Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  The full-banner headline for Tuesday, October 23, 1962, said:

  U.S. IMPOSES ARMS BLOCKADE ON CUBA ON FINDING OFFENSIVE MISSILE SITES;

  KENNEDY READY FOR SOVIET SHOWDOWN

  ‘Here’s another,’ Carl said, gingerly placing another newspaper on top of the first. The date was Saturday, October 27. Its headline:

  U.S. FINDS CUBA SPEEDING BUILD-UP OF BASES;

  WARNS OF FURTHER ACTION; U.N. TALKS OPEN; SOVIET AGREES TO SHUN BLOCKADE ZONE NOW

  Sandy said quietly, ‘It’s like looking at a time capsule. Or seeing a film that you’ve been to before, one that ends horribly but you want to try to change the ending and you’re powerless to do so.’

  ‘It sure does,’ he said. ‘Look at this one.’

  From Monday, October 29:

  AIRBORNE FORCES AND MARINES LAND IN CUBA;

  MISSILE SITES BOMBED AFTER U-2 IS LOST;

  KENNEDY WARNS OF ‘GRAVE DAYS AHEAD’

  Then, Carl pulled out of the pile a New York Times that was just four pages long, a single folded sheet. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, awe filling his voice. ‘They actually have a copy of this.’

  ‘What is it?’ she said, moving closer to him.

  He held the sheet up to look at it, gently moving its pages. ‘It’s the very last issue of the old New York Times, published on November first, two days after the city was attacked. My God, there are damn few of these left. A lot of the people who put this together died later from radiation exposure. It’s worth a lot now, to collectors.’

  It seemed like the entire front page was made up of headlines, and the lead one stood out:

  SOVIET BOMBERS ATTACK CITY, MILLIONS PERISH;

  WASHINGTON, SAN DIEGO, MILITARY BASES BOMBED;

  KENNEDY AND MOST OF CONGRESS BELIEVED DEAD

  ‘What they had to do to get this out,’ she said, reaching out to gently touch the pages. ‘Real newspapermen. And women.’

  ‘You’re so right, the last of a breed, before the censors started working,’ he said, looking over the other headlines, urgently telling a story, urgently announcing the end of a way of life:

  FIRES RAGE OUT OF CONTROL IN QUEENS AND BROOKLYN EVACUATION ORDERED FOR ALL CITY RESIDENTS SUBWAYS, MOST CITY BUSES OUT OF SERVICE MAYOR ORDERS ‘SHOOT ON SIGHT’ FOR LOOTERS

  And a smaller, almost plaintive headline, on the rear page: TIMES TO HALT PUBLICATION FOR FIRST TIME IN ITS HISTORY.

  Carl gently folded the paper in half. ‘Put this in your satchel, will you?’

  ~ * ~

  EIGHTEEN

  Sandy nudged him, spoke his name in an urgent whisper, and he woke up.

  ‘My turn already?’ he asked, feeling groggy. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he could hear something, maybe he and Sandy left a radio on. He blinked and cleared his throat, he knew better. They had no radio.

  ‘Carl, listen to the music,’ Sandy said, holding on to his shoulder. ‘Can you hear it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Where’s it coming from?’

  He knew he should probably go outside and investigate, but damn it, he was tired.

  ‘Sounds like live music, coming from up the street,’ he said.

  ‘You mean, a band?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Amazing,’ she breathed. ‘Who’d be playing music at night in Manhattan?’

  He reached out and touched her face. ‘The stubborn residents of New York, the ones who never left. The ones who live in cellars or abandoned apartments, who manage to make a living out here somewhere. The ones who never gave up.’

  ‘And the Army?’

  ‘Despite what happened to us yesterday, the Army can’t be everywhere, I imagine.’

  ‘Carl, do you think—’

  ‘Do you think we should go out there for a visit? No, I don’t. First, we’re safe here, and I like that. Second, I don’t like the thought of fumbling out there in the dark.’

  She snuggled in closer to him, and said, Anything else?’

  He kissed her on the nose. ‘Yeah. We weren’t invited.’

  She kissed him back, full on the lips. ‘You said something special the other day, about me giving you hope. Does that still count, here in this depressing place?’

  He hugged her back. ‘Especially now, Sandy. Especially now.’

  After a while, he could tell that she had fallen back asleep. He gently freed himself from her arms. He sat up and lit another candle, as he listened to the echoing sounds of a jazz band, still gloriously alive in this dead city.

  ~ * ~

  Carl woke with a start, wondering for a moment where he was. The room was bright, Sandy was sleeping at his side, and it all came back to him, making him queasy. He gingerly moved himself off the couch cushions and stood up, wincing at the stiffness in his legs and the back of his neck. He walked over to the window and carefully moved the nailed-up blanket to one side.

  Outside it was a bright blue day, and the buildings and distant skyscrapers looked clear and sharp. Somewhere out there the hunters were probably still looking for them. Why?

