The Filter Trap

by Lorentz, A. L.

  Banking north, the Osprey flew over the Empire State Building, still a symbol of endurance as the world under it changed dramatically again. Survivors huddling inside waved makeshift flags made of clothing as the aircraft approached and flew along the wide path of Park Avenue.

  Grand Central Station’s glass windows were gone, but the steel and stone largely remained. Hercules and Minerva were demoted to collectors of trash and debris caught on their battered, giant bodies. Mercury left his post above the clock to revisit his earlier occupation. Abandoning his duty to protect the lesser gods of Wall Street, Mercury returned to the Earth to ferry the unfortunate souls of the city to the underworld.

  Though he’d left, his protection allowed buildings like the adjacent MetLife Tower to withstand the waves. The Osprey slowed and maneuvered to land on the broad eight-hundred-foot-high tower landing pad, one of few in the city large enough to accommodate it. On the periphery of the rooftop, a man and woman in tattered suits waved to the chopper.

  “Senator evacs spotted,” a pilot said over the com. “Let’s make this quick and tight.”

  The Marines started to unbuckle and prepare to help the senators on the rooftop board the chopper when it landed. They gripped bars by the door to the main bay, prepared to leap into action as soon as it opened. The other passengers teetered slightly and eagerly anticipated loosening their own straps.

  A hard bump meant they’d landed, though sirens didn’t normally accompany it. The thumps continued as the Marines shouted at each other-something was wrong. They pulled the door closed and Minor shouted, “Brace yourselves!”

  “Get back!” the pilot shouted over an exterior loudspeaker to the senators on the roof.

  Over a wail of sirens and shouting, the rotors and engines struggled as the aircraft lurched to one side. The Osprey skittered off the side of the helipad and attempted to right itself, pulling back up. The pilots had never trained to fly the notoriously difficult craft in the confines of a Manhattan city block. A moment later the passengers heard and felt one of the rotors clash with the side of One Grand Central.

  The Osprey, dependent on the power of only one engine, spun and tipped forward before hitting something hard below. Bereft of any upward thrust, the aircraft rolled and crashed, landing at a strange angle that left half the passengers hanging forward from their harnesses as sirens blared and lights flashed.

  To their surprise, after going down in the middle of Manhattan, the aircraft rested in the clutches of a row of tall trees. The leaf-bare columns and top-fingers of Bryant Park’s London Planes, protected from the waves on the eastern side by the taller New York Public Library, fused into a giant bramble, perfectly suited to grab and nestle broken fuselage.

  “Headcount!” Minor yelled while trying to help Natalie escape from her harness. Silversun scuttled to the bottom of the tipped aircraft to grab emergency supplies, then visited the cockpit. “They’re both gone.”

  “Radios?”

  “Also gone!”

  “Shit! Starting to think you two are bad luck,” Minor complained as he finished unharnessing Natalie. He motioned to Susan by Kam’s other shoulder. “She alright?”

  Susan didn’t respond. Her head hung, hair in knots and mouth agape beneath it. Kam lifted her head to see blood trickling down the opposite side onto her arm. Feeling around the back of her head and seeing more blood on the hull behind it he knew she was probably dead. He felt for a pulse and never found it.

  Realizing how close he’d come to losing Natalie, he shivered.

  “Yeah, bad luck alright, she’s gone,” Minor said, while helping Natalie up to Silversun, preparing to hoist her out.

  “You’re next,” Minor told Kam, who squirmed until he realized Minor meant next out the door.

  Kam dropped inch by inch on the makeshift rappelling line to the water beneath the smoking Osprey. Silversun and Natalie waited thirty yards away, in the calm water at the center of the park, barely visible through a fog of burning fuel.

  “What happened?” Natalie asked when they reunited.

  The water rippled and any remaining leaves on the London Planes shook. Natalie reflexively grabbed the small handles of the inflatable raft.

