Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  Carrying their luggage, they were led into one of the Army administration buildings and led down a corridor filled with offices. Carl could see soldiers at work behind the glass windows, at typewriters and on the phones. A door opened and two officers in fatigues emerged. Carl caught a glimpse of a soldier carrying a green beret in his hand, while his companion held a red one. As soon as the two officers saw the group of reporters, they spun on their heels and went back into the office.

  In the auditorium they were briefed by an Army general with an easel and chart marked U.S. MILITARY DISTRICT - MANHATTAN that showed a map of the island. He was tall, with brown hair cut short and streaked with gray. When he turned to talk to another officer, Carl saw something that reminded him of his neighbor Two-Tone. The general had burn scar tissue on one side of his face. He wondered if he had been in Two-Tone’s unit, back in Cuba. Carl took an aisle seat and Sandy whispered to him, ‘Another press conference. Time to think up another question.’

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out his notebook, scribbled something, and tore off the sheet of paper. Reporters can ask questions. Not photographers. ‘Here. Ask this, if the time comes.’

  Sandy read it and looked at him, quizzically. ‘All right, I think I will. But what do you mean?’

  ‘Shhh,’ he said, getting up from his seat and readying his camera. ‘Briefing is about ready to start.’

  The general went to a plain brown podium and Carl joined the other photographers, kneeling and squatting in the front row. The general cleared his throat and said, ‘I am General Malcolm Conroy, and I’m the commanding officer for the U.S. Military District, Manhattan. What we have for you today is this briefing, a meal, another presentation, and room assignments for tonight. Tomorrow, after breakfast, each of you will be assigned an escort and a vehicle. You will be allowed to tour any part of Manhattan, with exceptions made for road conditions or radiological conditions. Following lunch back here at this facility, there will be another news conference, and then you will be flown back to Tyler Air Force Station.’

  Carl snapped a few pictures, and then looked back at the reporters and photographers, and Sandy, who was busily scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘…first built in the middle 1800s, the 843 acres of Central Park became the logical location for a military installation following the Cuban War and the subsequent evacuation of the city. Military units arrived in the city shortly after the war’s end, and the Manhattan Air Force Station was formally named in early 1963. This station’s mission has changed substantially over the past decade. At first, the mission was relief and recovery for the inhabitants of Manhattan and the survivors from the surrounding boroughs, especially the Bronx, Queens, and Brooklyn. Then, in the summer of 1963, it supported the final evacuation of all civilians from the designated Restricted Zones in and around Manhattan.’

  The general paced back to the podium. ‘Since that time, ladies and gentlemen, our mission has been a unique one in the history of our military. We are engaged in the protection and preservation of the property, buildings, and industry of Manhattan. This includes using our Army Corps of Engineer units to maintain the necessary utilities and make sure that the libraries and museums of this city are protected from the elements and from those remaining few looters. We are also engaged in specific salvage operations, such as the one in 1964, when we removed several tons of gold bullion, stored by the Federal Reserve branch bank. Never in the history of the world has a city that had been home to millions of citizens suffered such a loss of population in such a short time. Never in the history of the world has a large city been occupied by military forces for the sole purpose of protecting its assets. And never in the history of the world has such a city—largely abandoned—been resettled.’

  The general allowed himself a brief smile, and even with the burn tissue, it was charming. ‘To our friends in the foreign press, and the domestic press, I have a point I’d like to make. It’s been quite fashionable in some newspaper and magazine articles to portray Manhattan as a ghost of a city. Like Babylon, Nineveh, and Carthage. Dead cities of dead empires. Well, I hate to disappoint you folks, but that is entirely wrong. It’s the business of my forces here to ready Manhattan for resettlement. And ladies and gentlemen, it will occur, sooner than you think. I guarantee you that.’

  There was a low murmur of excitement. So that’s it, Carl thought. The whole purpose of the trip, the whole purpose of this show. The great announcement that New York City will soon be open for resettlement. And if it happens a few weeks before the presidential election—where Rockefeller is seen as a friend of the military and McGovern isn’t — well, what an amazing coincidence.

  He missed the first question but didn’t miss the general’s answer. ‘No, no official date has been set, but I would say that spring of next year—say, April or May 1973—would be a logical date.’

  Carl squeezed off a few more shots of the general at the podium, and then bent over to change his film. The other photographers jostled him for positions. The next question was something to do about looters, and the general’s voice carried in the hall: ‘Actually, looters aren’t as much a problem as they were in the mid-1960s. We have maintained a strong presence in the city and those few looters still at work, I believe, are poor and deranged. We are certain that a few hundred residents of Manhattan still live here, and they go to great lengths to avoid detection. Some years ago, any citizens found here would have been arrested. Now, if we do find them, we feed them, give them medical treatment, and evacuate them to a Red Cross facility in Connecticut. All in all, this is very quiet duty. Next?’

