by Steve Alten
A boundary had been violated. Weapons were drawn.
Before Pankaj could react, before Manisha could register the vibrations of her crystal, before ten-year-old Dawn could scream or the Minoses pray, the mob cowered back into the shadows, dropping to their knees in fear.
Patrick stepped forward, his head and face concealed within the shadow of his ski jacket’s hood, his prosthetic arm held aloft as if it were the Angel of Death’s scythe.
“Paolo, I think it’s time I took the lead.” Pushing past the stunned psychology professor, Shep ventured forth, his presence parting the terrified sea of survivors.
Tribeca
6:38 A.M.
The gymnasium was located on the ninth floor. David tried the doors — locked. Using the butt end of his assault rifle, he banged on the small rectangle of glass, shattering it. “Hello! Is anybody in there?” He shined his light inside. Heard rustling… whispers. “Who is it?”
“David Kantor, I’m Gavi’s father. I am not infected.”
Someone approached. A heavy chain was removed from the inside of the door. It was pushed open, and David entered. Dark inside, save for a fading emergency light. The students were spread out on the hardwood basketball court, silhouetted in blackness.
“Who’s in charge here?”
“I am… sort of.” The young man was sixteen. “There are eighteen of us in here. No one’s infected, as far as we can tell. We locked ourselves in around two in the afternoon.”
“Is Gavi Kantor in here? Gavi?”
“She’s not here.” A seventh grader stepped forward, an African-American girl wrapped in a blanket. “She wasn’t in school today.”
She wasn’t in school! Did she cut classes? Maybe she’s not even in Manhattan…
“Dr. Kantor, do you have enough environmental suits for all of us?”
A young boy in first grade tugged on his pant leg. “I wanna go home.”
Home? David ground his teeth. If they leave, they’ll become contaminated. If they stay, they’ll die anyway. What do I do with them? Where can I take them? There’s no way off the island…
They gathered around him like moths to a flame. “Please don’t leave us.”
He looked down at the seven-year-old boy. “Leave you? Now why would I do that? I’m here to take you home. But before we can leave, everyone needs to cover their mouths and noses with something. Use a scarf or a towel, even a sock… anything you can find. You older kids, help out the little ones. Once we leave the gym, you can’t touch anything… you need to breathe through your scarves. Leave your belongings here, you don’t need them. Only your jackets, gloves, and hats.”
Chinatown
6:39 A.M.
The sudden reverberation of her crystal caused Manisha to jump. She looked around with a mother’s paranoia. “Pankaj, where’s Dawn?”
Her husband pointed ahead to where their daughter was walking hand in hand with the hooded figure of Patrick Shepherd. “She insisted. Is something wrong?”
“Everything is wrong,” Manisha whispered, trembling. “Our supernal guide is close.”
* * *
“Patrick, can we stop for a moment, I need to rest.” Dawn released his right hand and sat on an air vent, using the back end of her coat for padding against the frosted surface. “Sorry, my feet hurt.”
“Mine, too.” He leaned against the corner of the rooftop’s five-foot ledge, gazing below at Mott Street. “Columbus Park is only a few more blocks. Would you like me to carry you? I can put you on my back, just like I used to do with my own little…”
His voice trailed off, his eyes focused on the street below.
“What is it, Patrick? What do you see?”
The Chinese were efficient, he had to give them that. As the plague-infested bodies began multiplying, they had moved quickly, disposing of their dead directly into the sewers in the most efficient way possible — by dropping them headfirst down the open manholes. At some point, the seemingly endless procession of corpses had piled up below, clogging the makeshift burial ground. As a result, every manhole on Mott Street was stuffed with bodies, the legs of the last deceased protruding out of each open aperture upside down.
Inverted bodies, protruding feet first from the earth… The Scythe vaccine latched on to the long-extinct memory as if hooking a fish, dragging it up from the abyss and reeling it to the surface.
