INVASION USA (Book 1) - The End of Modern Civilization

by T I WADE

  He got to the first door and tried it. This side of the building had no windows on the river side. It was where the kitchen might have been and the door was most probably the rear entrance at one time. It was steel, locked, and felt like a safe in a bank vault.

  “There was no going in this way,” he thought to himself, and ran for the corner of the building. There was about a 50-foot space between warehouses and the next warehouse showed signs of damage where parts of an aircraft had gone through the roof and upper wall. He could tell because part of a rear wing was sticking out of the wall next to a flight of blackened stairs. The building was wooden rather than brick, and part of the wall was black and half-disintegrated as well as the roof above it.

  “Its most probably the same wing that crashed into our warehouse door.” He ran across to look inside, and apart from a few smoldering fires, the warehouse was virtually empty, apart from several bodies lying here and there like rag dolls, and a group of offices that were on the far side where the whole side wall had disappeared and was still burning quietly.

  He ran back to his warehouse and to the front corner facing the street. The road was double-lane in both directions and empty apart from the three bodies lying there—killed hours earlier. There was no door on the side and he knelt, listening for noise, and looked in every direction before moving slowly forward. It was deathly quiet apart from the crackling of fires coming from all directions. A part of another building somewhere else fell down and there was a roar of movement as a wall or roof fell in then the crackling and cracking continued. He reached another door at the front of the building. This time it was a garage door, freshly installed compared to the sight inside the room. It was a heavy door, would open upwards and there were two massive steel locks holding it down. The top of the locks were as thick as his little figure, and the steel security around the locks was the same strength.

  “It would take a welding torch to get through those,” he thought and moved on to the next door. This was an entrance door to the offices. He had noticed a narrow parking area in front of the building and between the main road and the building itself. Again, the door was steel, had a sign reading “U.S. Customs” on it, and was as sturdy as the one on the wharf side. A combination box was on the door, the same as all these doors had on the inside, and the captain realized that electricity would be needed to open the doors—something they were lacking right now. He then ran to an iron fence around the large vehicle-entrance door on the front of the warehouse. The fence separated the entrance from both sides and had a locked sliding gate located directly on the road with a small security booth next to it. Here, the door was bigger—big enough to allow a tall delivery truck in. On this door was a sign that stated what would happen to anybody entering these premises illegally in big letters. A set of non-working traffic lights were in front of the gate and security booth, and the captain had to go around the fence and onto the road where the three dead bodies lay to get around.

  He noticed a pistol tucked in one the of the dead men’s belts and he ran up to the body, pulled out the pistol, checked both men for life, found a small clip of ammunition in one of the leather jacket pockets, and ran back around the fence to the other side. Again, the warehouse on the fourth side was totally secure, and he arrived back at the entrance to give the coded taps on the door and re-enter the building.

  “This place is as secure as a prison. We are in a U.S. Customs bonded warehouse,” he told the group waiting for him by the door. “There are three bodies outside the front door, so don’t think about taking a walk. There are fires and dead bodies in every direction and no electricity anywhere. We are as safe as can be for today. John here can show everyone the refrigerator where several people slept last night. There is food in there—cold, but better than nothing—and hopefully you all have a gourmet palette. I’m going to get into the room next door. There are a lot of old vehicles. I’m sure they are useless, but I want to check out the appliances. Some of you try and get a sort of food table organized for everyone, and I’ll work on the gas grills and see if we can grill up some warm food.”

  After he showed the group the way to the refrigerator unit, John helped the captain case the entire wall outside the vehicle room. There seemed to be no way in, until they came across a heat and air vent hanging underneath the office space. The air vent was an addition and a metal, round air tube going through the wall into the other room. It was just wide enough to allow a human body through, and they had to find a crowbar to break a medium-sized padlock keeping the exit vent closed. Once open, Captain Mallory was able to climb into the tube. He was helped by several men and first he gingerly tested it to see if it would hold his weight. It held, so taking his flashlight, he slowly inched his way towards a second vent 20 or so yards in front of him and directly over the other room.

  The vent door on the other side was also locked but with a padlock this time inside the vent to stop anybody from the other side getting inside the tube. It was rusty and old and the captain shouted down the tube for the crowbar to break it open. It was difficult since he had only a little room to work in, but after drawing blood on one of his fingers by cutting it on a sharp metal splinter on the inside of the tube and cursing a few colorful words, he managed to snap the lock. The steel vent was rusty and hadn’t been opened for a long time, but he used his weight and slowly the vent opened downwards letting him slide, butt first into the second room. He managed to unfold his body and hung from the vent before dropping the last couple of feet to the floor below.

  He stood up, wiped the dust off his trousers, and looked around. It was pretty dark, the only light coming from barred rectangular windows about 20 feet up and only a foot or so wide. They stretched around the three outer walls and gave him enough light to see the whole room. It was the size and height of a couple of basketball courts and there was an actual movable basketball pole and net in one corner. There were only five vehicles in total—it was large mirrored walls on the opposite side that had made it look like there were more vehicles in the room, and only one ambulance.