  What had happened in Manhattan? Or earlier, in Boston?

  He shivered, rubbed at the stubble on his face. He hadn’t thought about that connection. Back in Boston he had been poking around, finding things out about Merl Sawson and British intelligence and about old members of the Kennedy Administration being eliminated. Maybe that’s what set up the sniper. Not the loose talk about Potemkin villages. No, maybe it was all because of that old vet, the one with the taped boots and the warning that more death was being planned.

  He heard movement behind him, then the smooth brush of lips at the back of his neck. ‘Good morning, love,’ Sandy said, yawning. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘I did all right,’ he said, looking back at her for a quick smile. ‘Tossed and turned a bit, and had bad dreams about rats in the walls. And who could forget about the musical entertainment? How about you?’

  ‘Better than I thought,’ she said. ‘But you know, I had a hard time getting to sleep. I kept thinking about... well, all the people. The people who lived here. The orfie gangs. Parents, trying to find their children in the city after the bombs dropped. And that reminded me of something. Carl, did your parents ...were they home during the war?’

  He looked down at the empty street and cocked his ear listening for the sound of vehicle engines, hearing only barking dogs in the distance. ‘Yes, they were. And that’s where they died.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘How, then?’

  He didn’t look back at her. Just out at the great and empty city, and thought again about how he was going to get the coth of them off Manhattan.

  ‘Sandy,’ he said, ‘they starved to death.’

  ~ * ~

  Breakfast was leftovers from their box lunches. Cookies—or biscuits, as Sandy called them—apples, and some chocolate. Carl fashioned a stove out of some pans and carefully heated yesterday’s coffee, using old newspaper and wooden kitchen utensils to build a fire. After they ate they repacked and Carl said, ‘I was too sharp back there, at the window. You asked me a reasonable question and I bit your head off. I apologize.’

  She squeezed his hand, her eyes moistening. Apology accepted.’

  ‘Whatever you want to know about me and my parents, I’ll tell you.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not necessary, Carl.’

  ‘Oh, yes it is. It’s quite necessary. You have a right to know.’ He sat down next to her on the couch cushions and held her in his arms as he talked. ‘I was in California and I got a telegram from the Red Cross in March ‘63. Just two lines in the telegram, two lines that I’ll always remember. “Regret to inform you that Andy and Matilda Landry of Newburyport, Massachusetts, perished this past month from starvation. Contact J. Fletcher, Newburyport Red Cross Office, for more information.’”

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ he sighed. Even nine years later, thinking about it made the back of his throat close up in grief.
‘A week later, I managed to get a phone hookup from our base to that Red Cross office. It was hard to do but my company commander arranged it for me. The line was all crackly with static and the guy on the other end, the J. Fletcher, sounded exhausted.’

  ‘What had happened?’

  He shrugged, hearing again the sound of barking dogs outside. ‘Something so simple, it’s hard to believe that it could have happened. There had been a number of blizzards m Massachusetts and New Hampshire. There was no fuel for snow plows, and phone and power lines were out. My parents were stuck in their house for days; Food was already low, and later, I learned that residents had had to go to city hall for ration distribution. The snow was just too deep for my parents to get out. Some neighbors found them, after it had melted. That’s about all the news I could get out of Mr. Fletcher.’

  Sandy squeezed him and he said, ‘There I was, doing my duty for God and country, and I couldn’t feed my mother and rather, Sandy. I couldn’t do that one simple thing for them...’

  ‘Carl...’ she began, and he touched his finger to her lips.

  ‘Come now, we have work to do, if we plan to get off this island.’

  She kissed him, hard, and said quietly, ‘You do your parents proud, my friend.’

  They spent a few minutes putting the place back into order. He took two dish towels from the kitchen and put them m his knapsack, and then he piled up the old newspapers and put the couch cushions back where they belonged. Sandy looked at him with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Two reasons,’ he explained. ‘First, I don’t want to leave any evidence that we’ve been here.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ she said. ‘And what’s the other reason?’

  He looked around the quiet and dusty collection of rooms that had been empty for at least ten years, and wondered if it would be another decade before someone visited them again.

  ‘Respect,’ he said. ‘I want to show some respect.’

  Sandy nodded, and then tilted her head. More barking from outside. ‘I’ve been hearing those dogs for a while.’

  He froze. Listened again. Barking dogs. But...something was different. They sounded strange.

  They sounded disciplined.

  He grabbed the binoculars and ran to the window, flattening himself against the wall and pulling the blanket free again. Up the street, a number of blocks away, there was movement. Vehicles. He raised the binoculars and focused them.

  Two Jeeps, parked at a street corner. Soldiers were moving up and down the sidewalks and chained German shepherds were barking and straining at their leashes as they sniffed and pawed the doorways and alleyways.

  A tall man was out there, talking angrily to two uniformed officers. He was in civilian clothes, a gray suit with matching vest, and the way he strode and pointed and—

  It was Cullen Devane, oversight editor of the Boston Globe. Here in Manhattan. Looking for Carl Landry.

