by Steve Alten
“Did these people all die of plague?”
“How are you gonna drive a bus? The streets are jammed.”
The sound was faint — popping sounds — like distant firecrackers.
“Manhattan’s been quarantined. How’re you going to get us off the island?”
“We were safer inside. Maybe we should go back?”
“Quiet!” David stopped to listen.
The disturbance was growing louder, approaching from the north, the popping becoming more of a bashing of metal on metal, accompanied by a deep, rumbling sound.
“That’s an ESV. The military must be clearing an evacuation route. Kids, come on!”
Battery Park
7:19 A.M.
Sheridan Ernstmeyer heard the eruption of metal on metal the moment she exited the building lobby, the sound resembling a demolition derby. She approximated the location, then hustled back to the SUV. “Bert?” She shook the secretary of defense awake.
“Where’s Shepherd’s wife?”
“Dead,” she lied, “but the military’s here. There’s an ESV moving north on Broadway. Must be an extraction team.”
Bertrand DeBorn sat up, his mask spotted with specks of blood. “Get us out of here.”
Chinatown
7:22 A.M.
The survivors — seven foreign girls wrapped in blankets — followed their one-armed angel and the American teenager through pitch-dark corridors and up a set of creaky wooden steps to the first floor of the Chinese souvenir shop.
The brothel’s 270-pound madam was standing before the store’s front door, the Mexican woman’s rotund mass blocking the exit. “And where do you think you are going, Chuleta?”
Patrick Shepherd stepped in front of the girls, aiming the dead Colombian’s gun at the madam’s head. “Move it or lose it.”
The madam smiled through bloodstained teeth. “You do not frighten me. I am protected by Santa Muerte.”
“Never heard of her.” Raising his right knee, Patrick launched a front-thrust kick into the obese woman’s belly, sending her crashing backward through the store’s plate-glass window.
The girls scampered over the body of their former keeper and into the night.
Columbus Park
7:25 A.M.
Pankaj Patel led his family and fellow plague survivors down Bayard Street to the perimeter fence. Columbus Park’s asphalt basketball courts and synthetic baseball field were covered in snow, the reflective alabaster surface offering a peek at the extent of Scythe’s infestation upon the rodent population.
Hundreds of black rats moved as one in a symbiotic dance of tug-of-war. Rendered mad by the perpetual bites of ten thousand starving fleas, competing packs of rodents swarmed and retreated across the basketball court like schools of fish. At the center of this blood-laced scrum were the remains of an elderly couple, their ravaged torsos left recognizable only by their tattered outer garments, which provided grappling materials for tiny claws and teeth.
The visceral battle caused the six survivors to back away from the fence.
Francesca moaned, her contractions coming more frequently with every passing minute. “Paolo, do something!”
“Virgil, my wife’s having our baby.”
“And what would you have me do?”
“Lead us away from this horrible place. Get us to the waterfront and my brother-in-law’s boat.”
“What about Patrick?”
“We can’t wait for him any longer. If what he said was true, then we’re running out of time.”
Manisha nodded at Pankaj. “He’s right. We cannot wait any longer.”
“Mom, no!”
“Dawn, sweetheart, whatever he’s doing, he’ll find us when he can.”
“Perhaps you should build a golden calf?”
The four adults turned to face the old man.
“Pray to the idol, perhaps it will grant you the salvation you seek.”
“Virgil, my wife is about to have a baby. We’re surrounded by death—”
“—and who led you across this valley of death? Who inoculated your wife and child from plague? Manisha, who was it who risked his own life to save your family from the hangman’s noose? Yet here you are, ready to abandon your leader as easily as the Israelites abandoned Moses at Sinai. Faith is easy when things are going right, when the challenges remain negotiable, not as much so when faced with your own mortality. But what if this is the very purpose of the physicality? To test one’s faith, to battle the ego, to trust the system.”
Pankaj broke into a cold sweat. He could hear the rats growling thirty feet behind him as they tore into morsels of human flesh. “What system, Virgil? What are you advising us to do?”