  “The ambulance must have been used for several things in its lifetime,” he thought to himself. The room now really looked like a film storage room for equipment. There were camera stands, a dozen movie cameras on a shelf along the wall, microphones, and grips. Chairs were neatly stacked in one corner and he looked towards the other wall by the old kitchen area where there was an obvious workshop where repairs were done. There was also a large six-foot chest freezer and stand-up refrigerator behind a partition, with two restaurant-style bathrooms in two enclosed areas to the rear.

  The gas grills had been used recently because there was a smell of food hovering around them, and he opened the refrigerator to find it stocked with full cans of still-cold beer and soft drinks, pounds of butter and a couple of gallons of milk. There was the odd chocolate bar, the same type of Swiss cheese he had taken out of the fridge on the other side of the warehouse, and what looked like someone’s uneaten sandwiches in a plastic container. In the little freezer were three bottles of Russian Vodka, still semi-iced—two were full but one had been nearly emptied.

  He looked toward the door into the main warehouse and gave the thumbs up to the three or so faces staring at him through the small jail-sized window. He decided to try the freezer next and was happy to see the still-frozen packets of hamburger and hot dog rolls, hamburger patties, hot dogs, sausages and several more cases of deli meats, frozen bottles of orange juice and more bottles of the same vodka. There were also three cases of Omaha steaks wrapped in bacon—enough for lunch for the whole crowd with 48 steaks to a case.

  Above the chest freezer was another shelf stocked with several large commercial cans of baked beans, corn, a few five-pound cans of skinned tomatoes, and smaller cans of other greens. There was also an open case of chocolate chip cookie packages.

  He returned to the gas grills, opened them both, opened the gas knobs on the small bottles underneath, and found a box of matches on a
shelf. The smell of gas hit his nostrils as he lit both of them. He switched them off and went over to the door to the warehouse. There were no locks on his side and no way to open it. It was thin steel and secure.

  The captain then searched the workshop area and found a welding-cutting torch and gas bottle and hauled it back to the door. The torch lit on the first try with a match and the captain played around with it until he got the bluest flame, then proceeded to try and cut a hole in the door by the lock. He was sure that it wasn’t on the best heat, but the door heated up and a small hole appeared after a few minutes. It took him about 30 minutes before finally, with the room full of smoke, the heated metal around the lock fell apart and the hot door opened in towards him.

  He felt good, a little worried about how he was going to explain and probably have to pay for all this damage, but happy enough to shake his co-pilot’s hand on the other side. He looked through the door and found many eyes watching his progress and several others standing by a set table with an odd assortment of food on the table.

  “What have you guys found to eat so far?” he was curious.

  “Cheese and caviar!” was the not so enthusiastic answer with ‘eews’ coming from a couple of the kids in the group.

  “No cheeseburgers, I’m afraid, but I found steak, hamburgers, and hot dogs for lunch.” Several cheers went up from the crowd. He then asked his flight attendants to help supervise the cooking. He didn’t want to pay for the whole warehouse, just the portion he had destroyed. He was hoping that the airline would foot the bill for the food.

  The crew got busy while he inspected the vehicles. They were in good condition and had obviously been recently wiped down and polished as there was only a very thin layer of dust on them. The two bigger vehicles were real-looking SWAT Team trucks with the letters SWAT on each side, as well as the NYPD insignia on the driver and passenger doors. In the rear of the trucks were seats along the walls for about two dozen adults at the most. A small, thin, barred window stretched along the top on both sides. In the cab was enough room for another two or three adults, and the cab roof had a sliding glass sunroof. A radio caught his eye and he switched it on. It was an old 1970s CB-style radio that the police must have used back in the early days and he realized that these were not models but real 40 year-old trucks that the NYPD had once used as SWAT trucks. The radio was silent as he played with the dial and a crackle was the only thing he heard. He sat there for at least 20 minutes and played with the radio.

  He couldn’t find any life out there in radio land, and gave up. The tank was half full of gas and he switched on the ignition and the engine turned over without starting. It worked! The second truck was exactly the same, maybe a few years older, a little more scratched and beat up inside, but everything including the starter motor worked.

  The police car was next. His father had driven the same Studebaker when he was a kid. The keys were in the ignition and the dash lit up as he turned the key. It also had a simple radio, older than the ones in the truck, and it turned on as he turned the dial. The gas tank was full.

  The old ambulance with a large red cross on each side was an old white Chevy, built in the 1960s, and was completely empty. In the back were a few folding chairs and a couple of click-boards used to start filming. The engine turned over, just like the others, and it had half a tank of gas. Last was the fire engine, also around the same era. It was a beautiful 1960 Howe fire truck in perfect condition with side pipes and everything. There were three rows of three seats, enough for nine adults, and again he switched on the ignition and everything lit up on the dash. The gas tank was nearly full, the water tank showed a 12,000 gallon maximum and the current level stood at just under a quarter. It had a slightly more modern radio than the old 1950s Studebaker.

  Captain Mallory did the math. If, or when, they had to move, he could cut the outside locks, open the doors, and if everybody squashed in together, and another dozen or so on the back of the fire engine, they could just about take everybody. Did everybody want to go somewhere? That was the next question he wanted answered.

