‘Those guys have a real tough job,’ Greg said, raising his voice. ‘If a fire ever gets away from us, it could take out three or four city blocks. Back in ‘65, during the Great Harlem Fire, they had to bring in special aircraft that used to be used to drop water over forest fires out West, before they got that one under control.’
Twice they passed Corps of Engineer units, working around manholes, and Greg said, ‘Utility work. Real grind stuff but it’s work that’s got to be done.’
He slowed and made a left on to First Avenue, and there it was. A fence topped by barbed wire had been erected around the square that held the two familiar buildings of the United Nations. Even at this distance, Carl could see the broken windows and large, black scars of fire damage along the side of the main building on the right, the Secretariat. The low-slung building on the left, the General Assembly building, wasn’t as badly damaged. Greg parked the Jeep up on the sidewalk, next to the fence. Just beyond was a long, curved driveway that led to the two buildings. With the engine off Carl could make out a faint tinkling sound. He wondered what it was. Beyond the United Nations was the East River and Carl saw Welfare Island and, across the river, burned shells of buildings and piles of rubble that marked the borough of Queens.
They got out and Carl took two photos, then stood still. He couldn’t get used to the sound of so much silence in such a large city. Sandy wiped at her forehead and said, ‘What happened here?’
Greg folded his arms. ‘After the bombs were dropped on Queens and Idlewild Airport, tens of thousands of people were making their way through these streets, most of them on foot. You also had refugees coming in from Brooklyn, and people were terrified and angry. Many were angry enough to come here, to the UN building, to kill any Russian diplomats they could find. I don’t know if they ever did, but they did succeed in looting the place and burning it.’
Carl asked, ‘Any chance of getting in, to get some pictures?’
Greg shook his head. ‘No, sorry. First, it’s dangerous in there. With the fire damage and the decay, there’s a good chance of being injured. And second, well, hard to believe but we leave this place alone. This is United Nations property and when the Army came into Manhattan, they built this fence around it.’
Carl put the camera down and looked at the two buildings, remembering when they were finished in the early 1950s, and how, as a kid, he had thought that this would be the headquarters of a place that would outlaw war. Well, Korea and Cuba took care of that little experiment in world peace and now the UN was back in Geneva. It was still at work, especially with the UN Disarmament Agency in China and the former Soviet Union, trying to track down unaccounted-for nuclear weapons. The UN also maintained large refugee camps in Eastern Europe and the edges of the old Soviet empire, and helped Spain with its trusteeship of Cuba. But the United States...the country that helped form it back in the 1940s had only been granted observer status last year, and that only after months of furious debate in Geneva, London, Berlin, Paris, and Tokyo.
He was trying to figure out where that tinkling noise was coming from, when Sandy spoke, her voice strained. ‘Has anyone else noticed a difference in their dosimetry reading? I checked it in Times Square and it was zero. Now it’s one.’
He and Greg moved almost as one, holding up their SRPDs to the skies. ‘Mine’s also on the first scale,’ Carl said, and Greg added, ‘Well, mine’s at two. That’s a good sign that it’s time to move on.’
They went back to the jeep and Sandy said, ‘Is that dangerous?’
‘No, not at all,’ Greg said, getting behind the wheel. ‘It probably means there are a few hot spots around here, deposited by a wind from last night or yesterday. You’d have to get readings ten or twenty times as high before you’d have to worry about any ill effects. Still, it’s a good enough reason to head west. Where to next?’
Before Sandy could speak up, Carl said, ‘We asked you to take us here. Why don’t you take us to a place you like to visit, someplace that’s yours?’
Sandy looked and smiled and Greg nodded. ‘AH right, deal.’ He picked up his radio and said, ‘Traffic Control, Baker Fourteen, we’re heading southwest.’
‘Baker Fourteen, copy,’ came the reply.
As Greg reached down to start the Jeep, Carl realized where that tinkling noise was coming from: it was from just in front of the UN General Assembly building, from the flagpoles, where a few ropes still hung, holding up faded rags that were once flags of proud nations, many of which didn’t exist anymore.
~ * ~
Along the way Carl began to feel colder and he wrapped the Army blanket around his legs. He had a sense that Greg was in a hurry, for the Jeep was going faster and there wasn’t the same opportunity for conversation. Even Sandy seemed to hunker down in the front seat, and Carl felt the same oppressive feeling. It was just too damn big, this large island with buildings and skyscrapers and stores and tenements and subways and parks and streets, empty of life, empty of the living. A pack of dogs ran across a street, a block ahead, and Greg honked the horn a few times. The storefronts and the broken widows seemed to merge in a dark blur as Greg maneuvered the Jeep through the streets, and Carl noticed some graffiti painted on the sides of buildings and abandoned city buses. Some of the graffiti looked quite fresh.
There were a few ARMY LEAVE US ALONE and YANKEES GO HOME, a host of REPENTS, a RESURRECTION DAY IS COMING, and an old, faded RED CROSS HAS SET UP AT TOMPKINS SQUARE. There were also a bunch of strange symbols and letters in bright colors. One of the symbols, three circles connected by curving lines, was marked on at least three street corners, and looked familiar for some reason. He couldn’t understand why.
