Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

Lieutenant Greg Loomis looked like a recruiting poster for the Selective Service. He was tall, and wore clean fatigues, a web utility belt, and black combat boots. Hanging from the utility belt was a holstered Colt .45 pistol and a small handheld radio. His black hair was cut short and his handshake was firm and to the point. Carl and Sandy met him after a breakfast of oatmeal and sausages in a crowded mess hall. Carl had a small backpack with a few odds and ends in it, and Sandy had her large leather purse.

  The lieutenant got straight to the matter at hand.

  ‘I’m your escort for today,’ he said. They were in a large banquet hall and the other reporters, photographers, and television crews were also in small groups, talking to their respective escorts.

  ‘First things first,’ he said, opening a large leather dispatch case and pulling out a shiny tubular object the size of a stubby pencil and a square plastic badge with a clip at the end. He gave a set to each of them.

  Something about the young officer bothered Carl, and he remembered what the lieutenants had been like when he was -on active duty. Ninety-day wonders, they were called, because after three months of officer’s school, they were considered trained and fit for command. Carl and many of the other sergeants had had a slightly different opinion: after ninety days, they were trained and fit for wiping their bottoms after using the latrine, and not much else. The new lieutenants were eager, proper, and if you weren’t careful, they could get you killed.

  ‘Your dosimetry,’ he said. ‘Clip them on your chest. The square plastic one is called a TLD, stands for thermoluminescence dosimeter. Measures your total dose. After you leave Manhattan you’ll get a letter from the Army’s Dosimetry Lab in Ithaca, telling you how much you picked up, and don’t worry, it’ll be minimal, if that.’

  He held up the pencil-shaped tube. ‘The other piece is called an SRPD. Stands for self-reading pocket dosimeter. Hold it up to the light and you’ll see a scale. Each line on the scale marks one millirem of radiation. The needle should be zeroed out to the left. Every now and then, check on the needle’s position. If it starts moving to the right, let me know. It’ll probably just mean we’re near a hot spot and should saddle up and drive somewhere else.’

  Carl clipped the dosimetry to his jacket and suddenly felt transported back to California in the 1960s, where such dosimetry was as much one’s gear as a canteen and spare ammunition. Like then, it felt creepy. It was one thing to be out in the bush, facing another person who was armed. It was quite another thing to deal with an enemy that you couldn’t hear, taste, or smell, an enemy that could kill you just as dead a bullet to the head.

  Sandy followed suit and said, ‘Lieutenant, if New York is ready for resettlement next year, why do we have to wear dosimetry?’

  ‘Regulations, what else?’ he said. ‘The fallout in Manhattan—like in the other RZs—has decayed to reasonable levels. But we still keep track of everyone’s exposure, and the Army moves slow sometimes when it comes to changing regulations. Chances are, next year, dosimetry won’t be a requirement anymore. It hasn’t been exposure to radiation that’s blocked resettlement these past couple of years, you know. It’s just getting the utilities and services brought back on line.’

  ‘How many hours will we have in the city, Lieutenant?’

  He smiled at her. ‘First of all, we can be informal. Call me Greg, all right?

  She shouldered her bag. ‘If I get to call you Greg, then it’s Sandy for you. Understand?’

  ‘Sure,’ Greg said. ‘I learned long ago not to pick a fight with the press. Because we always lose.’

  Not always, Carl thought, but he kept that to himself.

  ~ * ~

  It was a crisp fall day, the sky was blue, and Greg led them out to the street, where a sergeant sitting in a Jeep saluted and gave the vehicle over to the lieutenant. Greg got into the driver’s seat and Carl got into the back, letting Sandy sit up front. There were folded Army-issue blankets on the seat, along with two small satchels. Clamped to the dashboard, between the front seats, was an M-14 rifle, and at the rear of the Jeep, two jerricans of gasoline hung from the tailgate. Other Jeeps were parked up and down the street, and groups of twos and threes occupied and then drove them.

