Judgment

by Tom Reinhart

  “Yeah, that was happening,” she said, “But any other way and people aren’t dying. It’s part of it somehow.”

  “Part of what?” Steve asked as we continued walking through the tunnel.

  “God’s plan,” Margie answered.

  “Bullshit,” Joe answered. “That’s religious fucking cockamamie bullshit.”

  “Suit yourself, but I still hear that guy calling you from the third rail. He should be electrocuted by now.”

  Margie was right. Without admitting it, we all got quiet and listened for a moment to the screams of the injured man echoing through the tunnel. “I’m not buying into this hocus pocus bullshit,” Joe mumbled as he quickened his pace, creating space between himself and everyone else. No one said anything more. We just walked through the tunnel, hugging the wall, hoping we didn’t run into anyone, or anything, else.

  Chapter 4

  Out Of The Frying Pan, Into The Church

  “…then shall the sanctuary be cleansed.”

  ~ Daniel 8:14

  There was little talk as we made our way through the dark tunnel somewhere under the city. The best I knew we were heading south. After a long while of slow going, we could see the next station up ahead in the distance. Everyone stopped, trying to see what might be waiting for us. We couldn’t see anyone or any movement at all. As we drew closer, I could see everything was covered in ash, slowly being blown from the piles that littered the entire platform.

  Cautiously we exited the tunnel and entered the station. It was completely empty and silent, just a few random sounds drifting down from the street above. The ash was everywhere, piled up among miscellaneous purses and umbrellas and phones. It was all the crap people had been carrying when they were caught; the personal treasures we think we can’t live without, now utterly meaningless, lying upon the cremated remains of their owners.

  “They’re all dead. Everyone’s fucking dust,” Joe exclaimed, kicking someone’s phone off the platform and onto the tracks. A small cloud of ash drifted upwards into the air, mixing with the rest of the dust that seemed to permeate it now like a permanent fog.

  “Maybe not everyone,” Jennifer answered, pointing up the stairs to the street as we heard random sounds filtering down along with the morning sunlight. We looked around at each other, all seemingly coming to the same realization that we were about to go up and face whatever was there. My imagination filled my head with surreal visions of what lay in wait above us after a full night of biblical apocalypse.

  “I don’t hear any sirens or anything,” began Steve, “Maybe it’s over.”

  “I doubt it,” Margie answered as she began moving towards the steps up into the city. Slowly we made our way up the steps and out of the subway station. The sun filtered down in little beams through clouds of ash, the way it does when a car kicks up dust on a country dirt road. On each step the ash was collecting in piles, falling in from the street like little waterfalls of sand. Along the graffiti covered walls to either side of the stairway, I noticed the words ’Jesus saves’.

  Right.

  We spent quite a while lingering near the top of the steps, just high enough for our heads to peer out over the concrete sidewalk, each of us afraid to go any further, even Joe. Facing the reality of the new morning, I could see the fear behind his tough façade, the tiredness in his eyes. I think he probably stood guard all night, maybe not having slept since twenty four hours ago.

  The morning sun was almost blinding after being in the dark tunnel all night. A light breeze was blowing in off the Hudson, and as soon as we got to the uppermost steps, ash blew into our faces. It was everywhere. Like a mini-sandstorm, the remains of New York’s human population were blowing up and down the streets. The city was now much different than it had been the day before. Quiet, empty, deserted. While the ashes of the judged rolled along the streets and collected against the curbs like trash, anyone that was still alive had gone into hiding, bolted behind their doors, hoping a deadbolt and a little brass chain would keep out an almighty deity.

  Twenty yards up the sidewalk, a shopping cart was jammed up against the building, full of ragged linens and tin cans. It was all junk, thrift store clothes, and the remnants of dignity; the belongings of a homeless person. At the back of the cart a dog scratched at the sidewalk, rooting around in a pile of ashes. Noticing us, he lifted his head and barked, the dusty remains of a person sticking to his nose. He whimpered, took one last quick sniff of the ash pile, and ran off down the street.

  Shadows passed over us suddenly, causing all of us to duck. Steve ran back down several steps, ready to run for the tunnel. Several angels flew high overhead. Looking up, I could see a great many of them, circling high in the air like vultures. Up in the taller buildings, they were still coming in and out of broken windows, assumedly searching for people. In each tall office tower, hundreds of windows were broken on all floors, and ash gently wafted from each, the remains of cremated humans drifting slowly down to the sidewalks below.

  The streets glittered and sparkled oddly in the morning sun, the fallen glass from shattered windows covering everything, everywhere. The streets were now paved with glittery glass and ashes. In several places I saw bodies on the ground, appearing to be dead, yet I noticed them randomly move. Every few moments, various haunting sounds broke the surreal silence. A random scream in the distance, a door slam, a car alarm; not many, but just enough to let us know there were still others, like us, on the run.

  At one point a yellow taxicab raced by, screeching tires around a corner with two angels flying along behind it. The trail of ash kicked up in the wake of the cab filled the air around us, making us choke.

  The car weaved its way through the myriad of abandoned vehicles that blocked the roads, scraping against most of them as it went. It veered up onto the sidewalk to get by, and then disappeared around another corner with the angels still in pursuit.

  “What's our plan?" Margie asked, her voice sounding slightly muffled. She had pulled her T-shirt up over her mouth and nose to keep the ash out. “What do we do now?"

  What do we do now?

  “Starbucks looks open. Very open," offered Joe, pointing up the street to a corner coffee shop with shattered windows.