  “Easy!” Silversun grabbed Natalie from behind before she capsized them.

  “That happened,” Minor said, paddling another raft over with Kam.

  “Earthquake,” Kam said while tossing out his earplugs. “A missing Moon does more than affect the tides.”

  “We were coming down fine,” Silversun started, “but then the whole building shifted a foot to the left, right underneath us. I saw it out the window. The wheel slipped off and unbalanced the rotors, and we never recovered.”

  “Lucky to bang up and fall over into Bryant Park, though,” Natalie said.

  “Susan wasn’t so lucky,” Kam said.

  “Nor were the senators or the pilots,” Minor said.

  “We mowed them down like grass before we went over the side,” Silversun said.

  Natalie tried to keep tears down. “When will this end, Kam?”

  “Earthquakes and aftershocks could last for days.”

  “No, this thing. The ‘Event.’”

  “Gotta find out what it is first, ma’am,” Silversun said.

  “And according to the general, that means getting your boyfriend upstate.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “How are we going to get there now?” Kam cut her off. “We’re in New York City with no radio after a tsunami.”

  “Hey!” Silversun stopped him. “We’ve still got a radio.”

  “Then why haven’t you called anyone on it yet?”

  “Because we’re not there yet,” she said, pointing at the spire atop the landmark art deco skyscraper only a few blocks south.

  Chapter 8

  Moving six blocks in the flooded streets of Manhattan proved difficult. Once they paddled out of Bryant Park, the abandoned buildings always seemed to block their view of the Empire State Building. They had to take a long way around to avoid a possible fuel line explosion from the hanging Osprey. It never exploded, eventually tugging the trees down enough to drop softly into the water, making a wave that nearly dumped the survivors from their rafts again.

  At times they abandoned ship anyway, since the water often dipped low enough to allow the street to ground it. The Marines did hasty sweeps of every shop they could climb into on the Avenue of the Americas, eventually finding oversize waterproof boots stashed in an upstairs attic of a fashion outlet. However, they were still quick to move to higher ground to avoid frostbite in the icy water. More than once a fresh wave rushed up the alleys and down the streets when buildings further into the city finally collapsed. The group of four moved through the near-freezing winter water with shivers and frequent stops, alerted to every strange sound that echoed through the tall corridors of Midtown.

  Occasionally the group stopped when survivors shouted from rooftops, but then kept going because there was nothing to be done for them. Often the lower entrances of buildings, situated at street level or below, were impossibly blocked to any entry without a backhoe. More than once, this knowledge did little to comfort the survivors the Marines had to leave behind. A few times the group of four was pelted with debris from higher up, accompanied by desperate pleas for help that went ignored.

  The early December Sunset caught up to the Marines, who hadn’t counted on the extra time spent walking in knee-high water over debris. Only a week removed from the solstice and Manhattanhenge, the dour yellow ball lit the water in a brief broiling flame that merged sky and street.

  “The Sun is going down,” Natalie said, covering her eyes.

  “We’re almost to the Empire State Building,” Kam assured her. “One more block.”

  “I know, we’re at Herald Square. The clock monument still stands. Macy’s is just over there. It’s multi-level, maybe we should camp out there.”

  Minor squinted. “Someone else got there first. There’s fire
s not lit by the Sun in the upper windows. Too many points of entry, too many risk factors, and too few Marines to secure your safety in there.”

  When they rounded the corner they saw the Empire’s entrance doors were jammed shut by an overturned car. The elegant stained glass that normally charmed the high-ceilinged lobby remained intact, and their only way in. The Marines climbed over the car and began bashing against one of the large vertical sections of the stained glass lattice.

  After smashing out most of the glass, the Marines helped Kam and Natalie through. Inside, the supremely elegant old lobby remained virtually untouched by the tsunami, aside from several feet of standing water trapped by the watertight doors.

  “Good thing it’s flooded,” Silversun insisted. “You don’t have to rappel down from here.”

