by Alex Scarrow
‘We came here looking for someone,’ said Rashim. ‘We think he is living somewhere here in Manhattan.’
‘Who’s that? You might as well tell me. I know pretty much everyone livin’ in Tower City.’
Maddy and Rashim exchanged a glance. Maddy answered. ‘He’s living at the top of the W.G.S. Tower, I think. The one that overlooks Times Square.’
‘Times Square?’ The pilot laughed. ‘Not heard that name used round here in a while. You talkin’ about the round glass tower?’ He pointed. ‘That one over there?’
She had no idea which one was the old W.G. Systems head office. But he was pointing towards where Times Square used to be. ‘Yeah.’
‘So, you know the old guy who lives there? You know old Walt?’
Walt? She looked at Rashim. Walt … Waldstein?
‘Yes.’ She nodded quickly. ‘Yes. Walt. We’ve been trying to find him for ages. Could you, like, maybe, take us over to him on your boat?’
The pilot shrugged. ‘Can do, but I ain’t doing it for free. I’m the cab driver round here. The last New York cabbie, to be precise.’ He pointed at a grubby plastic For Hire sign perched on a couple of poles at the rear of his launch. She recognized it as one of those that used to glow on top of the city’s thousands of yellow cabs. All of them now rusting carcasses lost beneath the water.
‘Cabbie … that’s my job here.’
‘We, uh … look, we don’t have any money on us, though.’
‘Money?’ He spat over the side of his boat. ‘Money? You kiddin’ me? What barter you got over there?’ He was looking at the heavy backpacks Rashim and Becks had slung across their shoulders. ‘You got any tinnies? Bottle-stuff? Non-perishables?’
Food. That’s what he was after. Food or drink.
‘Yeah. We got some stuff we can trade … barter with you.’
The cabbie grinned. ‘Then I guess you got yourself a ride.’
Five minutes later, they had agreed a fare he was happy with. He ushered them aboard, shoved the launch back off the bridge and tugged on the outboard motor’s starter chain until it snarled reluctantly to life. He turned his launch round and headed westwards, steering it among a cluster of low buildings that decades ago had once been known as SoHo. To their left, the buildings climbed steeply as they converged towards what used to be the business end – Battery Park, the south tip of Manhattan. To their right, looming a mere six storeys above them, were buildings that in the first half of the twentieth century used to be factories and warehouses and mills, and in the latter half became the fashionable loft homes of New York’s rich and famous. Loft-dwelling lovelies with their rooftop gardens and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in all-day sun on to their Andy Warhol prints.
‘Where do you live?’ asked Maddy.
The cabbie pushed the peak of his cap back. ‘Moved upwards only recently. Used to be all set up and cosy on the fourth floor of Macy’s department store, West 34th. But I had to move up a couple of floors on account of the rising tide and the damp creeping up above it. Damned concrete soaks up that seawater like a sponge.’
‘The sea’s still rising?’
‘Some Yorkers reckon it slowed down to about six inches last year.’ He nodded. ‘I mean, that’s good. You know? OK, it’s still rising, but it’s slowin’ down an’ all. Might even be that I won’t have to go move all my gear up again.’
He steered the boat to the right, turning northwards. Ahead of them was a broad waterway, a hundred feet across, flanked on either side by buildings that grew increasingly taller.
‘Since you folks’re visitors, you might be interested in the names this place used to have?’ He turned and talked over his shoulder at them. ‘This waterway used to be known as Broadway. And right up ahead there? See? Where them buildings are all getting tall?’
Maddy nodded. ‘I know. That’s Times Square.’
The launch sputtered slowly northwards.
They passed windows between towering walls of glass and concrete; the lowest, near the sea level, were fogged green by algal growth, their sills dangling ribbons of seagrass, like green walrus moustaches. Further up they were just fogged with grime. Roofs and balconies here and there displayed flashes of colour: clothes on laundry lines. Maddy even spotted the furtive glance of a small child from a rooftop above them.
‘Most of us Islanders live up round this way,’ he said. ‘Foraging is still pretty good here. You’d be amazed how much you can still find in kitchens in all these old homes. When those levee walls gave way, most folks in this city panicked, just left everything of theirs behind and ran for higher ground.’
