by Frank Tayell
Now the idea of a boat was more beguiling than ever. It was almost twelve hours since the outbreak had hit social media. Untold thousands must already have fled Manhattan, joining ranks with the tens of thousands on the other side of the Hudson. With the zombies already ahead of them, theirs would be no orderly migration. The safest course of action was to hunker down, but that wasn’t an option for him. Like the old adage said, the best way to get somewhere was to start from somewhere else. A boat would take him up the coast, beyond the densest of the suburban sprawl orbiting New York, and perhaps ahead of the refugees. A long night of driving, and he might reach western Pennsylvania soon after dawn.
Behind him, something wooden banged against something metal. A plaintive cry came from above, followed by the slamming of a window. Music momentarily blared from an unseen speaker before being abruptly turned off. Compared to the previous day, compared to any of the days he’d spent in New York, it was as quiet as the grave.
A clattering rattle of metal came from an alley to his right. A soda can, blown by the wind, he decided. Except there was no wind. The rattle came again, and with it something else. Something more guttural, almost a moan. He crossed the road and picked up his pace.
One block west and one south, a bright yellow van had crashed into the window of a shoe-store. Sneakers of every lurid color had spilled into the road. There were no staff or security guards, and from the look of it, no one had come to steal the merchandise. Somehow, that was more troubling than anything else he’d seen.
The rear of the van had been levered open. The inside was coated in a dusting of soil and a few broken wooden crates. From the fragments, he pieced together the logo of an organic grocery, but all the produce was gone. He thought of the two men who’d tried to rob that store. Had society really collapsed so swiftly? Had the perceived value of goods changed so fast?
A cab had crashed into the side of the van, reducing the road to a single lane. As he continued south, he passed more wrecks, and more abandoned cars behind them. The complete absence of people was getting to him. New York was a city of millions, and Manhattan was one of the most densely populated areas of real estate on the planet, and yet it was almost as if he had it to himself.
The ground under his foot changed, becoming sticky. He’d stepped in something. Blood. He heard a noise, similar to yet different from the moaning sigh he’d heard before. With it came a rustling bang as if someone was dragging themselves along a wall. He drew the revolver he’d taken from the now-dead thug and crossed to the middle of the road. Get to a boat. Put out to sea. He’d be safe. The idea lodged in his brain, going round and round, growing in appeal.
A hand slapped against a car’s window, an inch from his side. A face appeared, a snarling, snapping apparition absent of all humanity. The hand banged against glass. Tom backed away. Something pulled on his coat. He spun around, tugging it free from the arm reaching out through an open window. The banging continued in stereo as it was joined by others. Not near, but not far enough away. He ran, sometimes in the road, sometimes along the sidewalk, only slowing when he reached a street almost clear of traffic. Something big had passed this way, shunting the stalled and abandoned cars away from the median. With some distance between himself and those steel tombs, he told himself to relax. There had been only four zombies. Maybe five. That’s all. Perhaps six. Seven at the outside. Maybe ten. Twenty. A hundred. A million. An undead city in which he was the only one left.
He was running again. He forced himself to stop. Stay calm. Stay rational. There was no way not to think about the surrounding horror, so he tried to think about it constructively. How had those people ended up in the cars? They were in the southbound lane, as if they’d been heading toward the outbreak. Had they been infected by some passing refugee after they’d decided to flee? The questions were pointless and based on an assumption for which he had no evidence. He was assuming that the virus was passed on by blood and saliva because that was what the television had said. Sure, he’d seen video footage of people being bitten, but that wasn’t proof. It was an assumption, because that’s how it worked in the movies. The virus could be airborne, but only a fraction of the population was susceptible. Or only a fraction was immune. Or it could be somewhere in between, or almost anything else. There was no way of knowing, not right now, but that ignorance would kill him.
Ahead came the sound of breaking glass. With it came voices. At any other time, he would have taken a different direction. After what had happened in the bodega, he knew he should. Right now, and above all else, he wanted to know that other people were alive. Not wanting to look openly hostile, he put the revolver in his pocket, but kept a hand on it as he approached.
They were looters, and they were organized. A group of at least twenty were systematically emptying a grocery store. Two more stood guard to the west, with three, near him, to the east. Those five were all armed with long guns, though the weapons were held casually.
One of the three walked over to the broken window and took the arm of a young woman carrying something outside. The woman looked down, and then gave a short laugh before heading back into the building. Tom was about to turn away and find another route when the man spotted him.
“Hey!” he called. “Something moving!” The four sentries raised their weapons. Tom raised a hand. The guns were lowered. The sentries even seemed to relax. Curious, Tom stepped forward.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” the leader said. “It’s not safe for anyone.”
“I’m just passing through.”
“No,” the man said. “You need to get inside and stay there. Where do you live?”
“The Upper West Side,” Tom said, naming somewhere not far from the marina.
The man shook his head. “Do you have food? Water? Enough supplies for at least two weeks?”
Tom raised the tote bag.
The man gave a rueful shake of his head. “You’re going to need more than that. What are you going to do when the water’s cut off?”