  The four quickly dropped into the water to discover it was colder than outside.

  “Get to the escalator at the back, quick!” Minor warned, dragging the two civilians as best he could.

  At the escalators the group ran up to the next floor, where Silversun started a fire in a trash can after disabling smoke alarms.

  “You’ve got to strip,” Kam told Natalie.

  Through chattering teeth she replied, “I hoped this moment would be a tad more romantic.”

  “We all gotta get these ice-cold clothes off before we get hypothermia,” Minor said.

  Kam raised an eyebrow. “Besides, the light from the fire, reflecting off all the granite in here . . .”

  “Oh shut up,” Natalie said, turning from the three men to undress.

  “Hold on!” Kam said, running forward through the empty tourist visit line to the ticket office.

  He returned with coats and hats, but no pants. “Lost and found.”

  They gave the bulk of the clothing to Natalie before attempting to warm themselves and their clothing by the trash can fire, occasionally grabbing paper from the ticket office for fuel.

  “We should have stopped by Macy's anyway,” Natalie shivered.

  “Too late now,” Minor grumbled.

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “We saw survivors at the top. We head up when ready.”

  “I’m ready to get rescued now, what are you waiting for?”

  Silversun moved her face into the firelight. “Just like the folks shouting from the rooftops, they’ll want help, or worse. We aren’t here for them, so we have to make our approach when they’re still asleep. We’ve got plenty of food in the vending machines down here, trash to fuel this fire. I’ll have to bust some windows to diffuse the smoke, but now that it’s dark outside few will see it. You and the doc can sleep till early morning. Corporal Minor and I will guard in shifts and head up before first light.”

  “Do you know when that is?” Kam asked. “We’re not in the same orbit anymore, the days are shorter, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “We’ve noticed,” Minor said. “We’re giving you six hours, then we go up.”

  “Won’t it take us hours to walk up the stairs?” Natalie asked.

  “Only if we have to. This building has sizable backup generators for the elevators in case of emergencies. I think this qualifies. I don’t want to test it now and alert anyone up top we’re down here, but if everything goes to plan we just take the elevator to the top and head straight to the radio room.”

  “Then what?”

  The other three turned to her in surprise.

  “Then our resident radio expert calls for help!” Silversun reminded her.

  “Glad to know I’m needed,” Natalie stated and turned over in her blanket, closing her eyes.

  “I should sleep next to her . . . for warmth.” Kam said, grabbing a blanket of his own and sidling up to Natalie. On the other side, facing away from the flames, Natalie smiled.

  “Sure,” Silversun chuckled. “I’ll take the first watch so Corporal Minor can sleep next to you, Kam, . . . for warmth.”

  Natalie couldn’t help but chortle as Minor grumbled and turned the other way.

  Chapter 9

  “Good news. Elevators have power,” Silversun said as she woke up Natalie and Kam.

  “What’s the bad news?” Natalie asked.

  Silversun waggled a map from the ticket office. “The broadcasting room is on the 86th floor.”

  “Right where everybody else is,” Kam added.

  The Marines were already dressed back in their camo, so Kam and Natalie happily redressed under blankets in their warmed clothes. The four walked past the long empty lines, through the darkened rooms with displays about the building's long history, and into one of the small elevators to the 86th floor.

  Their hearts raced when Minor pressed the button in the dark elevator, as it jolted them and began the quick ascent. Kam and Natalie felt like cheering, hopefully only minutes away from calling for help and a swift rescue. The Marines looked nervous.

  “How long will it take the Kearsarge to send another chopper?” Kam asked.

  Minor gave him a strange look. “Kearsarge is in Florida by now. Our only hope is to convince the folks in the Catskills to swing down this way.”

  The doors opened with a customary ding that normally excited tourists eager to get a bird’s-eye view of America’s densest metropolis. The group that stepped out this morning was in no hurry to see the city’s corpse from the observation deck.

