by Tim Washburn
“This can’t last forever,” he says softly, wishing he could wrap her in his arms.
“My husband and I are going through an ugly divorce, or were, before everything happened. I thought the trip would be good for her. I took her out of school for two weeks so that she could travel with my father . . .” Her sentence trails off with another sob.
“Where do you live?”
“Southlake, just west of Grapevine. What about your sister and her family?”
“They live in the University Park area.”
She smiles as she wipes away the last of the tears. “I love that area with all the older, graceful homes.”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty area, but there’s just too damn many people for me.”
“Not a people person?” She pulls on a curl of red hair and wraps it around her index finger.
“Depends on the people.” Zeke repositions his body to relieve the pressure on his backside. “You must be pretty handy with that rifle you were pointing at me earlier.”
She blushes. “Just taking precautions. I grew up hunting with my father, so, yeah, I’m pretty good with it. Of course the deer around here are fed by most of the neighbors, so it wasn’t like I had to go stalking after it. I felt bad shooting it, but the pantry is completely empty. I have most of the meat drying over the fire now. At least I’ll have deer jerky for a while.” The tears have stopped but an underlying sadness remains.
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Zeke says, “but are you here by yourself?”
She hesitates before answering, and he thinks he might have overstepped. “Yes.”
“Do you need anything or need me to do anything before I leave in the morning? I can chop firewood or maybe hunt for more game before taking off.”
“Thank you for offering.” The relief is evident in her eyes. “But I think I’m okay for now.”
She stands and picks up the plate. “Thanks for talking with me. I didn’t know whether my voice still worked, it’s been so long since I’ve talked to another human. Make yourself at home.” She walks toward the door and flicks on the flashlight.
“Thank you. But you never told me your name.”
She turns to face Zeke. “I didn’t? It’s Summer. Summer Peterson. I was born on June twenty-first, the first day of summer.”
“Summer, I’m Zeke. Zeke Marshall. A pleasure to meet you.”
“See you in the morning, Zeke.” She steps through the doorway and pulls the door closed behind her. She’s gone, but the memory of her lingers most of the night as he tosses and turns, searching for a comfortable position on the hard dirt floor.
CHAPTER 57
The home of Dr. Samuel Blake, Boulder, Colorado
Sam and Kaylee spent most of the day by the roaring fire in the living room of his modest home. The sleet turned to snow, and about eight inches is piled in the yard, deeper against the French doors to the back deck. A fairly large puddle of water rests on the tile beneath the clothes drying on the hearth. Sam has changed into a pair of old jeans and a sweater and offered clothing to Kaylee. She refused and remains naked and comfortable under the blanket.
“I have some canned soup that we can heat up on the fire,” Sam says.
“That sounds yummy.”
Sam stands and makes his way into the kitchen. Night is almost upon them, so he digs through the drawers in search of candles. The fire provides enough light for the living room, but the kitchen is in near darkness. He paws through one drawer after another and finally stumbles upon his cache of candles in the bottom drawer. He lights one and grabs a plate, letting the melting wax coat the bottom so that the candle will stand upright. He does this two more times until the kitchen is awash in a flickering yellow light.
He carries one of the candles into the pantry. “I have tomato, chicken noodle, and some French onion,” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Chicken noodle,” Kaylee says. Sam would prefer the tomato, but goes with the chicken noodle. He opens the cans with a hand-operated opener and dumps two cans of soup into a heavy pan. Without thinking, he opens the refrigerator door in search of heavy cream and is bowled over by the smell of rotten food. He quickly slams the door shut before the odor can permeate the whole downstairs area. “Damn,” he mutters, trying to restrain his gagging.
“What’s that smell?” Kaylee asks, wrinkling her nose. She’s made her way to the kitchen, the blanket draped over her shoulders. A small gap in the front reveals some sort of Asian letters tattooed lengthwise along her side. Sam looks away, embarrassed. But just as quickly turns for another glance.
“The fridge.” He hands her the pan of soup. “Put this close to the fire while I clean it out, please.” When she reaches for the pan more of her front is revealed. One breast is exposed and a small silver hoop dangles from the nipple, winking in the candlelight.
She follows Sam’s gaze but makes no attempt to pull the blanket together. She offers Sam a wink and carries the pan over to the fire.
Sam grabs a large black garbage bag and begins cleaning out the refrigerator while trying to hold his breath. He opens the freezer door and gags. Blood from the steak fillets he had purchased on his last trip to the grocery store has congealed with the Chunky Monkey ice cream. On the verge of vomiting, he slams the freezer door and carries the garbage bag outside. He decides the rest of the mess can wait till later.
“Sam?” Kaylee says when he reenters the kitchen.
“Yes?”
“I need to go to the bathroom. What should I do?”
“There should be enough water in the tank to flush at least once, so go ahead. But don’t flush it yet. We’ll use it as long as we can stand it. In the meantime, I’ll fill up a bucket with snow to let it melt. We’ll use that to refill the tank.”
“Okay.” She wanders down the hall with the blanket trailing behind her like a bridal train.
