Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘I remember, Major.’

  ‘Then the Yanks came in, like cowboys. And they would hold socials for us, and we’d get some of their food, some of their excess clothing, extra blankets ... It was like having Father Christmas living right next door. They helped us so much, those long months until the war ended.’

  He clamped down on the pipe stem with his teeth at another memory, one that still angered him. ‘I was at a function last year, at a regimental mess. I shan’t embarrass them by repeating their name. But I had to walk out during a toast. It made me ill, Paul. It made me sick to my stomach. They gave a toast to the ghosts of Kennedy and Khrushchev.’

  His captain sounded uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid to say, sir, that I’ve heard the same toast.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ Hunt said, wincing. ‘Something like, “To Kennedy and Khrushchev, for giving us a second chance.” For a second chance to be great again. For bigger budgets for our troops and planes and ships. To mobilize and be strong and to go back to our old haunts in India and Hong Kong. To matter again. Of course, our good fortune has been built upon the corpses of millions.’

  He took the pipe out of his mouth, waved it in the air. ‘Over there, Captain, across that lake is America. They helped us survive three times this century, kept us from falling into the dustbin of history. And how are we repaying them? By betraying them. By coming in at night, like thieves. By killing some of their civilians and some of their military. That’s how. And we should be ashamed. They deserve better.’

  He let his hand fall to his lap. ‘They deserve better,’ he repeated softly.

  ~ * ~

  TWENTY-TWO

  In an instant he heard bells ringing and someone was shaking his shoulders.

  ‘Carl!’ came Sandy’s urgent voice. ‘Wake up! Something’s wrong!’

  It felt like all of ten seconds had passed since he had put his head down on the pillow. Jumbled images came back to him: Caz, the old CIA man, talking at length about secrets and conspiracies. He lives. Jim Rowley and the real secrets of PS 19 and Manhattan, and the biggest secret of all: Resurrection Day. And that awful burden put upon him, Carl Landry, to somehow prevent the incipient anschluss, the British troops coming here to—

  ‘Carl, are you awake?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, rolling unsteadily out of bed. From out-side the little room he could hear the bells again, cowbells, it sounded like, being rung over and over again. Sandy was in front of him, holding a flashlight.

  ‘The power’s gone,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘I heard the bells and woke up and the light had gone off.’

  He stood up, wiping at his beard-stubbled face and looked over at Sandy. He remembered what he had seen earlier, the radio in the satchel that she had hidden from him these past days. What to do, what to say, what was going—

  A pounding at the door. ‘Shine the light on the door,’ he said, picking up his holstered .45 and freeing the pistol with one swift motion. ‘And when I open it, shine the light on whoever’s there. Make sure you point it right at their face.’ He pulled the door open. ‘Hey!’ came a voice. ‘Lower the light, will you?’

  Carl lowered the pistol. ‘Sandy, it’s okay.’

  The beam of light pointed to the floor and Jim Rowley strolled in, holding up a hand to block the glare. He still wore his Yankees baseball cap and corduroy jacket, and he quickly motioned to the both of them. From behind him, Carl could see the outside corridor. There was movement there, of people rushing by, carrying hand lanterns and small flashlights.

  ‘Get your stuff, right away,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here.’

  He went back to his bed, and Sandy did the same, as they both grabbed their knapsacks. Alarms, Carl thought. So many times in the past we’ve been woken up by alarms, by alerts, by signals that something was wrong. He turned to Jim and said, ‘Army?’

  Jim nodded, looked behind him. ‘Yeah. A Zed Force unit just came in, about two subway stops uptown. Couple of squads. They’re moving fast, heading this way. And ...’

  ‘And what?’ Sandy asked, her voice high-pitched. ‘What’s going on?’

  Jim stared right at Carl, his tired eyes unblinking. ‘They’re not making arrests, they’re not slowing down to process prisoners, they’re just moving in. Like they’re looking for someone in particular.’

  Carl picked up his knapsack, knowing almost with certainty that Major Devane was among the squads of soldiers, heading this way. ‘Someone like us?’

  Sandy whispered, ‘Oh no,’ and Jim said, ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’

  ~ * ~

  Jim talked to them quickly as they made their way through the groups of moving people, the lights from the flashlights and lanterns making crazy and jerky shadows on the concrete walls and floor. Two men with sawed-off shotguns flanked Jim as they went through the tunnels, the sound of people’s feet moving echoing along with shouts and yells and the ringing of the bells.

  ‘That’s our early warning system, the bells,’ Jim said, raising his voice. ‘One bell sends out a signal, and the others pick it up and repeat the message. Then runners are dispatched to find out what the hell is going on, and to spread the news. You’d be surprised at how far the sound travels down here.’

  ‘What do your people do when the bells ring?’ Carl asked, keeping an eye on Sandy, and what was going on around them.

  Jim said, ‘Everyone has a job to do or a place to go. We have barriers that we put up, help slow down the soldiers. Or we flood out portions of the tunnel. Or we hide stuff. Those who don’t have a job to do, they spread out, go to shelters, hide out in groups of five or six. Then they wait for the all-clear signal.’