“You think it will be?” Tom asked.
“Don’t you know what’s going on?” the man asked.
“You mean the… the zombies?”
The man grimaced. “Yeah, everyone’s calling them that. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them it isn’t true. But no, that’s not what I mean. I was talking about the police. Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Yeah, how could you? We were called back, told to leave Manhattan.”
“You’re a cop?”
“Detective. I live here. This is my city. There’s no way I’m going to leave on the say of some politician, but most did. All our support’s gone. Can’t get through to the chief. Hell, I can’t get through to anyone. They left us to ourselves, to fester and tear one another apart. You’ve got to go home or find somewhere safe. Fill every container with water. Start breaking your furniture for firewood. Speak to your neighbors. Work together. Secure the building, and the block. Together we can beat this. Alone we’ll die. There’s more food here than we can take. Get your neighbors, come back, take what you can. Or find somewhere else. Take anything that’ll go bad from any store unlikely to open tomorrow.”
“Right, sure. Yeah, maybe I’ll come back,” Tom said. “Thanks. Good luck.”
“And to you.”
Tom threw an occasional glance at the group as he went past. It was somehow uplifting seeing people work together. On the other hand, the news that Manhattan had been left to fend for itself was contrary to everything Tom knew about Max. That was something else to think about when he was on the water, heading away from the island.
Chapter 5 - Blockade
The 79th Street Boat Basin, New York
The Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin wasn’t so much up and coming as came up and went. Where the boats had gone, he couldn’t guess, but only one was left. A thirty-foot yacht with a mast and motor, and reddish stains he knew were rust, but which he couldn’t help but think of as blood. Two
lamps cast dim shadows on the boat, the jetty, and the small group of people. He should have thought this through. Of course the boats would be gone, and this last one was spoken for. Twice over, judging by the confrontational nature of the scene.
A woman stood, legs braced, on the jetty. Ten feet from her were two men and two women, dressed in expensive outdoor clothing that looked too clean to have ever been worn outside a dressing room. In contrast, the boat-woman’s faded jeans and bulky jacket looked far more suitable to a life at sea. Tom stepped into the shadows, moving slowly and quietly, assessing his odds of getting to the yacht.
“You can come with us, Helena,” one of the women in the group of four said.
“No. I told you,” the boat-woman, presumably Helena, said. “This boat isn’t going anywhere.”
“The boat is,” one of the men said. “With you, or without you.”
“Enough talking, Trent,” the second man said. “Let’s go.”
“I told you,” Helena said. “You can’t.”
There was no fear in her voice, just mild exasperation, and clearly she knew these people. Tom’s hand strayed to the gun. He could take the yacht easily enough. From what that detective had said, even if the 911 call was answered, no one would respond. Except stealing the boat at gunpoint was unnecessary. Whether she realized it or not, this woman, Helena, would be safer off the island, and in the company of others.
He took a step forward, sizing up the group, deciding that it was the man, Trent, who needed to be reasoned with. How to do it? Pretend to be a cop?
From somewhere inland came a trio of shots, a brief squawk from a siren, a burst from an automatic weapon, and then silence. It lasted only a second before the air was pierced by a scream.
“It’s time to go, Trent,” the second man said.
“Last chance, Helena,” Trent said. “See reason. Come with us.” The man spoke as if he was absolutely certain he was going to get what he wanted. Tom drew the revolver, but kept it behind his back as he stepped out of the shadows, whistling a few bars of the first song that came to mind.
“A bad night to be out,” he said. “There’s looting and worse throughout the city. The police have been called back to checkpoints on the mainland. This isn’t a safe place to be.”
“Who are you?” one of the women said.
“Just a guy looking for a way out,” Tom said. “And that yacht fits the bill.”
“Don’t you understand?” Helena said. “Don’t any of you understand? No one’s taking the boat!”
“We are,” Trent said, but his eyes were on Tom.
“We all should,” Tom said. “I doubt there’s much fuel for the motor, but that sail should carry us a good way along the coast. We can get ahead of the people who fled during the day. That’s would be safest for all of us.”
“Trent?” the blonde said, a warning tone to her voice.
“Go away,” Trent said to Tom. “And get out the way,” he added to Helena.
“No!” Helena cried. “Why won’t you listen?”
The blonde swore, half turned around, and turned back with a small gun in her hand. Tom ducked as she fired in his direction. The round went wide. She fired again as he rolled away from the light. He pushed himself to his knees, raising the revolver. Helena was on the ground. The four of them were running onto the yacht. The blonde fired again. Tom hesitated and did it too long. The rope was cut. The boat began drifting out into the Hudson.
Slowly, he stood.
“No,” Helena said, from her knees. “You have to come back. You have to! I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you!”
The engine chugged into life, and the yacht drew further away.
“I tried to warn them,” Helena called again, though this time she was speaking to the sky.
Tom walked over to her. “You need to get out of here,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “It’s not safe.”
She shook his arm free. “I tried to warn them,” she repeated.
