I read throughout the day, with the TV and computer plugged in and the radio running on batteries. Who knows? Maybe one day they’ll come back to life. But I doubt it. Every once in a while, a radio station broadcasts jazz but only for an hour. I have to believe that it’s the same person infiltrating station after station, keeping his favorite music in rotation. It’s romantic in an insane way. Unfortunately, the airplay has been sporadic, and I waste a good portion of my day searching the dial with nothing but static to show for it.
November 10
I woke up to what sounded like an explosion. Crawling across the floor to one window, I reached through the bars on the guard and separated the blinds. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard dogs barking in the distance. I waited five minutes, then went back to bed. Later I smelled smoke.
November 11
A Prayer for Owen Meany made me cry.
November 12
My routine is the same every day: wake up, heat water, cook breakfast, take a bath, read until lunchtime, cook soup, read until dinnertime, cook soup and vegetables, write in this journal, then read until bedtime.
When my garbage gets full, I drop the bag outside the window. The garbage on the sidewalk has already reached an obscene height, and sometimes I watch rats scurry around looking for food. I’ve stopped shaving every day, and I’m growing fat. My body has come full circle since the beginning of the year.
I think I need a cat.
November 15
I watched a group of children foraging for food in the garbage on the sidewalk. I was tempted to toss them a box of Lucky Charms—twelve vitamins and minerals, right?—when I saw a dark-skinned man in a pimp suit watching them from the corner. Fagin lives.
November 16
Last night I awoke to the sound of a woman screaming. Assuming my position at my post, I looked down at the street below. It was too dark to see anything at first. Then across the street I discerned four figures kicking something. They were men, and they attacked their work with a relish that caused my body to weaken.
When they finally dispersed, two glowing red eyes stared in my direction. The woman appeared to be broken, her limbs akimbo and her face smeared with blood. The red glow faded to black.
In the morning, her body had disappeared, leaving behind dirty bloodstains.
Forty-seven
November 16
“Hit me.”
Ron smirked at Rachel.
“I mean it: hit me with everything you’ve got.”
Ron gave Betty a helpless look, then swung at Rachel’s face. Rachel snagged his wrist, stepped into the blow, and threw him over her shoulder. Ron struck the mat and landed on his back, the impact echoing through the small gym.
Rachel helped him to his feet and gave him a friendly slap on the back so he wouldn’t take his defeat personally. “Who’s next?”
Forty-eight
The Julian Year
By Julian Weizak
November 17
Smoke always seems to be in the air outside now, and I think about the thunderous explosion I heard and wonder what’s burning. I haven’t heard the jazz pirate on the radio in several days. I wonder if he turned or if they captured him. The alternative is even more depressing.
November 18
I doubt it was Richard Russo’s intention, but The Risk Pool makes me wish I’d stayed at my mother’s house in Jamestown.
November 19
Soot covered the windows, hindering my view of the street. I unlocked the window guards, raised the windows, and did my best to wash them. Leaning outside, I saw half a dozen soldiers running for their lives up Broadway. Crouching, I waited, my eyes glued to the avenue, but I never saw what had terrified them.
November 20
I changed the batteries in the radio today.
November 21
I drink a glass of vino with dinner every night. Sometimes I have two. Now that the NyQuil is gone, I’ve started having another glass at bedtime. I’ve checked my stock, and I’m going to run out before Christmas.
November 22
I got drunk last night. December is going to be a dry month.
November 23
I did the math today: 327 days down, 38 to go. Going strictly by formula, 6,270,232,814 people have been possessed by the souls of the damned. This doesn’t take casualties into account.Theoretically, I currently share the island of Manhattan with 218,462 nonpossessed people. I know that isn’t correct, though. People fled Manhattan in droves, and the fatalities have been too high to count. Maybe half of that? I wonder where they all are. Hiding, like me?
November 24
Enough! I’ve got to know what the hell’s going on out there. If there are no more entries after this, I didn’t make it back. I wish I had something profound to write but I don’t. The wheel in the sky keeps on turning, Jumpin’ Jack Flash, it’s a gas, gas, gas.
I pulled on my coat, slung my camera around my neck, and packed my .38 and two carving knives. After unlocking my front door, I stood in the threshold for a moment, staring at the dark hallway and listening for sounds of life. The air was stuffy and sweat formed on my forehead.
After locking the door as quietly as possible, I switched on my flashlight, then made my way to the edge of the carpeted stairs and gazed at the sunlight spilling through the front door below. The circle of light on the wall below me resembled a ghost. I descended the stairs slowly, stopping on each floor. In the lobby, the mailboxes were torn open and the bottom pane of the front door was shattered.
I stepped out into the sunlight and inhaled frigid air. My studio didn’t seem so cold anymore. I heard no traffic and saw no people. Setting forward, I scanned the windows around me. How many people occupied these buildings like squatters? How many watched me? I walked faster, my hand on the .38 in my coat pocket. Tall buildings, long shadows, harsh winds. Taking no heed of me, rats clawed at the garbage bags piled high at the curb. Every few steps I spun and saw no one behind me.