  They were going up a slight incline as a line of children went by, each with a small bundle of belongings, each one holding another’s hand. A young girl with a blond ponytail was bringing up the end of the line, and she looked at them wide-eyed as they passed. Carl felt a quiet taste of horror. This was what it must have been like, ten years ago, when the sirens sounded in this city. Groups of children, holding each other’s hands, trying to hide their fear, seeking shelter underground, seeking someplace to hide from the madmen up above.

  Six days, the voice came to him. You’ve got six days to do something about it.

  ‘Look,’ Jim said, ‘we’ve got to—’

  His words were drowned out by an ear-cracking boom! that took Carl’s breath away as the concussion pounded at them. He thought he heard Sandy scream but he wasn’t sure, his ears hurt too much, and he grabbed her hand. Jim tugged at his shoulder, dragging him somewhere, and he shook his head, trying to shake off the explosion’s impact. The two men with shotguns followed behind them, guns raised to their shoulders, pointing straight and level. They went through a small maze of plywood cubicles and barriers, to a small ladder set against a tiled wall. ‘Go, go, go!’ Jim yelled, as he climbed up. They were in an airshaft of some sort, a metal enclosure that echoed and banged as they moved through on hands and knees. He and Jim both had flashlights and Carl stopped for a moment to look back. Sandy was behind Jim, not looking at him, her head trembling, and beyond her were the two armed men.

  ‘Go on,’ Jim said, breathing hard, the flickering light making his facial scars seem even deeper. ‘That was one of the Zed Force’s calling cards, a concussion grenade that makes a hell of a lot of noise. Shakes you up so that you can’t do a thing.’

  ‘That was damn close,’ Carl said.

  ‘Not close enough. Go on, there’ll be an opening and another ladder in a couple of minutes. Mind you don’t tumble.’

  They crawled for a few long minutes, until Carl felt a draft of air on his face. True to Jim’s word, there was a square opening ahead and another ladder, and he climbed down about a dozen feet, exhausted. Jim came next and then Sandy, and Carl helped her stand up. The two quiet men followed, eyes scanning their surroundings, shotguns at the ready.

  They had emerged onto a small departure platform in a narrow utility tunnel and four or
five people stood at the edge of the platform, next to a pile of boxes and rolled-up rugs. Jim looked back, then at his two guards and said, ‘Your transport will be here in a minute or two. You two be right careful once you get over to New Jersey. It’s wilder there, and sometimes they get raided by outsiders.’

  ‘Orfie gangs?’ Sandy asked, and Jim made a face and shook his head. ‘That’s just a popular word used by the newspapers, miss. Some might call PS 19 an orfie gang, but you’ve seen what we really are.’

  Carl shouldered his knapsack. ‘So who’s doing the raiding over there?’

  Jim shrugged. You got kids and even adults, they’re in New Jersey or Pennsylvania, they got bored with things. There’s rules, rationing, and the draft. They need to raise hell and blow off steam, so they go someplace where there’s no rules and that’s the nearest Restricted Zone in New Jersey. Raid a couple of houses, burn a few buildings, rob a few people, and then go back to your safe and boring home. And - oh, good, here comes your transport.’

  Carl turned, not quite believing what he was seeing, but also knowing it made perfect sense. A team of four horses was coming up the tunnel, hauling a large wooden wagon that had steel rims for tires, and rolled along an old rail track. Gas lanterns hung from poles on either side of the wagon, and two bearded men were up front in the wooden seat, dressed in long cloth coats and wearing Yankees baseball hats. The man on the left had a shotgun across his lap, and the man on the right carried the reins in his hand. The man on the right yelled out, ‘Come on, Jim, we don’t wanna get caught here!’

  There was a quick bustle as cardboard boxes and rolled-up rugs were tossed from the platform onto the wagon, and Jim said, ‘Even when the Zed Force comes, we keep business going. It’s what keeps us alive.’

  In a matter of seconds, the platform was cleared, and the people doing the hauling faded into the shadows, leaving behind Carl and Sandy and Jim, along with his two escorts, who were nervously fingering their shotguns as the bells continued to toll. Another, fainter-sounding explosion and another concussion grenade. Carl felt sick at what those scared children must be thinking.

  ‘Here,’ Jim said, passing him a piece of paper. ‘This is a letter of introduction to the mayors of Hoboken. We get along pretty well and I told ‘em to give you some help getting out of the RZ. You can probably catch a bus in Morristown, if you’re still looking to get to Philly.’

  ‘Mayors?’ Carl asked. ‘There’s two mayors in Hoboken?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Two ex-pilots who got together years back and decided to run things. They did such a good job that the people still out there reelect them, year after year. Look, I’ve got to get back to my people. Good luck to the both of you. Understand?’

  Sandy shook Jim’s hand and then so did Carl. He looked into those young and old eyes and said, ‘Understood.’