And on the side of a building on Bowery Avenue, in letters that looked five feet tall:
HE LIVES.
Even here, he thought, finding himself liking the sight. True believers still.
They came to a park with a large arch in the center, and Greg drove the Jeep right up to the arch, which was richly decorated and carved. He shut off the idling engine and leaned back into the driver’s seat.
‘Welcome to Washington Square Park,’ Greg said. ‘My favorite spot—because of what happened here, and what will happen here again in a few months. In this square, on April 30, 1789, George Washington was inaugurated as our first president, back when New York City was, for a time, our capital. A year later the capital was moved to Philadelphia. A bit ironic, don’t you think?’
He shifted in his seat and said, ‘Now, what I’m about to tell you is just rumor, and if you do print it, please don’t report it as coming from anybody associated with the Manhattan Air Force Station. All right?’
Sandy said, ‘You’ve piqued my curiosity, Greg. What is it?’
‘It’s still just a rumor, but the planning’s already begun, back at staff headquarters. Next January, Nelson Rockefeller will be returning here, to be inaugurated as president, and to show the world that we really are on the verge of reopening New York City to resettlement.’
Greg moved his arm across. ‘Can you see what it’s going to be like, in a couple of months? All of these buildings will be rehabbed and connected to utilities, and there’ll be flags and bunting and an honor guard, and the world news media, and right under that arch, he’ll take the oath of office. It’s going to be a hell of a sight, something I’ll tell my grandchildren.’
Carl pulled the blanket tighter around his legs. ‘There’s a little matter of an election that has to take place.’
Greg laughed. ‘Oh, he’s going to win. No doubt about that.’
Sandy leaned over a bit. ‘You seem happy about a Rockefeller presidency.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘Most people are. He promises to keep the focus on relief and recovery, on rebuilding, on minding our own business. McGovern wants to cut the armed forces and wants us to rejoin the UN. Put our trust in treaties and other nations. I had an uncle who was in the Army and was stationed at the West Berlin garrison back in ‘62. When the war broke out the R
ed Army and East Germans stormed into West Berlin. Not a single one of the soldiers in that garrison has ever been found. It’s as if they disappeared. That’s good enough reason for me to vote for someone who wants to focus on the home front.’
Then Sandy sat up and said, ‘There! Did you see that!’
Greg leaned forward and so did Carl. ‘See what?’
‘Oh, he’s gone now,’ she said, her voice rising in excitement. ‘Across the park, by that brick building that looks like a university. I saw a man walking along the pavement but then he must have seen us, because he ran down an alleyway, shall we see who he is? Do you think he’s a looter?’
Greg started up the Jeep. ‘To answer your second question, I doubt he’s a looter. They usually work at night. And to answer your first question, no. We don’t chase people anymore. If they surrender into our custody, fine. Otherwise, we leave them alone.’
Carl remembered last night. He remembered a helicopter with a searchlight and the sniper squad on top of the roof of their hotel, and the supplies in the parking garage. He folded his arms and said nothing.
Greg said, ‘What do you say, lunch at Battery Park? We can see the reconstruction work going on at the Statue of Liberty. Ever since the arm—’
The radio at his side crackled into life. ‘Baker Fourteen, Baker Fourteen,’ came a voice different from before. ‘This is Traffic Control, kay.’
He halted the Jeep, brought the radio up to his mouth. ‘This is Baker Fourteen, kay.’
‘Baker Fourteen, proceed to Greenwich Street and Seventh Avenue. A survey team’s run out of gas, they need a fuel-up. Kay.’
Greg gave Sandy and Carl an amused look, and said in a loud whisper, ‘Happens a lot, when guys are in a hurry to leave the motor pool and don’t check the fuel gauge.’ He keyed the radio mike and said in a louder voice, ‘Baker Fourteen acknowledges, kay.’
Sandy turned her head and said, ‘Is it far?’
‘Only a couple of blocks. Just delays lunch for about fifteen minutes.’
Carl kept his hands under the blanket as Greg sped the Jeep to the west, to the low buildings of Greenwich Village. They got onto Seventh Avenue and headed north. As he turned onto Greenwich Avenue, Greg braked. The road ahead was blocked by a tangled mass of taxi cabs and a fuel oil delivery truck. He picked up the map and said in a quiet voice, ‘That’s odd, the map shows this road’s been clear for months. These vehicles shouldn’t be here.’
Carl felt the hair along the back of his arms creep up into life and he leaned forward and said, ‘Greg, get us out of here!’
Sandy said, ‘What on earth are you—
Carl shouted, ‘Lieutenant, haul ass and get us out of here!’
Greg dropped the map and slammed the gear shift into reverse, as the first shot boomed and struck the hood of the Jeep. The second shot shattered the windshield.
The third shot blew off the top of the head of Lt. Greg Loomis, U.S. Army.
~ * ~
SEVENTEEN
Another two shots ranG out and the jeep continued in reverse, backing up onto the sidewalk and hitting something—a fire hydrant or another crushed car—and tipped to the side, throwing Carl to the ground, next to a screaming Sandy price.