He watches her go, a sudden surge of desire flooding his brain and parts lower. He suppresses the urge and gives the soup a quick stir. Though he’s still slightly nauseated from the disgusting mess in the fridge, the aroma of the soup rekindles his appetite. He and Kaylee had been eating ramen noodles and PowerBars for the last week while at the Space Weather Prediction Center. He returns to the kitchen and pulls out two bowls and spoons and gathers the last bit of crackers from the pantry. He experiences a slight twinge of worry at the lack of remaining food stores.
Kaylee returns from the bathroom, the blanket bunched over her shoulders. Sam gets an eyeful of her body stem to stern and tries to avert his gaze.
“Sam, don’t be such a prude.”
His cheeks flush.
She steps forward and grabs his hand. “We’re both consenting adults put in an extreme situation. Now take off your clothes and join me under the blanket. A little pre-meal workout.”
“But I’m old enough to be your father,” Sam says.
“Who cares, Sam? You’re only fifty-one, and I’m an old soul. Jeez, it’s not like you’re on the way to the nursing home. I mean, really? It’s just us, and I know you want me—hell you’ve been screwing me in your mind for the past week. And don’t think I haven’t been doing the same. Human nature, Sam.” She sweeps the blanket from her shoulders, exposing her white, but toned, body. She pulls him toward the sofa.
Sam pulls off his clothes and he joins her under the blanket. Their lovemaking is primal, each with a need, and Sam enters her with little foreplay. Kaylee responds, pushing her tongue deeper into his mouth as Sam slowly rocks back and forth.
“Faster, Sam,” Kaylee whispers urgently into his ear. Her legs are locked behind him, pulling him deeper into her body. Sam quickens his pace, pounding into her in a desperate need for release as Kaylee moans and grinds against him. She leans forward and takes his nipple in her mouth, clamping her teeth down before switching to the other. Sam shudders, and Kaylee bites harder on his nipple until he is spent.
“You didn’t go,” Sam says, pulling out and lying beside her.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says.
“For what?”
“For not finishing,” he says while stroking the back of his hand across her midsection. “It’s been a while for me.”
“It’s all good now. That’s all that matters.” Kaylee releases a contented sigh and leans in and brushes her lips across his. “Besides, there’s always next time.”
Sam smiles.
“What does this say?” Sam asks, lightly brushing his fingers across the tattoo along her side.
“ ‘Live like there is no tomorrow.’ It’s in Japanese. I guess that’s appropriate now, don’t you think?”
“I hope there’s a tomorrow,” Sam says. “I want more of this.” He rubs his fingers across her mons pubis, eliciting another shudder from her body.
“I’m starving,” Kaylee says. She sheds the blanket and takes the pan of soup from the coals, comfortable in her nakedness. Sam shrugs off the blanket and his shyness and follows her into the kitchen. Kaylee ladles equal portions into the bowls and they both sit nude at the breakfast bar. As they eat, the roaring fire adds to the warmth of their overheated bodies.
“What are we going to do, Sam?”
“Stay here as long as we can, I guess. Do you have any better ideas?”
“No, I don’t. I just wish there was some way to reach my parents. I’m worried about them. I called to warn them, but I know they probably didn’t have enough time to get out of the city.”
“Are they pretty resourceful? I mean, can they make their way out of the city now?”
Kaylee ponders the question for a minute. “I don’t know. Dad has always been handy around the house, but how that transfers to resourcefulness, I don’t know. But I hope like hell it does.”
CHAPTER 58
West 77th Street and Amsterdam Avenue
New York City
Greg and Lara Connor have covered eight blocks in their trek up Amsterdam Avenue. Both are surprised at the number of people out and about. Backpacks are slung over shoulders and a good number of children are lumbering along behind their parents. Greg steers Lara toward a small grove of trees next to a playground for a brief rest. It’s dark as hell with only the moon for illumination.
A squeaking noise from the unused swings swaying in the cool breeze screeches in the night. The basketball court on the other side of the playground is empty. On any other usual night basketball players would be waiting for their opportunity to enter the game. Greg and Lara share a bottle of water while surveying the area. They’re both dealing with lingering fear from their last outing. But the presence of other people offers some comfort.
They wait for a family of four to walk past. “Let’s go,” Greg whispers. “Stay as close to the building as you can.”
They move away from the sparse cover of the nearly leafless trees and hug the side of the buildings as they continue north on Amsterdam. The once-crowded restaurants along the sidewalk are deserted, most of the glass façades shattered by looters. Pieces of tempered glass crunch under their feet as they continue along.
They pass 96th and then 108th without incident. Now in Morningside Heights, an upscale community bordering Columbia University, they relax a little and slow their progress. More people are out, many of them college students in search of entertainment. Knots of people are scattered around the campus and the faint sounds of someone strumming an acoustic guitar drift along the chilly breeze.
Still over fifty blocks from their destination, Greg and Lara slow their pace further to better blend in with the crowds. Laughter pierces the night, something the Connors haven’t heard since the whole mess started. The resiliency of these young people offers a small boost to their spirits. Greg approaches one of the students.
“Has anyone tried crossing the bridge?” he says to a young man stumbling along the sidewalk. A fifth of whiskey dangles from his hand.