“Act with unquestioning certainty.”
Dawn pointed. “There he is!”
Shep was jogging toward them, accompanied by a small group of girls, ages ten to eighteen. The youngest — a Mexican child, clung to his chest.
Manisha burst into tears of shame, immediately connecting Patrick’s “errand” to the sex slaves he had just liberated. She took the child from him, allowing Shep to catch his breath. “We need to hurry, the sun’ll be up soon.”
Nodding at Virgil, the one-armed man led his growing flock west on Worth Street toward Broadway.
United Nations Plaza
7:29 A.M.
The Boeing CH-47F Chinook commercial transport helicopter flew low over New York Harbor, its tandem rotors kicking up the frigid waters, its pilots purposely avoiding the ominous layer of brown clouds swirling several hundred feet overhead. Reaching the East River, the heavy-lift airship headed north, following the narrow waterway to Lower Manhattan, landing at the United Nations Plaza.
A procession of delegates exited the lobby of the Secretariat Building, each survivor dressed hood to boots in an environmental suit. The ambulant occupied the permanent seats situated in the center of the Chinook. Those on stretchers were secured in the cargo area—
— President Eric Kogelo among them.
Foley Square
7:32 A.M.
The sound reached them first — booming metallic collisions that rattled the night. The lights appeared next, blazing and bright, silhouetting a wave of vehicles tossed from the monster's path as it crashed its way east on Worth Street.
"This way!" Shep led them south into Foley Square.
Engines growled in the distance. Strobe lights illuminated the columns of the surrounding civic buildings. A Reaper drone loomed overhead, its camera catching Shep as he attempted to lead his followers up the US courthouse steps — the same steps Bernard Madoff had trod years earlier. As with the captured Ponzi schemer, there was no escape.
A midnight wave of Rangers swarmed in from all sides. They pinned Patrick Shepherd to the concrete, their flashlight beams blinding his eyes as they pawed every square inch of flesh and stripped the clothing from his body. He screamed in agony as two Rangers wrenched his steel prosthetic from his lacerated shoulder, tearing nerve endings and tendons as they amputated the limb by force.
Patrick writhed on the ground, his wounded body in spasms, his mind set on fire. He heard Dawn cry out in pain. He registered Paolo’s protests as gloved hands performed a cavity search on his laboring spouse.
The terror ceased, its victims left naked and shivering on the snow-covered lawn. Major Downey stalked the area. “Report.”
“Sir, we found three vials of Scythe vaccine on Sergeant Shepherd, nothing more.”
Downey straddled Patrick, pressing his boot to the amputee’s bleeding left deltoid. “Where’s the rest of the vaccine?”
“I sent it to your mother as a thank-you for last night.”
The Ranger wound up to kick Shep in the face when Virgil, lying on the ground beside him, grabbed his ankle. “He inoculated these survivors. Take them with you, they remain plague-free.”
“No one’s going anywhere, old man.” Downey activated his internal headset. “Serpent to base, we’ve acquired the Scythe vaccine.
”
“Well done. We’ll meet you at the extraction point in five minutes.”
“Roger that. Okay, people, let’s move!” The Rangers double-timed it back to their vehicles—
— as a black Chevy Suburban skidded to a halt in front of the Hummers, causing the men to aim their assault weapons. A woman wearing a cloth mask climbed out of the driver’s seat, her hands raised. “Don’t shoot! I’m with the Secret Service. I have Secretary of Defense Bertrand DeBorn in back. We’re to be part of your extraction.”
Downey opened the back door of the Suburban, gazing at the white-haired man, who appeared to be unconscious. “It’s him all right. And he’s got full-blown Scythe. Load him on board, we’ll get him into a Racal suit back at the docks.”
“What about her?” One of the Rangers pointed to Sheridan Ernstmeyer.
“She goes, too.”
The female assassin breathed a sigh of relief.