‘You live on just that? On what you can find?’ asked Maddy.
‘Hell, no. Most of the people grow some of what they eat too. We got gardens on rooftops and plenty of rain keeps them watered. I know some of them fish too. You can get cod, crayfish, sometimes even tuna. But all the dirty crud that floats in these waterways? I’m not too sure I’d want to eat anything caught round here.’
The motorboat finally emerged from the wide straight waterway that was once Broadway into a space that looked vaguely like a lagoon: a wedge-shaped open area of shallow water surrounded on all three sides by the looming buildings round what was once Times Square. Here and there she could see large, still digi-screens that had once played endless commercials and run headlines in ticker-tape along the bottom. Neon signs that had once upon a time jostled each other for space above the street entrances of stores, attempting to out-glare and out-flicker each other like petulant children seeking attention, now sat inert and lifeless, half in, half out of the water.
The water here was as flat as a millpond, the lethargic tide all but spent slapping against the labyrinthine sides of buildings to get to this sheltered cove. Corroded roofs of auto-trucks and freighter pods broke the surface, along with street lamps, which were dotted around like isolated stalks of bamboo poking from swamp water.
‘Over there,’ the cabbie said, nodding, and steered his vessel carefully across the smooth water, frequently leaning over the side to be sure his boat wasn’t about to run aground.
‘Right at the top. That’s where old Walt’s living right now,’ he said, cutting the engine down to an idle spitting chug. ‘Although I think his missus prefers they live lower down nearer the waterline.’
Maddy looked at Rashim. ‘His missus?’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know he had a wife.’
Rashim shrugged.
‘You guys aren’t his family, I’m guessing,’ said the cabbie as he coaxed his boat round the curved, cloudy plexiglas roof of a submerged bus stop. ‘What are you, old friends or something?’
Maddy decided to go with something that was kind of close to the truth. Kind of.
‘We, uh … we used to work for W.G. Systems a while back. We’re employees.’
‘Lost touch in all the chaos, huh? The big migrations?’
‘That’s it.’
The boat idled its way towards the half-submerged entrance portico to the skyscraper. The green top of a faded Starbucks sign protruded from the waterline and attached to it was a floating jetty made from wooden pallets supported on a bed of lashed-together plastic gallon drums. Tied to the jetty in a row were several boats, an inflatable, a kayak and a fibreglass canoe.
‘You’re lucky. Walt’s home by the look of it.’ The boat nudged against the jetty and the cabbie threw a loop of rope over a post. ‘Here we are.’
They clambered up on to the bobbing wooden pallets and the cabbie honked an air horn to alert the tower’s inhabitants that they had guests. Maddy craned her neck to look up at the glass-fronted tower. Like most of the other buildings, the majority of the panels were still intact, if grubby. Here and there broken glass had been plugged with boards to keep the elements out. Above them, laundry fluttered from a washing line suspended from a dead electric cable that looped low across the ‘lagoon’ to a nearby building. Near the top she spotted large red letters, a logo she recognized from some of the software and stationery she’d se
en round their Brooklyn archway. The same logo stamped on the bottom of the growth tubes they’d had in the back room.
W.G. Systems.
The cabbie honked his horn again and from an open window a floor above them they caught a glimpse of a head poking out. ‘Who’s that down there on m’ porch?!’
‘You got some visitors, Walt!’ the cabbie called back up as he unhooked the rope and began to reverse his boat away from the jetty.
Maddy turned to Rashim. ‘That’s not Waldstein … surely?’
‘No … it isn’t.’
A moment later, they heard a rattling and shutter doors cracked open wide above them. A fire ladder emerged from the dim interior, and clattered down, extending until it thumped on to the wooden slats of the jetty. A dark face framed by coils of grey-white hair peered out at them.
‘You folks had better come on up. But don’t get any stupid ideas about ripping me off … I got a gun up here with me!’
They climbed up the creaking ladder one after the other. Up and into the tower through a large improvised doorway of wooden shutters. The old man, lean and narrow-shouldered and in his mid-sixties, beckoned them inside, a rifle hanging loosely in the crook of one arm.