  ‘You really can’t see as well with the canvas tops up, so we tend to leave them down,’ Greg said. ‘But it can get chilly, so feel free to use the blankets. Inside each satchel is our lunch and a Thermos of coffee. Sorry, miss, there’s no tea.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll survive,’ she said, turning back to smile at Carl and arrange the blanket around her legs. ‘I think everyone over here runs on coffee and cigarettes.’

  ‘Well, not tobacco for me, that’s for sure,’ Greg said. He opened up the dispatch case again, pulled out a much-folded map, and said, ‘We’re in luck today, folks. The wind is blowing to the east, so we have pretty much the entire island to look at, just as long as we get back by three P.M. My job is to show you around and answer as many questions as I can.’

  He turned in his seat and said to Carl, ‘I see by the roster sheet that you’re a photographer assigned to the Times of London. But where are you from?’

  ‘Massachusetts. Boston.’

  Greg nodded. ‘I’m from Springfield, myself. Graduated from Dartmouth last year, got my commission through the ROTC program.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sandy said. ‘What was that you just said?’

  ‘ROTC. Reserve Officer Training Corps. Pretty good program, actually. The Army paid for my tuition and I also trained as an officer, weekends and summers. Then when I graduated, I got in as a second lieutenant. Avoid putting up with the draft. Boston, eh? Go to college there?’

  ‘Nope.’ He paused, and said, ‘Went to a little school, back in the early sixties. University of Saigon.’

  The smile flickered for a moment. ‘I’m afraid you have one on me.’

  ‘No, Greg,’ Sandy said, glaring at Carl. ‘I’m afraid my photographer is being too clever for his own good. Carl was in the Army, as well. I believe he joined up after high school, and he was stationed in Saigon, in Vietnam.’

  Greg nodded. ‘You got me there. Infantry, right?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Well, this man’s Army sure has changed a lot since then. When I received my commission I asked for duty here in Manhattan, and I was lucky enough to get it. I’ve been on this island for almost a year and I haven’t gotten tired of it yet.’ He swiveled in his seat, reached to the dashboard, and pressed the starter button. ‘What do you say, let’s go see it?’

  The Jeep started up with a muted roar and Greg pulled his radio free and switched it on, holding it near his lips.

  ‘Traffic Control, this is Baker Fourteen. On Fifth Avenue, heading south. Kay.’

  A static-filled voice returned. ‘Baker Fourteen, have a safe one. Out.’

  They started heading south, down Fifth Avenue. Carl spoke up. ‘What’s your duty here, Greg?’

  Greg seemed eager to talk, and it was easy to listen to him, since he kept the speed of the Jeep low. The road was bumpy, with cracks and potholes and even some sinkholes where wooden barriers had been set up. Grass filled some of the cracks and Carl wished the Jeep were still, so he could get a photo. Grass growing, in the middle of Fifth Avenue. Most of the buildings had piles of rubble in front of them from facades and decorative stonework that had fallen over the years.

  ‘I’m in Building Recovery,’ Greg said. ‘My platoon goes out every day, building to building. We look for structural damage and broken gas pipes. We also disconnect each building from the electrical grid. It’s all prep work for when the utilities get switched back on. After ten years we’re still not sure how some of the wiring will handle being energized again.’

  ‘It sounds very tedious,’ Sandy said, pulling out her notebook.

  ‘Actually, it’s not,’ he said. Greg spotted the open notebook and slowed down, pulling over to the sidewalk. The only sounds were from the idling Jeep engine and some static chatter on the radio. Sandy looke
d over, a bit concerned, but Greg was still smiling. He said, ‘Look, I apologize but maybe we should clear a few things before we continue. Otherwise we’ll be fussing over what’s on the record and what’s off the record, and we’ll waste half the day. Okay?’

  Sandy nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘How about everything I say is on the record, but you don’t attribute it to me by name. Or by service. Just a military officer assigned to the Manhattan Air Force Station.’

