as unstable as New York yesterday, but that was before ten thousand Manhattanites showed up. I really don’t know. Hey, you’re not heading into the city, are you? Because if you are, my advice is: don’t.”
“No choice. My brother and his family are there. I promised them that if things went bad, I’d come looking for them. Things went bad.”
They sure did. But Vincenzo couldn’t blame the guy, since he was on a similar mission. “Well, if you’re going in, you have to be careful. You have lots a gear, and everyone will probably want a piece of it. And your rifle is illegal there.”
“Yeah, well, it’s illegal here in Jersey, too.”
“Then you’re going to have a problem. Local cops are out in force, and they’re backed by state police. They see you with that thing, they’re probably not going to be very thrilled. And they’re all over the approaches to the bridge.”
“Thanks for the intel, but I’m not headed for the bridge. It’ll either be one of the tunnels or just overwater.”
“Yeah, okay. I guess with those goggles you’ll be able to see anyone before they see you, right?”
“You got it. Where you headed?”
“West.” Vincenzo didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hear someone else tell him he was crazy for trying to walk to Los Angeles.
“Stay out of Philly,” the man said. “I was outside there when the shit hit the fan. I had a vehicle stored near there, and I got as far as ten miles from here before it was taken from me by force. Philly’s a shithole, just like Manhattan, it sounds like. And there are already organized areas of resistance setting up, lots of guys with skills making grabs for everything they can get their hands on.”
“I’m not headed to Philly, but thanks for the information.”
“Teaneck seems to be okay, but I’ve been traveling at night for two days, so I miss most of what goes on in the daytime,” the man said. “Things are going sideways pretty quickly, as people begin to figure out they’re all royally fucked. Keep your eyes open, bro. It’s going to get worse.”
“Yeah. You too.”
The man nodded. “Best of luck. Thanks for the intel. And if you’re going to keep that weapon out in plain sight, make sure you keep it indexed. Last thing you want is to pop a hole in your own foot.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Vincenzo said. “Good luck to you, too.”
The man lowered his rifle, allowing it to hang from around his neck by its sling. He marched toward the brightening sky to the east without another word. Vincenzo watched him recede into the semi-darkness for a moment then swung westbound. He had his own trip to continue.
As the sun rose, more people began emerging from wherever they had spent the night. Vincenzo kept up a relatively brisk pace, trying to keep moving but not aggravate his already painful muscles. He avoided any conversation or looking directly at people. That was tough because some of the folks he saw, especially the families, were in bad shape. They turned their hollowed, gaunt faces toward him as he strode past, but he refused to meet their gazes. Doing that would allow them to trap him, force him to become invested in their issues, and he wasn’t having any of that. Some asked him for information, but he just shrugged and kept going on. One man called him an asshole and threatened to kick his ass, and Vincenzo wondered if putting away the Glock when the sun had risen was a good idea. Well, if someone wanted to make good on a threat, there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. All he knew was that he would start shooting.
He passed hotels and apartment buildings where the windows were wide open in a bid to ward off the building heat. The few times he glanced up, he saw sullen, taciturn faces looking down on him.
From one apartment building, a young woman leaned out a window and called, “Hey, walkin’ man! Why don’t you bring that little ass right up here, sugar?”
Vincenzo looked up and saw that she wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her breasts were huge and sagged downward, the nipples pointing at her feet. He snapped his head forward, ignoring her jeering laugh as he high-timed it out of there for a few hundred feet. He didn’t like that the woman had called out to him like that. Not only was the proposition more than a little gross, it attracted attention he hoped to avoid.
He’d checked his printed map a mile or so back while pausing for some water, and he knew that another river or stream lay ahead of him. Assuming he could get across the bridge, his route would have him deviate slightly to the south. He hoped he could make more than the ten or twelve miles he had managed yesterday. While he was tired and his muscles ached, he felt curiously stronger. Maybe it was because each step brought him fractionally closer to California. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t had to walk down seventy-plus flights of stairs just to get the journey started. Either way, Vincenzo thought he was in pretty good shape, considering he’d been shot at, involved in two fistfights, and had to shit in a hole he’d dug in the middle of a public park. He was hyperaware of his feet, however. He truly feared getting blisters, but his hiking boots were well broken in, like a couple of old friends. They wouldn’t let him down so long as he kept them properly laced and ensured his socks didn’t bunch up inside them. All he needed to do was keep one foot moving in front of the other.