Wisps of gray mist rolled over Mott Street—
— revealing a muddy landscape that stretches for a thousand miles in every direction. The dead are everywhere — mottled, rotting corpses. Most lie in layers in the muck, others remain buried headfirst up to their waists in the bog. Prolonged exposure underwater had peeled the drowning victims’ clothes from their flesh, in some cases the flesh from bone.
It is a valley of the dead, a fermenting graveyard of tens of thousands, the aftermath of an unimaginable natural disaster… or an act of God.
Shep snapped awake, his body trembling, his mind still gripped by the terrifying images. Instinctively, he dropped to his knees and hugged Dawn with his one good arm, his shaken spirit somehow soothed by her aura.
“Patrick, what is it? What did you see?”
“Death. On a scale I could never imagine. Somehow… it was my fault.”
“You must go.”
“Yes, we have to leave this place.”
“Not us. Just you.”
“What are you talking about?” He pulled away—
— and that was when he saw the spirit. The luminescent blue apparition appeared to be hovering over Dawn, whispering in her ear, instructing the child as she spoke. “You must leave us to tend to another flock.”
“What flock? Dawn, is your spiritual companion telling you this?”
“Ten levels below us is Malebolge, a pouch of evil where the innocent are being accosted. Go to them, Patrick. Free them from servitude. We will meet you outside this circle of death when you have completed the task.”
Patrick regained his feet, his eyes transfixed on the Light as he staggered backward—
— nearly toppling over Virgil. “What’s wrong, son? Not another vision?”
“This was something different. Something much worse. Genocide. Destruction. The End of Days. Somehow, I was there for it, only it wasn’t me. But I caused it. I was directly involved!”
The others gathered around.
“Try to remain calm, we’ll sort this out.”
“I have to go.”
“Go where?” Paolo asked. “I thought you needed to find your family?”
“I do.” He looked from Virgil to the girl, the spirit’s light fading behind her. “But first I need to run a quick errand.”
Malebolge
6:53 A.M.
She was drifting between the pain of consciousness and the finality of darkness, the terrifying presence of the three circling predators ultimately keeping her from passing out.
She was bent over the tabletop, her jeans pushed down around her ankles. Her body trembled, her skin crawling as they moved in for the kill.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but could not escape the abusive aftershave of the one called Ali Chino. The lanky Mexican lurked before her; still she refused to look at him. She gagged as he licked her neck. She trembled as the blade of his knife glided past her throat and down her blouse. He removed each button with a flick of his wrist. She involuntarily jumped back, discovering Farfarello.
The Sicilian was twenty. He tore off her bra and groped her breasts from behind, his hands as callused and cold as his soul. Her mind blotted out the Sicilian and Mexican, the two followers having been relegated to leftovers at the feast. It was the alpha male who caused her to tremble, the demon pulling down her panties, groping her from behind.
Wanting her for himself, Cagnazzo shoved Farfarello aside. The Colombian was a psychopath. A monster who lived to inflict pain and suffering. Gavi Kantor cried out as the twenty-seven-year-old’s blistered fingers probed her with one hand, readying himself with the
other. He leaned forward. Whispered in broken English, “This is going to hurt. It’s going to hurt bad. And when I’m done, I’m going to do it again with my gun.”
For thirteen-year-old Gavi Kantor, there was nothing left. No more fear, no more spent nerves, no emotions or prayers. The butterfly had been broken on the wheel, the last hours of her existence taking with it her identity, her future, her past.
The Colombian bent her over the desk, getting no resistance.
And then, suddenly, there was another presence in the room — another predator.
There are three of them… and the girl. She is in her early teens, her shirt torn open and bloodied, her lower body naked, stretched belly down across a desk. Dark eyes greet him as he enters the den of iniquity. The teen cries out. The garbled words need no translation.
“This is not our battle, Sergeant. Leave the premises now!”
“Not this time.”
Cagnazzo looked up, startled. “Who the fuck are you?”
Patrick Shepherd’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m the Angel of Death.”