  ‘Won’t that narrow it down?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Nope, not at all. We have all branches of the service here, except for Marines. We have Air Force and Army, of course, but we also have Navy and Coast Guard units working the harbor and the rivers. That way, if whatever I say causes a fuss, it won’t come back to bite me. And if we do it this way, I think we’ll have a better day. Agreed?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sandy said, digging out a pen, and Greg said, ‘All right, you were asking about building duty. The truth is, I do find it interesting. You never know what you’re going to find. It’s like being paid to be a burglar, or a snoop. We have guys that would be dangerous if they ever decided to be criminals when they got out of the service. They can pop most locks in under a minute.’

  ‘And what do you do when you get inside?’

  ‘We head up to the top floor and work our way down. Part of the survey work is checking apartments to see if there are any valuables that should be transported for safekeeping, like paintings or antiques.’ Another swivel of the head and he smiled at Carl. ‘We were in this high-priced co-op once, over on the Upper East Side. Someone had turned an entire room almost the size of a ballroom into a miniature city with model railroads. Very intricate, very detailed, all left in place. Boy, that was one of the few times I’ve been glad we don’t have power. Some of the guys in my squad, they would have spent the day putting that display through its paces.’

  ‘Do you find many . . . many bodies?’ Sandy asked, balancing her notepad on a blanket-covered knee.

  A shake of the head. ‘Some, but not as many as you’d think. Most people did manage to evacuate back in ‘62. Ten years later...Well, nature’s taken care of many of the bodies left behind. We have a couple of guys assigned to Graves Registration, and if we find any remains—mostly bones by now—it’s their responsibility. We record where we found them and whether there’s any identification left. Then that information goes to the Red Cross. Guys in Graves Registration, they get rotated out after a month. That job can get to you, especially when you go through a school’s basement...Last month, a buddy of mine working on clearing up the subway system came across a bunch of subway cars. Filled with skeletons. Brrr. He says it still gives him nightmares.’

  Carl said, ‘You’ve done escort duty like this before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Surely have,’ Greg said, easing the Jeep back out onto Fifth Avenue. ‘Congressmen, senators, overseas visitors, and the occasional VIP who wants to check up on his old Park Avenue place. I’ve had them all, but you know what? They never come in winter, which is a pity. This place is so beautiful then, all the streets covered with snow, not a sound to be heard. Last winter, a guy I know from Maine, who works in Deeds and me, we cross-country skied from Battery Park to Inwood Hill Park, up at the north end of the island. Just a beautiful trip. Even saw some deer along the way.’

  ‘Deer?’ Sandy asked, incredulous. ‘In Manhattan?’

  ‘Why not? Who’s going to stop them? A couple of guys’ve told me that they’ve seen wolves, but I doubt it. Just dogs, probably.’

  Carl said, ‘Is that what the rifle is for?’

  ‘Yep. Wild dogs. Sad but true. We still have wild dog packs, that mostly hang around the parks. The Humane Society has an office back at the base but there’s not much they can do.’ Greg turned his head back and looked ruefully at Carl. ‘We still have a standing shoot-on-sight order for wild dogs, because of the rabies problems, but I can’t do it. When I see them, I either blow the horn or shoot over their heads.’

  Carl looked to the cross streets, which were jammed with abandoned cars, trucks, and buses. ‘Are there still a lot of streets blocked with traffic?’

  ‘Most streets are,’ Greg said, and he held up the map. Which is why this is so important. A lot of the main Thoroughfares—like Broadway—are cleared, but not many of the side streets. We chip at it, week after week, but I bet you there’ll still be thousands of abandoned cars here next year. Still, we get an updated map every month, showing us which streets are open for traffic.’