The words sank in. “Warn them of what?” he asked, looking out at the yacht’s blinking lights. Helena didn’t need to reply. The boat was lit up by a pair of searchlights. Tom peered out across the water, trying to see from where they came. Ships, obviously, but he couldn’t make them out.
A voice echoed across the water. “Unidentified vessel. Turn back. Return to shore.” A moment later the message repeated.
The people on the yacht made no attempt to turn around.
“I told them,” Helena said. “I tried to warn them.”
“Unidentified vessel. Turn back. This is your last warning.”
Was it turning? Before he could tell, there was the boom of artillery. A bang, bang, bang, a flash of fire, an echoing boom, and the yacht was gone.
“I tried to warn them,” Helena whispered. “They came here this afternoon. Said no more boats could leave. Freddie didn’t listen. Joan got sick, you see. Attacked by someone. Freddie couldn’t get an ambulance. The roads… He thought it would be easier to go across to New Jersey. They sunk the boat.”
“And the other boats?” Tom asked. “There were dozens of craft here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Most left this morning. The rest tried to leave after dark. They were all sunk. I said they shouldn’t. I said they should listen to the Navy. People don’t listen.”
The searchlights played across the burning wreckage as if highlighting the good sense of her words. They went out. Now he knew where to look, Tom thought he could make out the silhouette of a warship. It was too dark, with too much light coming from the shore, to identify what kind.
“Who were those four people? They knew you.”
“I worked with them. I didn’t like them much. Especially Chloe, but…” She trailed off into something halfway between a sob and a sigh. “I’m Helena Diomedes,” she said, holding out a hand.
“Tom Clemens,” Tom said. Only after the words were said did he remember he should have used one of his other aliases.
“You didn’t shoot them,” Helena said, gesturing at the gun in Tom’s hand.
“I wanted the boat. I didn’t want to murder for it.”
“And now they’re dead.”
There was another scream in the distance.
“Where do you live?” Tom asked.
“On the boat,” Helena said.
“Ah. Do you have friends near here? Someone you can stay with?”
“What? Oh, yes. Tammy, I suppose. She’s not far. Just a couple of blocks.”
Had he taken the boat, he wouldn’t have turned back when ordered, and so would now be dead. In a small and accidental way, this woman had saved his life. Escorting her a few blocks seemed the least he could do. “I’ll walk you,” Tom said.
She looked skeptically at him. Her gaze dropped to the revolver, and skepticism changed to outright suspicion. There was a third, louder scream.
“Okay,” she said, with evident reluctance. “It’s over there.” She waved a hand to the north. “What about you, where do you live?”
“Harlem. But I was trying to get back to my family.”
“Oh. Right. That’s why you wanted the boat?”
“The bridges and tunnels were blocked. I thought a boat might get me further, quicker.”
“Do you think they’ll stop it?”
“Stop what?” he asked.
“The virus. That’s why they’re not allowing boats off. They said there was a quarantine, to stop the virus from getting out of Manhattan.”
“You don’t know? It’s already beyond the island,” he said. “It’s spreading throughout the country.”
Chapter 6 - The Bridge
Manhattan, New York
The naval blockade and the police withdrawal had kicked Tom’s paranoia into overdrive. He wanted to check the tablet, dreading that he’d have his worst fears confirmed, but knowing that was better than traveling in ignorance. Yet he couldn’t, not while Helena was with him. He made a few attempts at conversation, but they were cut short by
the sound of distant gunfire.
“That’s it,” Helena said as they turned a corner, pointing at an apartment building. “So, um, thanks, I guess. I’ll—”
“Wait,” Tom hissed. Outside the apartment door were a group of figures. Three? No, four. Their arms moved up, down, raising and falling, as if they were knocking at the closed door. He pulled Helena back into the shadows.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Didn’t you see?”
“I think that’s Mrs Kenton,” Helena said, taking a step forward. “She must have forgotten her key.”
“It’s not her,” Tom said. “Not anymore.”
“What? You mean…” She trailed off.
“Is that the building?” he asked.
“Mrs Kenton has the apartment below Tammy,” Helena said.
The figure at the back of the small group jerked around. It moved as if its limbs were on wires being pulled by an unseen hand. Arm and then leg, each movement was disjointed and unnatural as it staggered into the pool of light from a streetlamp. Its mouth slowly opened, letting out a low, breathy hiss.
“We need to go,” Tom said, pulling Helena’s arm. She was immobile a second longer, and that was long enough for the other two creatures to turn toward them.
“Now,” Tom said, dragging her back down the alley up which they’d just walked.
“But…” Helena began. “But…” She didn’t seem to have any other words to add to her protest at this sudden horror.
“They’re zombies. That’s what the news said,” Helena said when they were two blocks away.
“It’s as good a word as any,” Tom said, staring at the empty street.
“But it’s impossible,” Helena said.
“Whatever they really are, think of them as zombies for now. We don’t have the luxury of worrying about being accurate.” It was the road the detective and his gang of looters had been on, he was sure of it. The grocery store window was broken, but there was no sign of the group he’d passed on his way to the marina. Had the detective said where he lived? No, and no clue had been left to suggest where the group had gone.