The sounds of the shots seemed to turn a switch on inside of him, making everything razor sharp, from the echoing blasts of the gunfire to the gritty feeling of the cracked asphalt under his hands. He grabbed Sandy and pulled her into the shadow of the overturned Jeep. He checked Greg, pinned in his seat behind the steering wheel, his eyes staring lifelessly, the top of his head an awful jumble of brain, blood, and bone. He tried to unclip the M-14 from the stand but failed and saw that it was locked shut. He had neither the time nor the interest to going through Greg’s pockets, looking for the keys. ~ Instead he grabbed the map, radio, his knapsack, and the two satchels.
‘Are you hurt?’ he said, grabbing Sandy’s arm and whispering harshly into her ear.
‘No . . . no . . .’ she said, voice quavering. ‘Oh, God, Carl…’
‘Hush,’ he said, not too gently, passing her the two blankets. ‘Hold on to these. We’re getting the hell out of here.’
‘What?’ she said, protesting. ‘We’re being shot at!’
He tossed her the blankets, peered around the side of the Jeep, and saw an open door into a storefront. He looked back and Sandy had rolled up the blankets and was carrying them under an arm. He motioned to her and she crawled over.
‘That door, right there,’ he said. ‘Keep it low.’
They made it across the three or four feet of open space without incident, running into a small grocery store. The shelves were empty and dusty and there was a sour odor, and he didn’t care. He was alive. Sandy was alive. They weren’t being shot at that particular moment.
He was amazed at how calm he was.
~ * ~
A half hour later Sandy said, ‘Carl, please, can we have a rest.’
He checked around the second-floor apartment that they were in, about two blocks away from the ambush site. Sandy was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head drooping from exhaustion. Carl just nodded, too tired to say anything. The last thirty minutes had been a dirty mess of going through alleyways and across rooftops, crawling and climbing amid the rubble of decaying buildings. They were in a six-story tenement building on Perry Street. Up two blocks was Seventh Avenue, which had been cleared for travel, and he could make out a corner bar and grill. The sign was still visible. OPEN ROAD BAR.
The apartment was small and looked like it had belonged to an artist. They were in the living room, which had hard-wood floors and large windows. In a corner were a couple of easels, some dried-up tubes of paint, dropcloths and paintbrushes, and canvases that had faded to gray. Wallpaper was pulled away from the walls in long strips, and plaster bulged from the walls. There was a small kitchen and an even tinier bathroom. When they had gotten in he had opened the bedroom door and just as quickly shut it. There had been a huddled shape under the blankets, and he didn’t want to look any closer.
Sandy’s voice was shaking as she raised her head. ‘Why are the buildings like this?’
Carl kept view of the street below, hiding behind rotten drapes that still hung to the floor. A couple of the windows had fallen out, and there was a draft moving across his legs, chilling him. Shock, he thought. She must still be in shock, to ask such a question.
‘I said, why are the buildings like this? Carl, we nearly fell through those stairs.’
‘Imagine a single year here, without anybody taking care of anything,’ he said, not turning around. ‘Sewers back up, gutters get choked with leaves, and water comes through the walls. Windows crack, wind and snow get into the rooms. Basements leak and roofs leak. Water freezes into ice and damages the floors. Rot sets in over the summer. That’s in a single year. It’s been ten. It’s amazing more buildings haven’t collapsed.’
The street below was quiet, gray pigeons moving along the sidewalk and among the dead cars. In the distance he could hear dogs barking. He stepped back from the window and went to Sandy, knelt down and held her head in his hands. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. ‘Jesus, that was so rightful... I... I’ve never been shot at before ... Carl, can you call for help on that radio? Contact the Air Force station? Can’t they come and get us?’
He gently stroked her ears, and looked over at the radio and map, on top of the two knapsacks and the rolled-up blankets. He spoke carefully. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
She wiped at her eyes with both hands, which were trembling. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because I don’t know who’s on the other end of the radio, that’s why.’
She dropped her hands from her face. Her eyes were very wide. ‘Tell me what you mean.’
‘I wish that the people who shot at us were looters, Sandy. But I’m afraid they weren’t. That was an ambush, a well-planned one. We were set up.’ He picked up th
e dark green radio and looked at Sandy. ‘Whoever was on the radio was part of the plan.’
She got up from the floor and walked over to him, staring at the radio now like it was an alien artifact, an object of fear. Are you sure?’
‘I wish I was wrong, honest to God I do. But what happened back there? Greg was told to go to an address. And when we got there, was there a survey team waiting for us?’
She slowly shook her head. ‘No, there wasn’t. And Greg said just before he . . . just before the shooting started, that the road was marked clear on the map.’
‘Yep. It was blocked. And if you and I had the time and the ways to do it, I bet you we’d see that those trucks and cars were moved recently. That tells you whoever did this had the resources to move wrecked vehicles around and to send out a bogus radio message. Right in the middle of a military reservation. That rules out looters, don’t you think?’
Resurrection Day Page 28