  Jesus, he thought.

  Sandy said, ‘Carl, what’s—’

  He rushed past her, grabbed his knapsack and her satchel.

  ‘We’ve got to get going,’ he said. ‘They’re still after us. And my damn censor from the Globe is right there with them.’

  She nodded, her face the color of the old plaster walls.

  ~ * ~

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs and the tiny lobby of the apartment building, Carl stopped, his heart throbbing, his hands itchy, and his old wounded leg aching. He wished that he had managed to get that M-14 out of Greg’s Jeep. It’d be a heavy sucker to lug around, but it had great stopping power and a longer range than the Colt .45. Sandy stood near him, and he could hear her breathe. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ he said. Cullen Devane. Damn it all to hell. So there was a Boston connection to the shooting. Had to have been. Damn that blackhearted son of a bitch. He leaned out of the doorway, looking down the street. He could near the barking but couldn’t see anything. An abandoned city bus was blocking the view. He grabbed Sandy’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s get moving.’

  She said, ‘How far do we have to go?’

  ‘Until we don’t hear those damn dogs.’

  ~ * ~

  He made sure that they ran quickly, dodging debris and trash on the sidewalks, ducking into doorways. Once they went into the doorway of a wrecked and looted clothing store, and Sandy shrieked at what she saw on the floor until he calmed her down and told her that they were only mannequins.

  Eventually, the barking of the dogs faded away and there were no sounds of engines. They rested in a shaded area by the steps of a row of brownstones and he examined the map that had belonged to the dead lieutenant. He had to get them this island, and soon. They were still being pursued and Carl was sure that Major Devane could be quite persistent. And in another day or two, they’d be out of food and clean water.

  ‘What does the map tell us, Carl?’ Sandy asked, sitting up against a brick wall. ‘Is there a magical ferry you’re taking us to?’

  ‘No, but it shows which streets are clear and which ones ire blocked. We stay on the streets that are blocked, that means jeeps can’t follow us. Just like yesterday. Not much of an edge but it’s the best we can do.’

  ‘So what exactly are we doing?’

  He refolded the map. ‘We’re looking for graffiti,’

  ‘What? Scribblings on the wall?’

  ‘Yep.’ She followed him on to the sidewalk and pointed to the side of a wall. ‘You mean like that?’

  A granite facade carried a message in black paint that had faded over time: MOOREHOUSE FAMILY—GUYS, JOIN US IN HARTFORD. GOOD LUCK. THE AARONS.

  ‘Nope,’ he said.

  Sandy’s voice took on a threatening tone. ‘Listen, my friend—’

  ‘Quiet,’ he said, yanking her down and behind a pile of rubble. He had seen something move. ‘More soldiers?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Looks like just one person, down at the end of the street. It looks like he’s coming up here.’

  He peered through a jumble of broken and burned wood, again seeing the odd motion that had caught his attention, a swaying movement. It looked like a man yet. . .

  ‘Damn, I’m stupid,’ he whispered.

  ‘What did you say?’ Sandy whispered back.

  ‘Hold on. You’ll see yourself.’

  The man rode by on a bicycle stately and proud-looking. His hair and beard were long and a large gray blanket, worn as a poncho, hung over his shoulders. Bags hung from the handlebars, and the man was whistling something as he pedaled by, moving in and around the motionless cars and trucks.

  Sandy made a motion to get up but he grabbed her arm and pulled her down. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, her voice low. ‘I wanted to talk to him, find out why he’s still living here. Do you realize he’s the first civilian we’ve seen in Manhattan?’

  ‘And do you realize that we’re trying to get out of here alive?’ he said sharply. ‘Damn it, there are soldiers back there with guns and dogs. And we don’t know who this bicyclist is or what kind of shape he’s in. He might just be an eccentric who stayed behind, or a guy who collects skulls in his bike bags.’

  He stood up and saw that the bicyclist had turned a corner. Sandy was next to him, brushing dirt and soot off her hands and knees. ‘I hear you, Carl, but don’t tell me how to do my job. I’m still a reporter.’

  ‘If you’re not more careful, Sandy, you’ll still be a good reporter. But a dead one.’ He looked down the street and grasped her arm. ‘Come on, I’ve got something to show you.’

  Carl ran across the street with Sandy right beside him, cursing under her breath. At the corner—Washington and West—was a brick building. The rest of the street was lined with more rows of brownstones and apartment buildings, torn awnings flapping in the breeze. Over the main door of the brick building were splotches of red paint, in the same pattern that he had seen yesterday. Three filled-in circles, joined by curving lines. He looked up and down the street, an
d then at Sandy.

  ‘See anything unusual?’ he asked.

  ‘Carl.. .’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Look around. What’s different?’

  Sandy did as he asked, and then looked up at him. ‘The street’s clean. Like someone cares.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She pointed to the brick building. ‘That graffiti. Is that what you were looking for?’