The prosthetic arm whipped through the air, its curved blade slicing cleanly through the front of Cagnazzo’s neck and esophagus until the steel edge lodged between the Colombian’s fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae. Shep kicked the dead man loose from his scythe, then turned his attention to the other two slave traders.
Farfarello, pale as a ghost, crossed himself and fled.
Ali Chino, his body paralyzed in fear, watched the bloodstained blade loop upward from the ground, splitting the inverted V between his legs — tearing through his jeans as it sliced open his testicles. The castrated Mexican youth screamed in agony, then fell forward, clutching his gushing privates… knocking himself out on the desk.
Gavi Kantor covered herself, her body trembling. “Whoever you are, please don’t hurt me.”
“I won’t hurt you.” Shep retracted his hood, revealing himself to the girl.
The teen dressed quickly, staring at his face in the flickering candlelight. “I know you…. How do I know you?”
“You’re shivering. Here, take my coat.” He slipped off the ski jacket, handing it to her.
“My name is Patrick. We need to get out of here.” He searched the dead Colombian, removing a.45 caliber Smith & Wesson from his waistband.
“They kidnapped me… they were going to… oh my God—”
He put his arm around her as she lost it. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here. Is there anyone else here? Any other girls?”
“They’re locked up in a room. Down the hall.”
“Show me.”
Battery Park
7:04 A.M.
Sheridan Ernstmeyer arrived at the eleventh-floor landing first, sweat pouring beneath her rebreather mask and down her face. For a well-deserved moment, she luxuriated in the intense burning sensation in her quadriceps, the endorphin high always accompanying a good workout.
Turning back to the stairs, she looked down — Ernest Lozano lagged two floors below. “Anytime, Mr. Y-Chromosome. Preferably before the apocalypse.”
No answer.
“What’s the apartment number? I’ll handle this myself.”
“Eleven-oh-two. Why didn’t you tell me that nine floors ago?”
“You needed the workout. Man up while I grab Shepherd’s wife.” She yanked open the fire door, gun in hand.
The apartment was close to the stairwell, second door on the left. She knocked loudly several times. “Mrs. Shepherd, open up! Hello?” She banged again, readying herself to kick down the barrier.
Someone inside approached. “Who is it?” The voice belonged to a woman in her thirties.
“I’m with the military, Mrs. Shepherd. It’s very important I speak with you.” She held her identification up to the peephole.
A dead bolt was retracted. The door opened—
— revealing a thirty-two-year-old African-American woman dressed in a flannel bathrobe.
“Beatrice Shepherd?”
“No, I’m Karen. Beatrice is my mother.”
“Your mother? No, that can’t be right. Your husband… your estranged husband, Patrick… he needs to see you.”
“I’m not married, and my mother has been a widow for twenty years. I think you have the wrong person.” She attempted to shut the door, only Sheridan’s boot was in the way.
“You’re lying. Show me some ID.”
“You need to leave.”
The assassin aimed her gun at the woman’s face. “You are Beatrice, aren’t you?”
“Karen?”
The voice came from somewhere in the dark living room. Sheridan pushed her way in. Candlelight revealed a figure sprawled out on the sofa.
Fifty-seven-year-old Beatrice Eloise Shepherd lay in a pool of her own sweat and blood, the woman’s body wracked with fever. An obscene dark bubo, the size of a ripe apple, protruded above the neckline of her silk pajamas. She was clearly on death’s door—
— and she was clearly not the estranged wife of Sergeant Patrick Ryan Shepherd.
The female assassin backed away, then turned and left the apartment—
— running into Ernest Lozano in the corridor. “So? Where’s Shepherd’s wife? I thought you were handling it, hotshot.”
Raising the 9mm pistol, Sheridan Ernstmeyer calmly and coldly shot the agent three times in the face, bone shrapnel and blood spraying across her mask. “We had the wrong person.”