‘Now, I don’t know you folks from Adam. But Cabbie said you all came over here to visit with me?’
They were standing in what must have once been a restaurant or a coffee shop that would have looked out across the bustling space of Times Square. Tables and chairs were stacked untidily against a far wall and most of the cleared floor space was filled with scavenged boxes and cartons of packaged and tinned food.
‘Roald Waldstein,’ corrected Maddy. ‘We came here to see Roald Waldstein.’
‘Waldstein?’ The old man’s dark face wrinkled sceptically. ‘You ain’t talkin’ about the Mr Waldstein, are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Maddy, ‘the “W” of W.G. Systems. The Roald Waldstein.’
That dark face suddenly split with a bright grin and he cackled with bemusement. ‘You people for real?’
‘The guy … who just dropped us off. He said Walt was living here.’
‘Yeah. I’m Walt, young lady.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Mr Walter M. Roberts Junior. This ain’t no W.G.S. Tower no more; this is Roberts Tower. It’s my tower now.’
She took his hand out of courtesy and shook. All the same she couldn’t help but let out a sigh of frustration. Clearly Waldstein was long gone from here. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry for the intrusion, Mr Roberts … looks like we’ve made a mistake here. The boat guy said “Walt” … and we thought he meant –’
‘No idea where Mr Waldstein is holed up these days, I’m afraid, miss. The old man didn’t say much to me when he finally upped sticks and left Manhattan.’
‘“Say much to me”?’ Rashim stepped forward eagerly. ‘You have actually met the man? Spoken with Waldstein?!’
Walter M. Roberts Jnr’s eyes widened slightly at that. So did his grin. ‘Met him? Of course I met him. Hell, I used to work for him. I was Mr Waldstein’s personal valet.’
CHAPTER 9
First century, Jerusalem
Liam found himself staring down at dry dirt between his hands. He looked up. Ahead of him was the dark form of a parched eucalyptus bush struggling for sustenance and moisture in the dry ground, shadowed by several twisted and squat olive trees. Above them, a full moon shone down from a clear, star-speckled sky.
I’m here. In the time of Jesus Christ.
He turned to his right and saw the support unit squatting on all fours and looking up at the moon. ‘Bob, you OK?’
‘I am fine, Liam.’
‘Beautiful night, eh?’
‘The stars, Liam. They appear –’
‘Yeah … yeah, they’re lovely too. Come on, you big old romantic. We should get moving.’ He got to his feet and looked around. They were standing amid a loosely spaced grove of stunted olive trees, their brittle leaves hissing gently as a soft, warm breeze stirred their branches. Down at the bottom of the slope, the vast ancient city was bathed in the quicksilver blue from the moon, but also spotted with thousands of flickering pinpricks of amber – the light from oil lamps and fires. A city every bit awake at night as New York. Beyond the large stone wall that snaked round it, up and down, over gentle rolling hills and troughs, he could see a dozen campfires and figures gathered round them.
Jerusalem.
He spotted a train of oxen below, kicking up dust as they pulled a trader’s cart along a rutted road that led into the city through a large arch. Beyond the archway, the north-east gate into the city, he could see a marketplace alive with activity, and steps leading up to a vast square walled courtyard that overlooked it. The courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls lined with Grecian columns, was dappled with flickering light from hundreds of torches and braziers, and filled with people milling around what appeared to be traders’ stalls.
‘Looks like a busy place, over there.’
Bob followed his gaze and nodded. ‘That square area is known as the temple platform.’
In the middle of it, Liam could make out a tall rectangular building with towers on the corners. ‘Is that … is that the temple?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t see the big dome anywhere.’ Liam had checked out some images of Jerusalem’s Holy Temple, the Dome of the Rock, from their database. He had been expecting to see a huge gold-plated dome on the top of it.
‘That dome will be built nearly seven hundred years from now, Liam. It will be built on the ruins of the temple you see now.’
‘Ah, right. And … somewhere beneath that large courtyard and the temple …?’
‘Affirmative. In theory, we will locate the other tachyon transmitter.’ He turned to Liam. ‘If our estimation of the tangent of the beam was correct, that is.’