  “Stay close to the interior column,” Silversun advised. “The radio booth is this way.”

  They tiptoed to the booth quickly. Natalie got to work while the Marines guarded the door. The floor stayed silent.

  “The survivors we saw up here before must be sleeping on the eastern side for warmth,” Kam deduced.

  “Dammit!” Natalie banged her fists on the console, unsettling decades of dust on the gray and black aged equipment. “These are just props!”

  “What!” the other three asked.

  “This isn’t a real broadcasting booth, nothing’s happened in here for a long time, maybe never.”

  “Shit, she’s right,” Silversun said, picking up a fallen placard by the window, shaken out by the earthquake the day before.

  “The equipment you see in this booth resembles the type used in the 1930s by NBC to broadcast live television and radio from the 86th floor. Today the building is still an important landmark for broadcasting, serving several television and radio stations, although no live entertainment is performed in the tower.”

  “Shit,” Minor moaned from the doorway. “We’ve got company.”

  A man banged on the booth window and shouted a joyous “Hello!”

  The Marines brandished their rifles. “Back up!”

  He complied, looking confused.

  “C’mon, we gotta get out of here before he wakes up his friends,” Minor said, ushering the other three out.

  “Aren’t you here to rescue us?” the man asked.

  The Marines didn’t say anything, but kept their rifles trained as they backed away around the central corridor.

  “Hey!” the man screamed.

  The Marines leveled their rifles. “Shut up!”

  He put his hands up.

  “Wait.” Natalie stopped and put her hand over the tip of Minor’s rifle. She approached the man. “Do you know where the broadcasting control room is?”

  “What are you doing?” Silversun whispered.

  “He’s wearing overalls. He works here. They don’t broadcast from the booth, but the antennas still work just fine. If the controllers use anything like my company’s software I can hijack the signal from the control room.”

  “Where is the control room?” Silversun repeated Natalie’s question.

  “C-control room?” the man stammered.

  “A bunch of computer stacks, servers, and metal cylinders. Probably up there somewhere.” Natalie pointed through the ceiling at the antennas over the observation deck.

  “Y-yeah. Okay. I got you. We went up there looking for a radio to call for help but nobody knew how to work any of it. I
can take you there.”

  “Quietly,” Minor whispered.

  “S-sure.”

  Another elevator and a flight of winding small stairs brought the group to the broadcasting equipment hidden in the building’s thick top spire. Despite the temperature outside, the room kept warm with generators buzzing and equipment humming. The compact space looked more like the innards of a vertically oriented submarine than a broadcast booth.

  “This must be one of the island’s main emergency broadcast centers, no wonder the generators are still on,” Natalie said, rushing past duplexers and filters. She looked for something, running her fingers along the shelves of gray controller racks.

  Finally she found a console, a dusty CRT plugged into several old workstations and a monitor switch. She cracked the old switch knob. “Here we go, a modulator. Corporal, what’s your search and rescue FM frequency?”

  “Uh,” Minor struggled to recall.

  “40.5, ma’am,” Silversun answered. “Chopper rescue in Baghdad. Senior officers called it getting a 40. I thought they were talking about alcohol until we had to adjust a crank radio at 4am to rescue a couple flyboys who got too close to the rooftops.”

  “The TV band gets close to that, might work.”

  “Calling for h-help?” the frazzled man asked, still kept at gunpoint.

  “Your friends wave at us when we flew by yesterday in the Osprey?” Minor asked rhetorically.

  “Yes! We waved to you!” His excitement turned sour when he realized the Marines had been on the chopper that landed somewhere else, then tumbled to Bryant Park in flames.

  Sensing his concern, Minor assured, “We will let them know you’re here.”

  “Sure,” the man said, sinking to the floor.

  “Guys!” Natalie called their attention. “We’ve got another problem. I can send a message to the FM rescue frequency, but I have no way to record it. We’ve got a radio tower but no microphones.”