At Broadway I surveyed my surroundings. No businesses remained open, and several storefront windows were smashed. Upside-down cars littered the avenue but no corpses. Garbage blew everywhere and the wind carried foul odors. It had been a long time since I’d seen this area with no police or soldiers; unfortunately I saw no one else, either.
A hooded army jeep careened around the corner a block away. My instincts told me to run home, but I knew that would only lead the soldiers to my front door. I had to do something so I ran uptown. Another jeep sped around the corner ahead of me. I spared myself the effort and slowed to a stop. Some action hero.
The jeeps stopped, facing each other bumper to bumper, and four male and two female soldiers piled out. Raising my hands seemed appropriate, since half of them pointed machine guns at me.
“You got ID?” a man with his machine gun slung over one shoulder said. I assumed he was the leader, but their uniforms were indistinguishable.
I tried to maintain my composure. “You vant to see my papers?”
The man glared at me. “Watch it, sunshine. We could leave you for dead right here, and no one would do a damned thing about it.”
I didn’t want to show him my ID. In a sign of bravery, I lowered my hands. “I’m Julian Weizak. I’m a reporter.”
“Oh yeah? Who do you report for?”
He had a point. “I’m an independent operator these days.”
“Who are you with?”
“I’m alone.”
The soldier glanced at his fellows. “Either you’re lying or you’re crazy. There’re looters and scavengers all over. It isn’t safe.”
“Isn’t that what you fellas are for?”
He smiled. “Boy, for a reporter you’re ill informed. The army’s splintered into several forces. Those with supplies have cut off the rest of us.”
I thought about the food supplies at JFK.
The soldier gestured at his outfit. “We’re on our own. They expect us to keep protecting them without food in our bellies, so we
deserted.”
“I know him.” One of the female soldiers stepped forward. “He writes The Julian Year.”
She looked familiar, and I tried to place her: midtwenties, brown skin.
“Janet Johnson,” she said. “I was partnered with Larry Palmer when you boarded that bus with the hostages. You showed stones.”
The pieces fell into place. “Right, I remember now. How are you?”
“I’m just trying to survive, like everyone else.”
“And Palmer?”
“He’s gone but his body’s walking around out here somewhere.”
I looked from her to the first soldier. “So where are you heading?”
“Off this island to see if we can connect with a unit that’s still following the rules. We’ve got room for one more if you want to join us.”
“No, thanks. I plan to wait it out here.”
A dull roar rose in the distance, and we all looked downtown. A military chopper headed in our direction.
“Let’s bolt,” the first soldier said.
In a flurry of green everyone but Janet jumped into their vehicles. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“I’m sure.”
She climbed into her jeep. “Then good luck.”
“You too.”
One jeep turned around and both sped uptown.
I ran across the street to the opposite corner, pressed my back against the brick wall of a closed bar, and switched on my camera. I snapped a few shots of the jeeps retreating, then held my breath.
The chopper buzzed between the buildings over Broadway, its nose dangerously close to the ground, kicking up dust and refuse. I squinted but kept shooting until the tail rotors blew so much garbage at me that I had to look away. For a moment I heard nothing, and then the machine was gone.
I staggered back to the curb in time to see the chopper fire two missiles at the fleeing jeeps. I raised my camera and captured the resulting explosion, which decimated the lead jeep. An orange fireball rose into the sky, and the second jeep careened left on a side street. The chopper soared over the fireball and continued up Broadway.
I took off after it and stopped just shy of the carnage. Smoldering metal rained down on burned and bloody limbs. It was impossible to tell the charred corpses apart. Janet had been in the jeep that had gotten away but for how long?
Ahead, the chopper veered left over the buildings in pursuit of the fleeing jeep. Another chopper came into view on the downtown horizon, heading toward me, so I ran home.
November 26
My Thanksgiving dinner consisted of turkey noodle Progresso soup. I couldn’t shake the images in my head of the soldiers blown apart across Broadway or think of anything to be particularly grateful for.
Forty-nine
Thanksgiving
Rachel sat at the head of one of six tables set up in the playroom. Betty and Ron sat at another and two teachers at others. The high school students occupied another room. Rachel watched Betty and Ron interacting with the toddlers. A boy with blond hair caught her attention; he seemed so pure, so innocent.
So helpless, she thought.
“Miss Rachel?”
Rachel looked at the pretty little girl with brown eyes who sat to her left. “What is it, Ashanti?”
“I wish I could live with you.”
Rachel hesitated, speechless. The girl’s comment warmed her heart and filled her with dread at the same time. “That’s so nice, sweetie. Really. But I already spend all my free time here. If you lived with me, I wouldn’t be able to come here as much and help the other kids.”
“We could come here together and help them.”
Rachel embraced her. “Thank you for making me feel better. Let’s talk about this again after New Year’s Day, okay?”
“What if there is no New Year’s Day?”