As he pressed on down Degraw Avenue, moving away from the fetid metropolis of New York City, he approached the outskirts of a middle-class neighborhood. The houses were mostly neat and clean, with well-tended yards. He actually heard a lawn mower roaring away down one of the side streets.
Wow, that sounds like a waste of gas. He wondered how much fuel oil the nation had in its strategic reserves. But it didn’t matter. The little guys weren’t going to s
ee any of that. It would go to the government and the military, the essential pieces of America that had to keep operating so the nation could—presumably—be reborn and find its way out of the great mess that had befallen it.
Or more likely, it’s going to be used to ensure senators and congressmen can continue getting nice, warm showers. He chuckled. He definitely should have gone into politics instead of entertainment.
Moving through the neighborhood, he saw the community was up and humming. Kids played in front yards or rode bicycles. Men and women walked dogs. While the kids ignored him, the adults looked at him with vacant, flat gazes as if they were measuring him to get an idea of how much trouble he might bring. Ahead, a motorcycle rumbled down a cross street, ridden by a pot-bellied man in a khaki T-shirt and cargo shorts. The guy sat a bit awkwardly, as if it had been a while since he’d been on a bike.
“Hey, where you from?” asked a teenager sitting on one front porch. The red house had three windows facing the street, and each had an air-conditioning unit. The boy had short blond hair and an abundance of freckles across his nose and cheeks, so many that he was probably teased ruthlessly at school. His basketball shorts and sleeveless T-shirt exposed his skinny—and freckled—arms and legs.
“New York,” Vincenzo answered automatically.
“Yeah?” The boy got up and hurried across the front yard. He looked about thirteen. “How is it there, do you know?”
“Yeah, not so great.” Vincenzo kept walking, and he was surprised when the boy came out into the street to walk beside him.
“Do you know if Wall Street is okay?” the boy asked. There was something nervous and fidgety about him.
Vincenzo frowned. “Wall Street? What do you mean?”
“I mean, is the power still on there? My dad, he hasn’t come home yet.” The kid’s eyes were bright blue and full of worry.
Vincenzo slowed a little, even though he didn’t want to. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Your mom’s with you, right?”
“No. My mom lives in North Carolina with her new husband.”
Vincenzo stopped and stared at the boy. “Son, are you telling me you’re here alone? All by yourself?”
“Well…” The teen apparently remembered he shouldn’t answer that question, but his hesitation said it for him.
“Look, I can’t help you,” Vincenzo said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about Wall Street. But your dad’s going to be a while. He’ll have to walk, and his walk is farther than mine was.”
“He was going to get on the PATH train,” the boy said.
Vincenzo heard a metallic springing sound. He looked up the street and saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat trimming hedges with a big pair of shears. The man gazed at them with a neutral expression, the same one the rest of the adults in the community had been giving him.
“Well, look. He’s going to be a while but probably not much longer. Maybe the train lost power in the tunnel or something. Or maybe he’s walking up from, ah, Jersey City right now. It took me an entire day to get out of the city, and I was way north of Wall Street. Trust me, he’s on his way. It’s just going to take a while.” Unless he’s dead.
“Okay,” the boy said. “Thank you.”
“Son, do you have water? Food?”
“Yeah, I have some. I’m all right.”
“Is there someone who can look after you until your dad gets here?”
“I’m fine, mister. Really, I’ll be okay.” The teen turned to go
Vincenzo reached out and touched the kid’s arm. “Hey. Hold on.” He reached into his knapsack and, feeling like a total tool, pulled out a bottle of water and his last pumpkin spice muffin. He handed them to the boy. “Here, you take these. Just in case you want a snack later. Okay?”
The boy regarded the offerings with suspicious eyes. That was a good sign. The kid knew enough to be cautious, despite his eagerness for news.
Vincenzo smiled, even though he was sure that wasn’t as reassuring as he hoped. “Go on. The bottle’s unopened, and the muffin’s only two days old. It’s still good, and you never know when you might get another one.”
The boy reached out and took the stuff. “Thanks, mister.”
“You’re welcome, son. Now go inside, get out of the sun. It’s going to be a hot one.”
The boy nodded again. “Okay. Bye, I guess.” He started back to his house.
“See ya.” Vincenzo stayed where he was for a moment, making sure the boy made it back to his front yard. As he turned to resume his march, he caught the man trimming the hedges watching him.
The man nodded and gave Vincenzo a little smile. “That was decent of you.”
“What’s that?” Vincenzo asked.