Stepping over the corpse, she hurried for the stairwell, enjoying the fleeting rush of endorphins flowing in her brain.
“This is the end… beautiful friend
This is the end… my only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes… again.”
— The Doors, “The End”
Ninth Circle
Treachery
“We silently climbed the bank which forms its border. Here it was less than day and less than night, so that my vision could hardly reach farther than a few yards. But if I was limited in sight I heard a high horn which made such a loud blast that the effect of thunder would have been slight by comparison. Immediately my eyes passed back along the path of the sound to its place of origin. Not even Roland's horn surpassed its dreadful wail. Not long after I'd turned my face to follow the sound there appeared to my eyes a number of high towers, or so I believed, and I asked: "Master, what is that city which lies before us?" And he explained: "What you've perceived are false images which come from trying to penetrate the shadows too deeply. You'll see how you're deceived once we get closer, so try to accelerate."
— Dante’s Inferno
December 21
Greenwich Village, Manhattan
7:11 A.M.
(52 minutes before the prophesied End of Days)
Major Steve Downey sat in the front passenger seat of the black military Hummer, his gaze focused on the live video feeds coming from the two Reaper drones hovering over Chinatown. For nearly two hours, his team of Rangers had maneuvered their military vehicles along sidewalks littered with the dead and dying, progressively working their way south as they tracked their quarry through Lower Manhattan. And then, somehow, Shepherd and his entourage had evaded them. By the time the Reapers had reestablished contact, Downey’s crew had reached Houston Street.
The east — west thoroughfare that separated Greenwich Village from SoHo was a wall of vehicles that could not be negotiated. With chopper extractions banned because of the cloud cover and the UN evacuation set for seven thirty, time was running out quickly.
“Base to Serpent One.”
Downey grabbed the radio. “Serpent One, give me some good news.”
“The ESVs have landed. ETA for ESV-2 is three minutes.”
“Roger that.” Downey switched frequencies to speak with his second-in-command. �
�Serpent Two, the road’s being paved, prepare to move out.”
* * *
While the backbone of the US Army’s ground forces remained the Abrams and Bradley tanks, these heavily armored vehicles, weighing upward of sixty-seven tons each, often required months to transport to the battlefield. For assignments requiring rapid deployment, the Defense Department developed the Stryker Force, eight-wheeled attack vehicles that weighed only thirty-eight thousand pounds, could be airlifted via a single C-130 aircraft, and possessed enough armor to stop small-arms fire.
The two vehicles that had been off-loaded from flatbed barges in Battery Park and Hudson River Park were M1132 Stryker Engineer Support Vehicles, each fitted with a seven-foot-high, two-foot-thick arrowhead-shaped steel tractor blade mounted to the Stryker’s front end, converting the ESVs into fast-moving bulldozers.
Having deployed at Pier 25 in Tribeca, ESV-2 plowed its way east along Houston Street doing thirty miles an hour, its driver viewing Manhattan through night-vision and thermal-imaging cameras as he rammed his V-shaped blade into the gridlocked avenues, pushing vehicles aside and flipping buses as the Stryker cleared a twenty-foot-wide path through Lower Manhattan. Reaching Broadway, the all-terrain vehicle turned right, obliterated the wall of cars blocking the two black military Hummers, then headed south, the two Ranger teams following in its wake.
Tribeca
7:17 A.M.
David Kantor exited the building’s southwest stairwell, the seven-year-old boy in his arms, the rest of the students in tow. The older teens looked around, in shock. “What happened?”
“Oh my… there are dead people everywhere.”
“Eww!” Children screamed, panicking the rest of the herd.
“It’s okay. Stay calm.” David looked around, desperate to find a means of transportation, even as he realized the futility of the task. “Kids, do you know where the school keeps its buses?”
“I do!” The sixth-grade girl pointed west down 41st Street.
“Good. Okay, everyone stay together now and watch where you’re walking.” He followed the middle schooler through a tight passage between rows of cars, the older teens plying him with questions.