  Another question that Carl couldn’t make out. The general continued. ‘Challenges? Well, one challenge is the problem of fires. As utilities are reconnected, some of the wiring in these older buildings fails, and it’s easy for a fire to begin and not be noticed. We cannot let a building catch fire and spread to other buildings. It would soon get away from us, especially since water pressure is still uneven in some neighborhoods. So we’ve established fire spotting locations on buildings throughout Manhattan — on top of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Tower, for example—that work not unlike fire towers in the national parks out West. We also have roving fire watches and maintain fire houses throughout Manhattan. Some of the soldiers at these fire houses, I’m proud to say, are former New York City firefighters who enlisted specifically to come back here to their old jobs.’

  Then came Sandy’s clear voice. ‘General Conroy, Sandra Price from the Times. Could you tell us why we were flown to Manhattan, instead of being driven along one of the expressways? It seems quite an expense, all those helicopters. Are the roads not safe?’

  The general shrugged slightly. ‘Based on their wear and tear, the highways from Tyler Air Force Station are still in fairly good condition. Your flight here was based on your convenience, nothing else. We know how pressed for time most of you are.’

  Good girl, Carl thought. Now for the follow-up. ‘I’m sorry, General, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. When I asked if the roads were safe, I was talking more about safe from looters, or other marauders. Is there a problem in the Restricted Zones with armed civilians?’

  Carl was close enough to see the general’s hands tighten on the edge of the podium. ‘No,’ he said crisply. ‘Final question, please.’

  Another British voice, this time male. ‘General, if I may be so bold. I’m curious about the apparent burn injuries to your face. Are you a Cuban invasion veteran, perhaps.’

  ‘No,’ came the clipped answer.

  ‘Then where were you injured?’

  The general stared at a point about six feet above the reporters’ heads, his voice suddenly bleak. ‘I was at home, recuperating from foot surgery. I was outside getting the mail when Maxwell Air Force Base was attacked. My wife and sons were at the base PX shopping. That’s it for questions.’

  And then he turned and strode off the stage.

  ~ * ~

  Carl stood b
y the window in his room at the old Blaine House Hotel, which had been taken over by the Army to billet guests and visitors, and which was adjacent to Central Park. It was on Fifth Avenue and the view was of a blank brick wall across the way. He was in room 1410. Sandy was in 1418. He would do something about that later, but first things first. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face, and stared at his tired expression in the mirror. Dinner had been in a dining hall attached to the administration building, and had consisted of reconstituted potatoes and some type of canned beef in gravy.

  After dinner they went through an underground utility tunnel to the Blaine House and sat through a long lecture from an Army lawyer who went on and on about the legal aspect of leases and property rights in Manhattan. Carl’s eyes had gotten heavy and he had started to nod off, and when room assignments had been distributed, Sandy had arched her eyebrow at him from across the lecture room and he was sure of the invite.

  But still... There was something odd going on, something that he couldn’t figure. First, there were the British planes back at Tyler Air Force Station. Then there were the two officers he had seen before the general’s briefing. The one carrying the green beret was American Special Forces. How thoughtful of the Army, he mused, to have someone from his old unit here to greet him. But the other officer ...The fatigues he had been wearing were not American. And he had been carrying a red beret. Which meant British paratroopers.

  British paratroopers and American Special Forces. Elite units sent in for special missions.

  Not for reconnecting the lights and the sewers.

  He turned on the black-and-white television set and found four channels: ABC, NBC, CBS, and the Armed Forces Network. He turned it off and looked out the window again. Not much of a view. In fact, he hadn’t seen much of anything since they had landed. Ferried across in a helicopter, sent to the administration building through a tunnel, and now a room that had a lovely view of a brick wall.

  Made one wonder what was out there.

  He unzipped his worn leather suitcase. Inside was a small knapsack with some old Army rations, a poncho, and spare clothes. Deep inside he felt the touch of something metallic. All right, maybe it was paranoia, but he still felt good, having that Colt .45 along. It was almost eight o’clock. Time to explore. He put on a light jacket and went out into the corridor, locking the door behind him.

  In the lobby he saw the bar where most of the members of his press contingent had congregated, sprawled around small tables. He went across the carpeted floor to the glass double doors leading outside. An Army MP was standing there, boots and helmet polished. The MP held out a hand palm up. He was tall and muscled and looked like the kind of guy who enjoyed juggling bowling balls.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Thought I’d go outside, walk around the block and get some fresh air.’

  The MP shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. That’s not allowed without an escort.’

  ‘Well, do you know where I can get an escort?’ Carl asked.

  The MP’s stolid face didn’t change expression. ‘You’d have to contact the press officer, sir. Tomorrow.’