  By the time he got back to the cooking, the second round of burgers were on the grill with many already eating their first real food in 24 hours. He was handed a burger and sat down on a nearby drum to wolf it down hungrily. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had the burger in his hands.

  As he was sitting there, it suddenly occurred to him that there were two 44-gallon red drums of fuel. He was sitting on one and John was sitting on the other. He dinged the side of the drum and it sounded half full. The co-pilot saw and copied, dinging the can he was on. It sounded full.

  “Thinking of getting out of Dodge?” John asked. He had watched his boss the whole time, knowing that anybody who could land an aircraft and save his life once, and then find him a burger this good, was certainly worth following into the gates of hell, if he asked him to.

  “After what I saw this morning—people being killed on the street outside, the whole area around us looking like a war zone—I think we might need to get out of Dodge at some point,” Captain Mallory replied.

  “Where would we go?” asked his co-pilot, munching on his burger.

  “Well, if the electricity comes back on, which I’m still thinking is a possibility, then we are all saved and I’m in big trouble for breaking into a government facility and stealing food. If it doesn’t come on, say by tonight, it’s going to get colder and colder in here. We have enough cheese for a couple of days, and these burgers and hot dogs will last us until breakfast tomorrow morning. If nothing has changed by breakfast, and we hear gunfire outside tonight, then I think it is time to leave for greener, and in my mind, less-snowy pastures tomorrow. I would set a course for due South.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” replied John. “I prefer Florida at this time of year anyway. Do you think a daylight escape from whatever is out there, is safer than under darkness—say tomorrow night?”

  “Well, we will be in official vehicles and I’m thinking any unsavory types might think the cavalry is coming and leave us alone long enough for us to get on I-95 south. All the vehicle radios work and we can fill up the tanks before we leave, since there is a hand pump in the workshop. We can take the rest of this fuel with us and make Washington or even down to Virginia before we have to stop. It’s hopefully much warmer down there, and I will be more than happy to explain myself to a police or Army check point. There must be something going on that is bigger than this city’s total destruction.”

  As he said that, they heard a large rumble followed by an earthshaking explosion in the direction of Manhattan, and several people rushed upstairs to the high windows on the second floor. Several came back down to report several minutes later that there was smoke and dust everywhere in the center of the city and it looked the same as on September 11th, 2001. Nobody said much for a while after that. Lunch was over, jugs of defrosting orange juice were passed around, and the captain asked the flight attendants to get all the people together. It was meeting time.

  “We seem to be several people short?” he noted, scanning the crowd in front of him. “Someone has already left?”

  “Some guy said he had had enough of you breaking up the place,” said a teenage boy. “He said he was going to get help and find the police. He was pretty pissed off and had a big mouth. He ate three of the burgers and then he rounded up a bunch of people, mostly men, and said that they were going out to search for help. They left about three minutes ago. The door is still open where they reversed the forklift.” The co-pilot immediately got up to close the heavy door and asked the chief flight attendant to count the remaining people.

  “Ninety-seven passengers and five crew,” Pam Wallace, a pretty blonde told them several minutes later. The co-pilot returned, reported that he had looked around outside and saw the missing group of passengers walking towards Manhattan where the dust and dirt was everywhere in the air. There were at least 40 of them.

  Suddenly, they heard gunfire coming fr
om the outside the building. It was several shots, and from different guns—a couple sounded like shotguns and at least two from a high-powered rifle. It was enough to silence the group.

  “It’s dangerous out there,” said the captain. “I saw a man shot by police officers last night, execution style, and that made me worried. New York cops just don’t do that. Most of the other guys I saw out of the windows are not the type of guest you want your daughter to bring home for dinner. By the sound of that explosion just now, I reckon that was a decent-sized building going down. Most probably an aircraft and then the resulting fire were the cause of its demise. My co-pilot and I saw at least a dozen aircraft crash last night while I was getting our aircraft down in the river. We were very lucky with our landing and I don’t know about you guys, but I feel that I’m already on borrowed time.”

  Heads nodded in agreement as the remaining crowd listened intently. “My gut feeling is that the things we have seen and heard are not just limited to this city, but are more widespread. We all have family somewhere—maybe here in New York, maybe in other places—but they are not going to find us here. I think we need to go and find help ourselves, or we could very possibly freeze to death once the food is gone. With the vehicles we found today, we can drive to the I-95 corridor and make our way south to hopefully find help. Once we leave here, we are not coming back. I would prefer to be out of a city with no electricity than in one—in greener pastures, if you know what I mean. Maybe there is help just outside the city. Maybe we are in a war zone, but we won’t know until we move. I would like to leave tomorrow morning directly after breakfast, if the electricity doesn’t come on by then. Each of you will need to make a decision—either to stay here and wait for help, or get in one of these vehicles and leave with the rest of us tomorrow morning. Each of you must make a decision that you can live with. Of course, we will take the extra gas and as much food as we can carry, and I‘m going to inspect every one of these crates in the warehouse to see what’s in them before we leave. Any comments, now is the time?”