“Stopping to talk. Giving Jimmy some water and food. His life hasn’t been all that great since his parents got divorced last year. He was always something of a momma’s boy, which if you knew his father, you’d find understandable.” The man clipped his hedges some more then looked back at Vincenzo. “Where you headed?”
“Los Angeles.”
The man nodded again. “Think you’ll make it?”
“I don’t know, but that’s where my wife and boy are.”
The guy grunted and pushed his hat back on his head, exposing his bald head. He looked to be in his sixties, probably a retiree. “Well, you’d better get going, then. Things are pretty safe around here, so just keep your head down and keep going. Can’t say much about what’s happening on up the road in Hackensack, but you might want to avoid it, if you can. I hear there was a shootout at the Costco on the other side of the river. Between who, I don’t know, but the police aren’t likely to be much help.”
“They’re probably pretty busy.” Vincenzo looked back at the red cape house. The boy was no longer sitting on the front porch.
“Don’t worry about Jimmy,” the man said. “We’ll look after him. I’ll bring him over to my place tonight. He can sleep in my son’s room. Three days ago, I was fixing to turn it into an office for my wife, but I don’t think she’s going to be working on her little graphic arts business any longer. We have other things to worry about right now.”
“I didn’t want to say anything to him, but if his dad hasn’t shown up yet, he’s not going to.”
The old man gave Vincenzo a frank, appraising stare. “I didn’t think so, myself. Are things that bad in the city?”
“In less than two days, they were already rioting in Central Park South. A lot of desperate people are heading this way, and most of them don’t have what they need to survive very long. You might want to pass that on to the rest of your neighbors. The New Yorkers are coming.”
The old guy gave a dry chuckle. “So you’re the new Paul Revere, and the New Yorkers are the new British?”
“They’ll be more like locusts, I think.”
“Well, you’d better be on your way. Best of luck to you.”
Vincenzo nodded. “Same to you. Try to look after the boy for as long as you can.”
“That’ll be done.”
Vincenzo turned and resumed his walk.
12
As Vincenzo approached the intersection of Degraw Avenue and Queen Anne Road, he smelled food cooking. His stomach rumbled in response, even though it was still quite early in the day. More people were stepping into the street, heading toward a white church on the right side of the road. Vincenzo slowed, wary of cutting through the procession, but the townspeople weren’t interested in him. He noticed the streets were cleared of traffic. All the disabled motor vehicles had been pushed to the curbs, save for a pair of big rigs too heavy to move. Their trailers had been opened, and one semi had been hauling a refrigerated trailer with the Stop & Shop logo on the side. Vincenzo had to smile at that. The neighborhood had been given a great gift.
He moved through the crowd, stepping around women pushing strollers and men holding the hands of small children or leading dogs on leashes. He saw more than a few men carrying rifles or pistols. Those stared at him openly
, as if evaluating the threat level he posed. Vincenzo smiled tightly and nodded, not meeting their gazes for long.
“Sir, would you like a hot breakfast?”
Vincenzo didn’t think the question was directed at him, so he kept walking. He heard footsteps hurry up behind him, and he turned toward the sound, his right hand straying toward the Berretta under his shirt.
“No trouble here, sir,” a young man said, raising his hands. “We’re having a breakfast over at the church. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could use a bite.” His red hair was neatly combed, and his face had that ruddy, just-shaved look to it.
Vincenzo was a little confused. Gosh, I didn’t realize people were so friendly in Jersey. “Uh, well… I’m not really from here.”
“All are welcome, and it’s all free, of course,” the man said, lowering his hands. “We’re just sharing some of God’s bounty with the neighborhood.”
“God’s bounty?”
The man pointed at the Stop & Shop truck. “We were fortunate, and we’re willing to share.” He stepped to one side and waved at the church across the street. A series of grills had been set up on the front lawn. “All the eggs, pancakes, toast, and bacon a man could want. Coffee, too.”
Well, that does sound pretty good. Vincenzo’s stomach grumbled again as he watched the neighborhood families queue up for some—maybe the last—of the good stuff. “Well, like I said, I’m not from here—”
“No pressure. It’s your choice,” the young man said. He turned his head toward a nearby woman. “Good morning, Francine!”
Vincenzo’s stomach won the war. “Uh, okay.”
“Great. I’m Will, by the way. I’m the church deacon.” The young man held out his hand.
Vincenzo shook it, mindful of the grime on his. Will’s hand was soft and smooth, not the hand of a man who did a lot of hard work. “I’m Tony.”
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