Hana’s head sags. It looks like she’s crying. After a nanosecond of silence, she snots into a handkerchief and dries her eyes. “Where were you going?” she asks.
Tanis nods toward the Queensboro Bridge. “I live across the river in Forest Hills. I’m going to try and find my family.”
“I’d like to go home, but I won’t. I live in the city. Something tells me I’ll never go home again. So, I’d like to see my folks, too. They live in Long Beach. I can go with you until you get home. Then I’ll go find my folks.”
“That would be cool,” he says.
They start down the bridge, weaving in and out of the cars. The bridge is epic. The huge steel beams that crisscross overhead are held in place by steel rivets the size of golf balls. The brick towers are solid and thick. Tanis used to love this bridge, but now it looks crooked. There must have been a few fires here because there are black marks on the tan girders.
When the cars get too thick to navigate in between, he jumps on the hood of a Mercedes Benz, intending to hopscotch again, but stops short. Hana jumps onto the hood next to him. She grabs his arm and steadies herself.
At the point where the bridge crosses Roosevelt Island, it’s mangled and bent down toward the river. The rest of the Queensboro Bridge is gone. It’s crooked and totally useless after being blown to bits.
Hana hops off the Benz. “I was afraid of this. There’s no way across.”
The water far below moves along. The Roosevelt Island towers are completely obliterated piles of rubble.
Tanis has never looked at something so fricking scary, so wrong. Above him, the bridge’s metal girders are twisted and torn. Power cables are cut like beheaded snakes. Smoke and dust cling to the air and rip at his throat when he breathes. A small shudder rumbles through the bridge’s wrecked structure like its nerves still have pent-up energy coursing through them. It’s a corpse in its own right, like the dead and bloated bodies hanging out of the cars.
“How we gonna cross the river?” He asks. “Use the subway?”
She scans the area. “No. This bridge was taken out to stop people from leaving. I would imagine they dropped some bunker busters on the subway tunnels. The government had effective plans in place for a quarantine.” She had a worried look on her face. “We’re gonna have to swim it.”
“I’m not a good swimmer. I’m a bit of a nerd. I do my thing on the computer.” Tanis looks at the water. It’s probably cold and polluted and full of huge, mutated catfish. “Besides, I was told you could get swept out to sea. The current is too strong here.”
She nods. “Well, if you aren’t a good swimmer then that might be a death trap. We can try going north to the Kennedy Bridge. The river is a much shorter swim, and I can help you cross it. Maybe we’ll find a fishing boat up there.”
“That sounds okay to me. Don’t think we have a choice, huh?”
“I don’t think so.”
They head north in the heat and the stink, both wanting to go home to ball games, crap on the TV, and good dinners.
Chapter 1.11
Isabella
Cheers From Iraq
Isabella wakes up in her sleeping bag in the middle of a field in Central Park just as big raindrops land on her head. She doesn’t get up right away. Instead, opens her mouth and lets the rain splash on her tongue.
It should have tasted sweet, but it’s as rancid as the butt of an old cigarette. As she gets to her feet, a pinch of pain spikes her lower back. She ignores it and grabs her bag, pulling out a bagel. Dry, cold, stale, it’s still delicious.
The rain is a drizzle, but it’s gonna get heavier. Dark clouds churn above. Looks like the city will be saved when the rain puts out the fires. She stretches. Today, she’s gotta find the quarantine line. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll have that bank account with her half million in it.
She loads up and heads north. The jets and the explosions were the bridges being taken out, and no doubt the subway, too. So she’ll have to go north and cross the river at its shortest point. She hates swimming, but doesn’t have a choice.
She jogs through the park; the only sound is the patter of damp grass under her feet. Just as she nears the northwest end, a huge explosion erupts somewhere around Fredrick’s Circle. There is a gas station there. The sound rattles the trees, and her ears ring, lightly. Over the tall, thick canopy a ball of fire rolls up between the tall buildings. Fresh black smoke fills the sky.