  Carl took out his wallet, removed his Armed Services ID card. ‘Look here, will you? I’m not some nitwit civilian. I put in eight years and I’m in the reserve, so I know my way around. Just looking for some fresh air. What do you say?’

  The MP nodded and turned back to face the door. ‘That’s quite nice, sir. I suggest you contact the press officer for an escort. Tomorrow.’

  Carl put his ID card away and walked back across the lobby. He passed by the elevators and saw a door marked STAIRS. It led to a concrete landing, where he paused for a moment, and then descended. There was the sound of machinery, of pumps and air-handling units and he emerged into tight quarters filled with overhead pipes and valves and lights. He fixed the location of the door in his mind, and then went exploring. He passed a kitchen area, a laundry room, and a collection of canned food, set on pallets and locked behind a wired enclosure.

  Then he smelled something: diesel fuel. He went down a concrete-lined corridor and came to a heavy metal door. He opened it slightly and peered through the gap. An underground parking area. There were Jeeps and 2½-ton trucks, and on the far side of the lot, overhead lights and tool benches. Some soldiers were grouped around the open hoods of several Jeeps and trucks. Something caught his eye, to the left. He opened the door wider.

  Now, that’s something, he thought. Rolls and rolls of coiled barbed wire, piled one on top of another. Wooden sawhorses and barriers, tagged and numbered. Bundles of what looked like thin plastic strips, held in plastic bags. Other bundles of thick sticks, like thin and long baseball bats, tied together. Against the wall, piled up as if left by the ghosts of Roman legionnaires: rectangular plastic shields. And there, by the barbed wire: cardboard boxes, piled high up to the concrete ceiling. He could just barely make out the stencils on the side:

  HANDLE WITH CARE

  FOR TRAINED PERSONNEL USE ONLY

  CS. . .

  He was interrupted by the sounds of booted feet coming his way, before he could make out the whole of the third line on the box. But what he saw had been enough. He closed the door, ran back to the stairway, and in a minute was back in the lobby. A few seconds later, he was in an elevator, heading back to his room.

  ~ * ~

  The corridor was empty. Good. He strolled down the hallway and reached his door, out of breath from what he had done and seen. Call it a night? No, he thought. We’re on a roll. It felt good. Let’s keep going. At the end of the corridor, a light marked EXIT flickered and glowed. He opened the door carefully and slowly started up the concrete steps.

  He was glad he took his time. He had another nine flights to go before he reached the top, and when he got there, he was breathing hard and his chest hurt. There was a sign above the door handle:

  BEFORE EXITING, CHECK YOUR DOSIMETRY

  Below that, another, smaller sign had been taped.

  AND MAKE SURE YOU CHECK YOUR BUDDY’S!

  Sorry, he thought. Must have left it at home. He stepped out onto the roof. It was a cool night and even with the sweet-sour smell of decay, it felt good to be outside. The door started closing behind him but he grabbed it before it shut. It’d be a hell of a thing if it locked automatically, wouldn’t it?

  He took out his wallet and propped the door open, and then went out further beyond the stairwell entrance. The stars were out and there was a crescent moon rising in the east. A waist-high brick wall marked the edge of the roof. He rested his hands on the wall and looked around. He shivered. His heart was still pounding and he liked to think it was because of the hard climb up the stairs, but he knew better. What was in that basement garage didn’t belong, if all you cared about was changing a few lightbulbs and making sure the toilets worked. So what was going on?

  Across the street were the bright lights of the Manhattan Air Force Station in south Central Park. Below him streetlights shone on this part of Fifth Avenue, where several dark green Army vehicles were parked. The surrounding buildings were well lit for the military personnel who lived here, but beyond this one block, darkness. In the light of the moon and the stars, he could make out darkened buildings all about him, like a deserted and empty mountain range. He hugged himself and looked around. Darkened buildings and skyscrapers stretched as far as he could see. All these buildings, and apartments and slums and businesses and offices. Filled with nothing now except dust, old papers, bones and dried corpses, and maybe a few shivering survivors or looters, still refusing to leave this island.

  To the north a light hung almost motionless, but then it moved. He could make out the faint sound of a helicopter engine, and saw a bright cone of light emerge from underneath the helicopter. A searchlight. But who was being searched for on this cold night? The same people they were preparing for, a dozen floors below, with the rolls of barbed wire and barricades and plastic restraints and riot shields and batons and CS gas?


  He turned and—

  ‘Sir, put up your hands,’ came a voice from behind him.

  ‘You got it,’ he said, raising his arms.

  Light erupted about him, and he blinked his eyes and the voice said, ‘Please turn around.’

  He did. Two soldiers stood there, in helmets and full combat gear. One had a flashlight trained on him, and the other had his M-14 lowered in the general direction of Carl’s stomach. Not a nice feeling.

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing up here?’ the soldier with the flashlight asked.