  Greg put the map down and turned the Jeep right, across East Forty-sixth Street. The sound of the engine echoed among the walls of the buildings, and Carl leaned back and looked up at all the empty windows stretching far overhead. Millions of people, he thought. Millions lived and breathed and ate and loved and fought in these buildings. Now, where were they? Most of the refugee camps set up in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Connecticut had been disassembled, as the refugees slowly moved on, to relatives or friends or jobs else-where. There were still a few camps left for those who had no other place to go—the disabled, the elderly, the orphaned -but with every passing year, those numbers dwindled away. For those former New Yorkers with new lives, there were organizations and newsletters to keep track of old neighborhoods and associations, and there were still thousands upon thousands who wanted to come back.

  If the offerings at the Fence were any sign, they were still waiting.

  Greg slowed and turned left on Broadway. Carl felt his throat clench as he realized where they were heading. Times Square, the crossroads of the world. Greg stopped the Jeep and the three of them got out and stood in the middle of the street, looking around. The streets that merged here were broad and wide and empty of vehicles, save for two Jeeps at the south end of. the square, where film crews were filming stand-ups with network correspondents.

  Carl unlimbered his camera and took pictures of the abandoned stores and movie houses. He saw a faded poster, still in its frame, for an Anthony Quinn film. Barabbas. He turned around, saw Sandy talking to Greg, taking notes, and he felt a faint flush of melancholy at seeing this beautiful and smart and talented woman from a safe and peaceful country calmly jotting down notes about this dead city, America’s first city. Sandy was just doing her job, that’s all, and at least she didn’t have the smug look of some of the German and Japanese reporters. From their attitudes and laughter, he got the feeling of... of payback, he guessed. Their cities had been bombed, industries destroyed, civilians killed, all by American planes and weapons back in the previous world war. He knew he was being unfair but it seemed like they were enjoying this visit, gloating at what had happened to American cities and how, even ten years later, the premier city was still abandoned. Berlin and Tokyo were thriving metropolises in 1955. The same was not true of New York in 1972.

  He turned and started taking more photos. He went around the corner for a moment, onto West Forty-first Street, and took pictures of the abandoned vehicles. All of the tires were flat and the paint faded. There was a city bus and a number of taxicabs, and he decided not to get too close. He didn’t want to see what might still be sitting in the vehicles.

  Around the corner was the building—what was its name? - that had had the scrolling news ticker that was always shown in movies. He followed Sandy and Greg north a couple of blocks. Across the way was a fenced-in statue of a soldier dressed in a First World War uniform and the name etched below it said ‘father DUFFY,’ who was of the famed Rainbow Division of what was known back then simply as the Great War, before it became fashionable to number them. He took a couple of shots of the statue and got a few that he was pleased with, of Greg in his fatigues, with the statue of Father Duffy in the background.

  Sandy and Greg came over to him and Sandy asked, ‘Where to next?’

  Your suggestion,’ Greg said, and Sandy piped up, ‘How about the United Nations?’

  Sure,’ Greg said, taking out his radio. ‘But we can’t go inside the buildings. Too da
ngerous.’ He held the radio up to mouth and said, ‘Traffic Control, this is Baker Fourteen, kay.’

  ‘Baker Fourteen, go ahead, kay.’

  ‘Heading east to First Avenue, kay.’

  ‘Copy.’

  Greg put the radio back into its leather holder and Carl said, ‘Do they like to keep that close of a watch on traffic?’

  ‘Sure,’ Greg said, as they walked back to the Jeep. ‘First, it’s just good sense. If the radio dies or we get into an accident - say, drive into a sinkhole—it’s nice to know that somebody out there has a general idea of where we are, and will come looking for us. And if we need backup for something, a radio can be a lifesaver.’

  ‘And what kind of backup are you talking about?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘Just whatever kind of backup we need,’ Greg said, trying to make light of his answer.

  But Carl noticed the way his smooth face tensed up as he answered her question.

  ~ * ~

  They stayed on West 42nd Street, until past Fifth Avenue, which had also been cleared. As they passed a fire house near Third Avenue, Greg honked the Jeep’s horn at some fatigue-clad firefighters washing down two firetrucks parked out on the sidewalk. They waved back, and a couple of them whistled at the sight of the woman in the Jeep.