Isabella raises the barrel of the assault rifle she’d nabbed from those fools in the Bradley. She checks the breach; it’s loaded. Check the clip; it’s full. She’d done this yesterday, but it’s habit. She verifies that the weapon is set on semi-automatic, looks down the sight, and sets off.
Somebody did blow up that gas station next to Fredrick’s Circle. She avoids it and instead head toward Seventh Avenue, which goes north. It seems like a good choice because there’s a median with trees. That gives her a wider playing field and some cover. She doesn’t worry too much about an attack from above. Looters aren’t usually hiding out in apartments with sniper rifles. This is not Iraq.
#
She did well in Iraq, at first. Kept her wits about her. Being a soldier was one of the things she did really well. She was infantry, one of the few women. Her job was to keep the front line supplied with ammo, food, and water, but they engaged the enemy just as much as anyone, especially in Fallujah.
It was night when the enemy circled around the front line. Her team was awakened at dawn by sniper and AK-47 fire. She snapped into focus, having already been in the fight for several weeks. Cuts covered her hands and were infected, her eyes were dry and irritated, she smelled of black powder and gun oil and she cramped from a bad period, but was able to shut off the pain like a light switch. She could still hear, see, and fire straight. The army counselor had once asked her if she had something to prove. Hell yeah, she did.
It was still dark, so she flipped her night-vision goggles down and followed her company to the south courtyard. They had to secure that area for a supply delivery.
Everything was quiet at first. Then one crazy towel head came out of the alley where she’d just come from. He must have been hiding in a hole. A dozen rounds should have plunged into her back, but he was a lousy shot. Isabella spun and hit the trigger, rattling off twenty rounds into his chest and spraying the wall with guts.
J.C. walked up to him and shot a 9mm round into his dead eyes just to make sure. That was one of ten, maybe fifteen, Mujahidin suicide fighters that came out to play.
For the next three hours they secured the vicinity and the supply line.
It was starting to get hot, and it was only 9:00 a.m. As the dust settled, things wound down. So her company fell back to their base and got some downtime.
It was a lonely time for most, a time to think about what they’d left behind: ma, pa, or baby brother. It wasn’t her lonely time. The quiet was as sweet as that first shot of whiskey. She felt her heart beat, not feeling like a woman, but a robot. Her vest flattened her chest, and hid her face and body. Here, she was just another soldier, not male, not female. Her gear made her heavy, but now, propped up on a brick wall full of bullet hole divots, she didn’t feel hot or achy, just relaxed. When she slept it was like she’d died.
Three hours went by like a heartbeat. Rodriguez shook her awake. After cramming food down her swollen throat, they continued moving through the neighborhood and set up a second base in some luxurious mansion that just happened to be built like a fortress. They stocked it with ammo, gear, MREs, smokes, and Band-Aids. Guys came from all around to reload, eat and head back out.
Skirmishes rocked the night, explosions surrounded them, some a block away, some a mile. The wind smelled like blood and burned rubber. Wounded were brought in, some without arms or legs, some with just holes, all covered in blood, leaving crimson trails as they came and went.
A week later Isabella and her company moved out, redeployed to the Green Zone in Bagdad where she had to guard a checkpoint
eight hours a day. At least in Fallujah she got to run around at night when the sun wasn’t so evil.
Here, every car that passed had the potential to blow off her face. And these towel heads would pass by with bloodlust pooling in their eyes. It wasn’t that she was American, they hated her because she was a woman who carried a gun and barked orders.
Day after day of that bullshit, and she finally snapped. This man came walking up to the checkpoint in a dirty thab and sandals. He basically looked like every other Iraqi except he had his hands hidden. Isabella yelled, “Raweenee edeek!” Which means show me your hands. He didn’t listen. “Ogaf bmkanek la tetharek!” (Stop where you are.) He didn’t stop. Only when she readied to blow his fucking head off did he listen. He stopped and held up his hands. She made him pull up his dress and spin around. No bomb, no weapon so she waved him on. But at the moment he passed, he shot her a look that might as well been a punch to her face. She bashed his head in with the butt of her rifle then leapt on him and didn’t stop hitting him until her commander intervened. By that time, dirty Iraqi looked inside out.