Across the park, a slight figure in a white Racal suit stepped out from behind a statue. The Tibetan monk removed his hood, his opaque eyes glittering like diamonds at Bertrand DeBorn.
The secretary of defense gurgled on a larynx full of blood, tumbling from the open rear door of the Suburban.
One of the Rangers checked for a pulse. “He’s done.”
“Leave him, we’re running out of time.” Major Downey climbed into the front seat of the lead Hummer.
“Wait!” Sheridan Ernstmeyer grabbed at the closing door. “What about me?”
“Sorry, lady. Looks like your ticket out of here just croaked.”
Before she could react, the two military vehicles executed wild U-turns across the snow-covered park lawn, skidding their way back down Worth Street.
To the east, the slice of horizon beneath the false brown ceiling of clouds had turned gray, summoning the dawn. Retrieving their clothing, the accosted survivors dressed quickly, shivering in the cold.
Patrick dressed, his mangled left shoulder on fire. With his bare right hand, he gathered a clump of snow to press against the wound — revealing a small in-ground plaque:
“These are the times that try men's souls…"
Thomas Paine.
Paolo comforted his wife, covering her with his overcoat. “It’s all right. God will not abandon us in our hour of need.”
“Wake up, Paolo. Look around you. God has abandoned us.”
“You should restrict your tongue from negativity. Especially with a child to be born.”
Francesca turned to see the bizarre-looking Asian. “Who the hell are you?”
Gelut Panim offered a slight bow. “A humble servant of the Light.”
Pankaj looked up. Seeing the Elder, he rushed over. “How?”
“It’s not important.” The monk scanned the group. “I seek the righteous one. Where is he?”
Heads turned as a yellow school bus barreled around Centre Street, skidding to a halt.
The front door squeaked open, releasing an ominous figure dressed in black.
The women screamed.
David Kantor removed his face mask. “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you. I saw the military vehicles drive off, and—”
“Dad?”
David turned, his heart pounding in his throat as his eyes sorted through a crowd of scantily clad women—
— finding his lost lamb. “Gavi? Oh, God, thank you.” He rushed to her, sweeping her up in his arms like a rag doll, crushing her in his embrace, his daughter weeping uncontrollably. “I was so scared. I’ve been looking for you! I went to your school—”
“They kidnapped me! They beat me. Daddy, I was so scared—”
“Who beat you?” He looked at her face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. That man saved me. The man with one arm.” She pointed at Patrick, sitting slumped over on a park bench.
David stared at the gaunt figure. “Shep?”
“Daddy, you know him, don’t you? I saw a picture of you with him in Iraq.”
“Gavi, get on the bus. Get all these girls with you aboard, too.” David watched her go, then walked over to the bench, pushing past a small Asian and an old man.
“Shep, it’s D.K.”
Patrick looked up, his eyes swimming in pain. “Who?”
“David… Dr. Kantor. Don’t you recognize me? We spent three deployments together.”
“David?” Shep sat up, the pain snapping him awake. “What are you doing here?”
“The Guard sent me here looking for you. For the vaccine. That girl you rescued, she’s my daughter. Buddy, I owe you big-time.”
Patrick wiped back tears. “Wish I could have saved my own daughter. Bastards took the vaccine before I could get it to her.”
“Your daughter? Oh, geez.” David turned to the old man. “Are you a friend of his?”
“I’d like to think so. Patrick’s memory isn’t so good. Maybe you could help him?”
David sat on the bench next to his fellow vet. The others gathered around. “Shep, how could the vaccine help Donna?”
“Donna?”
“Your daughter.”
Shep’s eyes grew wide in recognition. “Donna. My little girl’s name… is Donna. I remembered Beatrice, but for the life of me—”
“Who’s Beatrice?”
“My wife. You know that.”
“Shep, did you get married while you were in the hospital?”
“David, come on… Beatrice! The only woman I ever loved. The mother of my child… my soul mate.”