Rachel slid one hand along the side of Ashanti’s face. “There will be. I promise.”
Betty stood. “Who would like to say grace?”
Rachel froze like a deer caught in headlights.
“Rachel?”
Her instinct was to say no, but she saw an opportunity to evade Ashanti’s question. “All right.”
Betty returned to her seat, and Rachel looked across her table as the children bowed their heads. The spread included small portions of turkey from the freezer, instant mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and corn. The faces of her mother and father during the holidays overwhelmed her, and before she knew it she choked back tears.
She stood with such speed and force that her chair fell back and everyone turned to her. Within seconds anger replaced her pain. “Excuse me.” Turning on one heel, she strode into the next room.
“Rachel!”
Stopping at the doorway, Rachel closed her eyes and tilted her head, her lip quivering.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Rachel made a slow turn toward Betty, then spread her arms in a gesture of futility. “What?”
“Those kids look up to you. You can’t just walk out on them when we’re trying to give them a sense of normalcy, something to look forward to—”
Without knowing why, Rachel took an intimidating step toward Betty. “And why the hell are we doing that? Don’t you see how hopeless this all is? Thanksgiving? Give me a break. We’re giving those kids false hope. It’s almost December. We don’t have any news about what’s going on aboveground, but we do know that 90 percent of the population should have been possessed, minus those who were killed and those who they killed. Billions of red-eyed freaks want us dead.
“We’re hiding in warrens like rabbits, except that rabbits leave their holes and don’t stay underground. They don’t need to grow their own food, purify their own water, and dispose of their own waste. Even if the Regan MacNeils don’t come marching down here on New Year’s Day, then we have to worry about running out of air, power, and anything else provided by this fragile infrastructure. They think we’re going to survive down here for generations? Bullshit.”
Betty looked as if she had been slapped. “And what do you think we should do? Lie down and die? Pop those suicide pills you fought for? Teach the kids to take them with a glass of water? Uh-uh, lady. Not me and not them. We’re going to fight the fiends and this environment until we can’t anymore. That means living for something, which is what hope is all about.” She looked Rachel up and down. “Big, bad giant killer. Only you haven’t been fighting at all; you’ve been running the whole time. Your enemies just keep getting in your way, and you won’t let them slow you down. You’d leave here right now if you could. That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it? You can’t run.”
Rachel wanted to strike her. Instead she spoke in a soft voice. “When did you get so tough?”
The anger drained from Betty’s face. “When I started teaching those kids. I’m going back. I think you should do the same.” She turned and returned to the classroom, smoothing her dress as she walked.
Rachel waited a moment, then followed her.
Sitting at her table again, Rachel looked at the kids staring at her. She took Ashanti’s hand, then Jarett’s. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. “Dear God, we thank you for what we are about to receive . . .”
Fifty
The Julian Year
By Julian Weizak
November 27
I was halfway through rereading A Confederacy of Dunces when the door to the apartment next to me slammed shut with such force that the dishes in my kitchenette cupboard rattled. Sitting up in my chair, I reached over and turned off the battery-powered CD player.
Footsteps thundered across a hardwood floor, and then a powerful force struck the wall separating me from my instant neighbor. The reverberating strikes against the wall continued, and I flinched with each blow. Cracks appeared. Plaster dust poured out like sand in an hourglass.
Realizing the danger I was in, I ran to the futon and pulled my .38 out from beneath the pillow.
A
sledgehammer burst through the wall in a cloud of debris, and its wielder jerked it from view. The next blow knocked two large chunks out of the wall, and they crashed onto my floor.
Gazing at the hole, I knew that if I somehow survived this invasion, I would then be responsible for protecting two apartments instead of one, so it made sense to allow Thor to continue his work; at least I wouldn’t have to create my own tunnel door.
I stood off to one side, drumming my finger over the butt of my revolver, waiting as the hole in the wall grew ever larger. I admired the tenacity and endurance of the home invader. His sledgehammer blows never broke rhythm. Obviously he had not spent the preceding month lying around reading books.
Within minutes, an oval doorway with chunky, lopsided edges appeared in the wall. I guess it was too hard for him to swing the hammer so close to the floor. I felt like I now lived in the Flintstones’ cave.
The creator of this primitive entrance leaned into my apartment, and I wanted to scream. He must have stood six and a half feet tall and wore a dirty wifebeater. Plaster dust powdered his iron-gray curly hair and bushy mustache. To me he looked like Kurt Vonnegut if he’d devoted himself to steroids and weight lifting rather than alcohol and writing. His eyes were brown, not red, and when he saw me raise my revolver he grinned, revealing crooked white teeth.
Tightening my grip on the gun’s handle, I knew I could fire it if I had to. Only eight feet separated us. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and leave the way you came?”
The man stepped through the hole with one leg, and as he turned his body sideways, I saw him gripping the sledgehammer in both hands. He intended to come after me even though I had a gun. Apparently it’s impossible for me to look intimidating in any situation.
The Julian Year Page 33