At the time, she burned bright inside like a sun. The men around her stared, but less hateful than before. They were afraid of her, finally.
The next day she was moved back to Kuwait where she was tried and formally kicked out of the army. Whatever. Fuck ’em. She doesn’t regret a damn thing.
#
Isabella exits Central Park and steps over the small knee-high brick wall that surrounds the grounds. She moves cautiously across the road, looking to the left where the explosion had come from. A cloud of smoke still rises from the circle. No other movement so she continues up 7th with her assault rifle at the ready.
Chapter 1.12
Markus
When In Rome
After a terribly long flight, one from which Markus thought he’d never recover from, he lands at the airport in Rome and takes a taxi to Vatican City. The trunk is too small for his luggage, so he clips it onto the roof rack. He has never traveled in Europe before, and finds himself pleasantly surprised. Vatican City is bustling like New York, but it’s much older. The ghosts of a thousand centuries wander these streets, leaving traces of their footprints everywhere. There is also a more casual look on everyone’s face. He falls in love with the city almost immediately, wishing he’d brought Marian.
The taxi follows winding roads that snake in and around old brick buildings. He can almost see the hills from the back seat. Apartments and office buildings clutter the city like a packed bookshelf. The beauty of the city is only broken by occasional graffiti. The streets and sidewalks are filled with Italians in their little cars, zipping up and down the narrow streets. People love using their horns. Everyone honks at each other. He laughs. His mother, God rest her soul, would have loved the homemade feel of this country.
The driver speeds up and turns more recklessly the farther he gets from the airport. His speed gets to Markus, turning his stomach. He’s not at a carnival and didn’t pay for a roller-coaster ride. He wants to say something, but doesn’t know how to say it in Italian. His stomach turns inside out.
Finally, they arrive at one of the Vatican gates. It looks like a medieval gate three stories tall with a high brick archway topped with grand sculptures of Roman figures and ornate shapes. Such history. Such a grand old city. So grand, in fact, that it makes him feel small and young. Inside the lavish gate is the impressive Sistine Chapel surrounded by the many other classical buildings he’d read about in a brochure. Catholicism will always foment a false idol with its gold-trimmed cathedrals and lavish ornamental decor. Their priests’ robes are even as ostentatious as their ceremonies. Because he’s in their house, he’ll keep any criticisms to himself. He goes directly to the library, following a map.
The Gallery Library is quiet with the occasional echo of something whispered or dropped, and the tap of his feet on the solid marble floors. The library is bright, lit from all angles by strategically placed windows. It’s two stories tall with high-arching gold ceilings. Paintings from the Renaissance and other periods adorn every nook and cranny. It’s quite stunning. They shouldn’t belong in the city of God, but that’s an argument for the ages. There are walls and walls of books, both ancient and contemporary.
Markus moves past the index section and goes to a service librarian. They are expecting him. He learns that what he’s come here for is kept in the basement. He’d paid a heavy price for an afternoon of uninterrupted research in the archives and the guidance of a researcher. He’s provided white, lint-free gloves and a map of the shelves. The researcher helps him pick twenty or so books to start. Those are replaced six hours later with ten more. Time slips through his fingers like the sand in an hourglass. His hunger is suppressed, by the focus of his mind. He pushes through information as easy as a drill seeds wheat. He opens the next book and skims the pages.
Halfway through, he discovers a transcript from the Eighth Crusade detailing the conquering of the port city of Caesarea in northern Israel. The transcript was written by a scribe from France’s King Louis IX’s Army of God. Where the first army failed, the second army succeeded easily because they found no resistance when they approached the gates. The strange thing about the account is that when the second army of French troops entered the city, they only found dead people. No gold or treasure was found, which was odd because Caesarea was a port city known to be quite wealthy.