David looked to the others, then placed his arm on Patrick’s good shoulder. “The surgeon said the explosion damaged your memory, but there was no telling how bad. Shep, I don’t know who this Beatrice is, but the woman you told me was your soul mate… her name was Patty. Patricia Segal.”
Patrick paled, the blood draining from his face.
“You used to call her Trish. I suppose it sort of sounds like Beatrice. Shep, the two of you never got married. You were engaged… there were wedding plans, but then her dad — your high-school baseball coach — he got sick. The cancer took him right before the Red Sox called you up. Right before the accident.”
An icy shiver ran down Patrick’s spine. “What accident?”
Across the park, the Grim Reaper stared at him… waiting.
David looked to Virgil, who nodded. “Go on, he needs to hear it.”
“Shep, Trish and Donna were aboard the flight from Boston… the one that struck the World Trade Center. Buddy, you lost your family on September 11.”
Francesca clutched her husband’s arm, doubling up with a contraction. Dawn swooned. Manisha grabbed her daughter before she fainted.
Patrick Shepherd’s chest constricted so tightly, he could not breathe.
And in that moment of revelation, a decade of pent-up psychological trauma suddenly released, freeing the synapses within his damaged cerebral cortex as if they were the clogged gears of a clock—
— and suddenly he remembered.
He remembers sprinting down Trinity Place after the second tower was hit.
He remembers thick brown smoke pouring into the heavens. People falling from the sky.
He remembers Trinity Cemetery and the funeral for his soul mate and his young daughter. He remembers filling their empty coffins with their belongings… everything put to rest beneath the sculpture of an angelic child… the very tombstone the Grim Reaper had been motioning at hours earlier.
There was one piece of the puzzle left… one final memory — the day he had realized the truth about September 11, the day he had pieced together the treachery—
— the day he had walked out of his barracks in the Green Zone and into the sunshine, the pin in his right hand—
— the live grenade in his left.
From across the lawn, the Grim Reaper opened his cloaked arms wide, beckoning an embrace. Shep leapt off the bench, sprinting awkwardly toward the Angel of Death, ready to end it all.
The Reaper smiled, disappearing into the shadows.
“Shep, wait!” David started after him—
— the old man blocked his way. “You are a doctor?”
“Huh? Yeah—”
“We have a pregnant woman in labor. Paolo, this man is here to deliver your son. Pankaj, get these people to Battery Park.”
“Virgil, what about you?”
“Patrick needs me. Now hurry, there’s not much time.” The old man patted Pankaj on the cheek, offering a wry smile to a transfixed Gelut Panim before following Patrick’s tracks through the snow.
David, Pankaj, and Paolo helped Francesca onto the awaiting vehicle, the interior of the bus fifty degrees warmer. Manisha escorted Dawn. But at the last moment, Dawn slipped past her mother and dashed across the lawn, retrieving Patrick’s mangled steel prosthetic from the short Asian man.
“Are you coming with us?”
“I’d like that.” The Elder turned, looking for the old man.
Virgil Shechinah was gone.
* * *
The horizon had turned a light gray by the time Shep reached Ann Street. Ahead was Broadway. Looking up, he saw the Reaper beckon from atop a flipped vehicle, the olive green blade of his scythe again dripping blood.
“Bastard!” Gathering himself, Patrick crossed Broadway, continuing east to the corner of Trinity Place and Vesey Street—
— the World Trade Center construction site loomed ahead.
* * *
Pankaj Patel raced the school bus south on Broadway, following the path cleared by the second Stryker. Morning’s first light lifted the veil of a long night, exposing the true horrors of the runaway pandemic. Bodies lay everywhere, strewn across Manhattan as if the Big Apple had been struck by a thirty-story tsunami. Some hung from shattered windows, others still occupied the hundreds of vehicles that clogged every city block. Every sidewalk was a morgue, every building a tomb. Men, women, and children, old and young, ethnic and Caucasian, domestic and foreign — Scythe had spared no one.
The bus passed Trinity Church and the New York Stock Exchange, heading for the southernmost tip of Manhattan — Battery Park.