Liam looked at the rest of the city, a carpet of terraces and flat rooftops that undulated with the underlying geometry of shallow valleys and gentle slopes. The temple platform, and the temple in the middle, was spread on top of the city’s highest hill. He recalled the bowl-like shape of that Mayan city in the jungle, tucked into a concealed sinkhole or caldera, and, beneath the central plaza, that enormous cylindrical chamber; he could imagine a similar structure concealed somewhere deep within this hill. Looking at the shape of the city … it seemed the most likely place to hide something so big.
‘So … are your cat’s whiskers picking up anything yet?’
Bob cocked a thick brow at him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Tachyons?’
He nodded his head slowly. ‘Negative. The beam is very tightly directed. If it is down there, beneath the temple platform, I will need to be much closer before I will be able to detect any rogue particles.’
‘Well then, looks to me like the temple is wide open for business, even at this time of night.’ He pulled the strap of his goatskin bag on to his shoulder.
‘Would you like me to carry that?’
Liam gave that a moment’s thought. ‘Aye … you’re right. What am I doing? You’re the big strong one.’
CHAPTER 10
2070, New York
‘We chose to stay on here,’ said Walt. He smiled warmly at his wife sitting across the large marble dining table. ‘Myself and Charm. Our babies bein’ grown up and all with babies of their own – they got their own lives in other places. So it was a decision just for us. When the Manhattan authorities finally said there was nothing left of the city for them to run, and that we should all pack up and leave, me and Charm decided we weren’t goin’ anywhere.’
They were sitting round a circular table of rich dark polished marble. Sitting on ridiculously expensive-looking designer dinner chairs and all of them gazing out of the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that circled them all the way round the top of the W.G.S. Tower. Darkness was beginning to set in already, even though it was only just gone four in the afternoon. Outside, in the gathering overcast gloom, were several dozen pinpricks of light and the flick
er of movement coming from the tops of other abandoned skyscrapers, as others in this artificial-island community passed in front of their candles and gas lamps and electric lamps, preparing their evening meals.
Becks stood like a stone sentinel, silhouetted against one of the panoramic windows and studying the flooded world outside for any approaching signs of danger.
‘When did that happen, Mr Roberts?’ asked Maddy. ‘When did this place get flooded?’
He smiled at her. ‘Walt’s more than good enough for me,’ he said. ‘New York officially became an abandoned city back in ’61. But it was more’n dead already when them damn levee walls gave way the year before.’ The old man shook his head sadly. ‘Tidal surge that caused it. Tidal surge that rolled right up the Hudson and East Rivers like a freight train. Large section of them levee walls just gave up the struggle and caved in. Damn mini tsunami, twenty feet high if not more, washed down into all these streets.’
Charm, a handsome old woman with tight coils of grey hair held back by a thick hairband, pressed her lips together then spoke. ‘That wave went and flooded the Manhattan subway lines still being used by folks to get to work. Thousands of people were drowned. Those poor, poor souls; they never stood a chance. People in carriages, trapped in those long dark tunnels. All of them drowned in just a few seconds.’
‘God,’ whispered Maddy. ‘That must have been awful.’
‘Yes, miss, it was,’ she replied. ‘Ever since then, this place has remained underwater. Nobody ever reclaimed all those bodies. Somebody said that maybe five or six thousand folks died that day.’ She smiled sadly at her. ‘New York died that day. It just took that useless mayor and all his officials a year to catch up with the fact.’
Walt shook his head firmly. ‘City ain’t dead just yet.’ Clearly this was something they discussed and disagreed on frequently. ‘No way, Charm, this isn’t no dead city, nor is it an abandoned city, not while there’s so many of us island folk still living out here.’ He pointed at the large panoramic windows. ‘C’mon, you can see them lights on out there? OK, it ain’t all sparkly like it used to be years back. Sure, this place isn’t lit up like some Christmas tree just as you see in the old movies. But you folks can see clear as glass, at night anyway, this city’s still got maybe a hundred … two hundred people living in it.’ He shrugged defiantly. ‘That makes it alive enough in my opinion.’