“You don’t want to go to the bridge, man,” he says in a slurred voice. The young man is now standing directly in front of Greg, and his breath is ninety proof.
“Why?”
“Because they’re guarding it on the Jersey side. Apparently, they don’t want to be overrun by a bunch of New Yorkers.”
“So no way across?” a dejected Greg says.
“No, dude. Why do you want to go to Jersey anyway? This is the greatest city on earth.” He laughs and takes another slug of whiskey. He holds the bottle out. “Hey, man, want a hit?”
“I’ll pass. But thanks for the info.”
“No prob, friend. Y’all stay safe.” The young man continues his stumbling lurch down the sidewalk.
“What are we going to do, Greg?” Lara says, throwing her hands up in frustration.
“We’re going to keep going.”
“Why? You heard the guy. They won’t let us cross.”
Greg turns to face his wife and whispers, “Because we have no other choice, Lara. We have to keep going. Maybe we can find a way to get across.”
“So, we’re going to just saunter across the bridge and say ‘pretty please’ to a bunch of armed men?”
“Goddammit, I don’t know, Lara.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you have any better suggestions?”
She lowers her head in silence.
“Look, Lara”—he cradles her chin in his hand and lifts her head up until their eyes lock—“if we can’t cross, we’ll just keep going north into upstate New York. At least we’ll be out of this crazy city. Maybe we can find a little cabin at one of the state parks.”
“And what are we going to eat, Greg?”
He shrugs. “I don’t have all the answers, Lara. Hell, I don’t even know all the questions. But I can promise there’ll be much less competition for food, water, and other necessities away from this city. Let’s make it to the bridge tonight, and we’ll see for ourselves. Maybe we can find some way across.”
CHAPTER 59
Near West 120th Street and Amsterdam Avenue
New York City
Greg leads them away from Columbia University and they turn west on 120th Street, trying to avoid walking through the main part of Harlem at night. Harlem is not any less safe than the rest of Manhattan, at least during the day, but two people shuffling along the streets in the dark might be too tempting a target for any neighborhood. At Riverside, they discover streams of people heading north. They turn right and duck into an alcove fronting an ornate old church. They watch as the people pass—a mixture of young and old, some with children and some without. A good number of people are pedaling bicycles, swerving around those afoot.
Lara leans over and whispers in Greg’s ear, “Are they all going to the George Washington Bridge?”
Her hot breath sends a shiver along his spine. “I guess so,” Greg whispers back. “I don’t see how those on the Jersey side can hold back a mass exodus.”
“Guns and bullets, that’s how. They only have to defend an area about a hundred feet across to choke off both levels of the bridge.”
“But still, that’s a lot of people. They can’t shoot them all.”
“No, they can’t. But do you want a front-row spot in the charge across?”
“Hell no.”
“Exactly. Should we fall in with them?”
Greg nods and leads Lara away from the church. Within a couple of blocks they pass the entrance to Grant’s Tomb as they continue their trek northward. In typical New York City fashion, the conversation between marchers is limited, most trudging onward with their eyes forward, their faces displaying grim determination.
As the Connors break into the clear where Riverside transitions to an elevated roadway, they look down on another stream of people clogging the Henry Hudson Parkway. Moonlight shimmers on the Hudson and the distant Jersey shore is eerily dark. Greg leads them over to the concrete balustrade, where they pause to rest.
Lara points toward the river. “Look, Greg, there are people in the wa
ter. Maybe we could swim across the Hudson.”
“When’s the last time either of us went swimming? It’s nearly a mile across and the currents are treacherous. A few of them might make it to the other side, but you and I don’t stand a chance.”
Lara sighs and sags against the barrier. In the distance the two towers of the suspension bridge are silhouetted against the darker sky. On any normal night, the old lady would be lit up like a Christmas tree—with lights running along the nearly mile-long suspension cables and the towers, which would have been illuminated like pieces of fine sculpture.
Lara and Greg push off the wall and weave through the stalled cars, continuing on. As they pass West 158th Street the quiet shatters. They come to a dead stop. Muzzle flashes flare on both ends of the bridge. And not just sporadic fire. A sustained barrage of gunfire erupts. Still some distance away, the sounds of the battle are delayed for a few seconds before echoing in the void. On the city side, whoever is fighting is about a third of the way across the nearly five-thousand-foot-long bridge. Those on the Jersey side are firing from a position much closer to their side of the river.
“Damn,” Greg swears.
“This was a mistake.”
“Maybe our side can push across. I can’t tell if there’s fighting on the lower deck of the bridge. You see anything?”
His question is answered before Lara can reply. Muzzle flashes light the enclosed lower portion of the bridge—yellow strobe lights in a sea of darkness. With horror, they watch as an automatic weapon of some sort shoots tracers across the span, lighting the night sky with tendrils of red. On the top level, a streak of intense white light flashes and something on their side of the bridge explodes, sending a hot orange fireball into the cold night air.
Greg slumps to the curb. Lara tosses the backpack to the ground and sits down next to him.
“I had no idea those type of weapons would be in play. That’s military-grade stuff. Anybody within three hundred yards of that machine gun will be shredded.”