  They clambered into the rear of the wagon and as the horse driver said, ‘Hah!’ and they started moving, Carl continued to hear the sound of the bells. Then, the faint sound of gunfire. Jim gave a brief wave and, with his two guards, moved quickly into the darkness.

  Sandy moved next to Carl. ‘We’ve got to do something, Carl. We have to.’

  He stared at the now-empty platform as they went deeper into the tunnel.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ he said.

  ~ * ~

  It got dark quickly in the tunnel, the only illumination coming from the lanterns on the side of the wagon. Their knapsacks were jammed into a corner and Carl quietly took out his pistol and laid it in his lap. There wasn’t much room and the boxes between them and the front meant that besides a muttered ‘how you doin’,’ they didn’t talk with the wagon drivers.

  He leaned back, exhausted. Maybe he’d had an hour’s sleep, if he was lucky. The horses’ hooves sounded loud in the narrow confines of the tunnel, and the flickering light from the lanterns only illuminated a few feet in front of the wagon. He could only see where they had been, not where they were going. Could be a metaphor for this entire miserable trip, he thought. Never quite’ sure of what the hell they were getting into, only sure of what was behind them.

  ‘Carl?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘You’re awfully quiet,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Everything, he thought. Everything is wrong, and everything I’ve thought about you seems to be wrong. From knowing that Merl Sawson was a vet to the hidden radio in the satchel, it’s all wrong. Just who in hell are you, Sandy Price? And are you here, like your countrymen, the paratroopers, to do a job? And what kind of job? To report back on what you’ve learned about the hidden city, about where the people lived, what their defenses are like?

  He squeezed her hand, managed a smile. ‘I’m all right. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  She squeezed back, and he kept on looking behind them, at the narrow railway and the shadows that played on the curving cement walls.

  ~ * ~

  As when they had been in the airshaft, he sensed the change in the air at first—a slight breeze or draft coming their way. He sat up and turned his head, and saw lights ahead. He could also hear the faint hum of machinery and the sound of people’s voices. The pace of the horses picked up, as if they could sense that the end of the trip was near. Sandy said, ‘Are we there?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She yawned. ‘It must be five A.M. My God, I can hardly wait to sleep a full eight hours in a real bed.’

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘Soon. But first we need to get out of here.’

  And quick, he thought. How long before we’re back in Boston? A day, maybe two, if everything goes right? Then a few days left, a handful of hours, to stop the killing that was going to happen next week. Jesus. And no sir, we’re not going back to the Globe. Imagine what it would be like, seeing Cullen Devane again after this trip. He was sure the major had lots of interesting plans for Carl Landry, none of them good.

  The handler to the right turned back at them and said, ‘Almost there, folks. You get ready to step lively. The depot’s a busy place and they like to unload us quick.’

  The wagon drew closer to the lights and Carl saw a handmade sign bolted to a rusting girder, illuminated by electric lights. WELCOME TO HOBOKEN. THE CITY THAT WOULDN’T QUIT. Then they were surrounded by a rush of activity, and they entered a wide place in the tunnel, with platforms, wagons and handcarts, and people moving around, unloading boxes and moving them onto the platforms. A couple of men with rifles were posted at the tunnel entrance, and they nodded to the wagon drivers. The wagon halted and he helped Sandy off, both of them stepping down onto the dirty concrete floor. There was a set of stairs built into the platform, and he helped her up.

  About four or five men unloaded the wagon. A heavyset man with a coat that flapped about his ankles, holding a clipboard, directed the work. Carl went up to him and passed over the folded piece of paper that Jim Rowley had given them.

  ‘We’d like to see the mayors,’ Carl said. ‘The sooner, the better.’

  The man grunted and handed the piece of paper back. ‘So do about half the nuts in this RZ. Hey, Mickey!’ he yelled. ‘Bring these bozos up to the mayors’ office, will ya?’

  A young black girl came over, wiping her hands on her jeans. She wore jeans and a much-patched sweatshirt. ‘Shit, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Yeah, ain’t it the truth. And this is your new job. Get along.’

  She made a face and said, ‘Follow me, you two. And don’t run off.’

  They walked with her, and as before in Manhattan, he was stunned at the milling amount of work and activity that was going on in these tunnels and subway stations. And Jim had said it was happening elsewhere in the country as well, in the supposedly empty Restricted Zones that surrounded the blast areas where the bombs had fallen. A hard life, of course, but one that was more free than in the rest of the country, if you stayed out of the Army’s way.

  It made sense. The RZ communities were a safety valve, a place where the misfits and the rebel
lious and the draft dodgers and Kennedy Administration survivors and those who really believed in the Constitution could live. And the powers that be let them stay here, because it made everything else easier if all the dissidents were in one place. This type of existence could last another decade or two, except for one thing.

  Resurrection Day. These Americans were deciding to rejoin the nation, and the nation wasn’t ready to accept them.

  He kept his eye on Sandy, seeing the bright look in her face as she took everything in. He felt something cold inside of him, something he had not felt since California, when he was exposed on a hillside, alone, with gunfire tearing up the ground around him from a barricaded ranch house. Exposed. A hell of a feeling.