Markus turns back a page to see why the first army failed, but there are no details. All it said was how the first army was led by a great leader, John the Mighty. If he was so great, why did he lose?
Louis IX’s second army piled the bodies high and burned the dead because they were afraid of disease. They burned everything in the city. Soon the King’s army moved north to capture Acre. Believing, after all, that conquest was not an act of murder, their quest was believed to be an act of salvation and the dead city of Caesarea was useless to the King.
The lack of information regarding the first attack bothered Markus. He’s intrigued and totally surprised where this investigation is leading him. There’s nothing in these books that mentions the Stone of Allah, not yet.
He turns the page and scans the end of the account. King Louis IX seemed to be angry about losing his first army to an empty city. While he thanked God for victory, he also questioned the loss of his best soldier, John the Mighty. Who is this John the Mighty?
Markus looks through a different book for references to the first army that attacked Caesarea. He finds no records and might have to scan a few dozen other books or more.
Lights dim at the far end of the library as they near closing time. More lights go out. Only the walkway to the exit and the one above are still glowing. A priest emerges from the dark and approaches.
“I guess I got to go?” Markus replies, dissatisfied. “I’ll be finished in a moment.”
The priest wears a black robe with the typical white square collar. Deep wrinkles and a scrunched nose hold up his thin gold-rimmed glasses. He speaks English with a thick accent. “I see you are interested in the Eighth Crusade.”
“I’m looking for the transcript of the first attack on Caesarea. It seems that King Louis IX had to take a great loan and many troops from the Templars to conquer Caesarea only to find everyone dead. How did the Caesareans defeat his first army, and why aren’t there any accounts in these books?” Markus reviews his notes. “Somethin’ is missing.”
The priest pulls a worn, thin book from his robe and sits down. He slides the book across the table. “There is only one copy of this text. The original has been lost.”
Markus looks then slides it back. “Is there a transcript? I don’t read Latin.”
The priest smiles. “Picture this. You are John the Mighty, a loyal and fierce warrior in the court of King Louis IX. You ride up to the great stone walls of Caesarea on your massive stallion with an army of ten thousand men behind you. Your body is covered in steel armor, as is your horse. Your army has counterweight tr
ebuchets, steel weapons, thick armor, and is better trained and more experienced than any other. You fly the French colors. You have God on your side. You see, the Crusades were retaliation for all the wars the Arabs brought to the Mediterranean. It was a reconquer. Just because the Muslims had the land for over a thousand years does not mean it was theirs in the first place. They were the first to soak the land in blood. That is the truth that John the Mighty fought for as did most of the crusaders for that matter.
“The first order of business in any siege is to surround the city gates, then launch attacks by arrow and trebuchet. After a few weeks the Caesareans should have been hungry and weak and easy to conquer. Everything was going according to plan. In fact, John and his bravest soldiers were so confident, they played games and ate and drank during the evening hours. The translation says that the heavens shined on their efforts, a quarter moon after the siege began, with a great light show in the early morning.”
The priest leans closer and continues, keeping his voice hushed. “The light show was a meteor shower. Thousands of burning, falling stars. It lasted for two days. John rejoiced. He believed it was a sign. On the morning of the third day, before the sun rose, John gathered a group of his best warriors and approached the main gates. He was almost at the siege line—”
Markus interrupts, “What is the siege line?”
“It was the line you couldn’t cross until the siege was over. The Caesarean arrows didn’t have much range. Their maximum distance was marked in the ground and called the siege line. If you crossed the line you could be shot by an arrow. John had not crossed the line. There are a few accounts saying that he did cross, but he was too smart for that. He stood well behind the line and called for surrender. John the Mighty waited for an answer. It was said that he grew impatient. Then the most amazing thing happened. He was struck in the chest, killed instantly.”
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