  Jennifer began fumbling with her cell phone. “I need to call my family, check on my parents.” I watched her press several numbers and then put the phone to her ear, noticing the dust that had begun to collect in her hair.

  Steve pulled his phone out too. “My battery is almost dead.”

  “They’ll all be dead soon,” Joe said. “Just like us.”

  Jennifer hung up her phone and spoke before I could respond to Joe’s optimism. “No answer,” she said looking down at the phone with despondence. “My mom always answers.”

  “Where are they? Where do they live?” Margie asked her.

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “No answer at my daughter’s place either,” started Steve. “In Brooklyn. She’s eight. She lives with my ex-wife.”

  I could see the same look appearing on everyone’s faces. After spending all night in a panic saving our own lives, our thoughts were turning to loved ones, wondering if they were okay. “Anyone else have family? Somewhere to go?” I asked.

  Margie was putting her phone back into her pocket. “My phone’s dead. I’ve got a brother that lives on Staten Island. We don’t talk that much though.”

  Jennifer handed Margie her phone. “Here, use mine.”

  Margie took it, offering a truly sincere smile in return. “Thank you.”

  I looked back to Joe. “You? Anyone?”

  He hesitated a moment. “No. No one that matters.”

  I just nodded. I felt I didn’t really have the right words for anyone at the moment. A feeling of despair began to come over me.

  What the hell were we going to do now? I don’t even know what’s going on.

  I felt Jennifer’s hand on my shoulder and it pulled me back into the world. “What about you Adam?”

/>   “Me? What?”

  “Family? Do you have someone to call?”

  Before I could answer, Margie’s voice blurted out the first bit of enthusiasm I’d heard since yesterday. “Larry! Hey…can you hear me okay? Yeah, it’s Margie. Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, sorta I guess. I spent the night in a subway tunnel. No, I’m with some people. No, I don’t know, we sorta hooked up yesterday when all this started happening.” Margie looked at us and shrugged her shoulders before she continued. “What are you hearing? Is the news on? What are they saying?” There were several pauses where she was listening to the voice on the other end, her facial expressions frequently changing to match the evolving tones of the conversation. “Oh. Oh. Damn. What about your area? Other people still around? Oh. What are you going to do? Yeah. Yeah. Me too. I may try to come that way, okay? No, I’m not sure. Just try to stay hidden okay? Yeah. Yeah. Yeah I will. Yeah. K. Bye.”

  Margie stared at the phone for a few seconds before handing it back to Jennifer. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. So what did he say?”

  Margie looked at us all the way one always does when they’re about to give bad news. “He said he’s hiding out in the Laundromat in the basement of his building with a few other people. They blocked up the door with a washing machine. He said he thinks everyone else in his building is dead. They have one guy who is hurt really bad, he thinks he should’ve died hours ago, but hasn’t yet. They have a TV down there, but it just keeps playing that recorded loop from the Emergency Broadcast System. There’s no live news or anything. All the stations are just down, gone.”

  Nobody said anything for several minutes. Steve tried to call his daughter a few more times until his phone battery completely died. Jennifer suddenly remembered her question. “You, Adam? Anyone?”

  “Not really.”

  Jennifer pointed at my hand. “You’re wearing a wedding ring.” Everyone turned to look at me now, their eyes digging for my answer.

  Great.

  “I was married. She died in a car accident a year ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. I hated this conversation. “It’s okay. I’ve come to grips with it.”

  Another shadow passed overhead. Joe stepped up onto the sidewalk and looked back down at the rest of us huddling in the subway stairwell. “I think we should get going. Find our own Laundromat to hide in. Staying out here is a really bad idea.”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Let’s get indoors somewhere at least.”

  We gathered our things, which amounted to a pipe wrench, a piece of pipe, a pocket knife and some dead cell phones. It was the first moment I actually noticed ourselves and how we looked. Dirty, covered in ash, tired, splattered with other peoples blood. We were a mess.

  It was up on the street that the real fear began to settle in again. Cars were stacked up as if it was rush hour, some with the engines still running, but there were no drivers. Open doors had piles of ash beneath them. Somewhere further up the block a car radio was blaring the EBS message, that familiar obnoxious tone echoing off of the buildings. High in the sky we could see angels flying, but at least for the moment the street seemed clear of them.

  We moved through the cars and onto the sidewalk across the street, glass crunching under our feet. This was a huge problem for the barefoot Jennifer, and I knew she was cutting her feet up. I offered her to go piggy back, but she refused. I knew at the first opportunity we would need to find her some shoes.

  Turning a corner, the next street looked the same. The city was a shambles, like the aftermath of a war zone. It was nearly deserted of life, but the remnants of society were littered everywhere. Every now and then we would see people like us quickly moving about; dirty and scared, always looking up towards the sky for angels. Then they would disappear again into some dark place to hide. Humans had become like hunted animals.

  Every so often as we travelled further up the street, not really sure where we were going, we would see more people that looked like they should be dead, yet they were still moving. We kept our distance, crossing the street when we needed to in order to avoid them. Ashes were everywhere, covering everything like a dusting of snow. When the wind blew, the ash became airborne, and breathing in the remains of cremated humans became a horrible reality. The ash stuck to my mouth, the taste of it making me nauseous.

  Ahead of us near the end of the block we heard a woman scream. Turning in that direction, I saw three people come running around the corner, one of them getting grabbed by an angel just as I looked. The remaining two, a woman and a man, both took off running in separate directions. Another angel, this one flying, came into view seconds later and pursued the woman across the street. They disappeared from view behind a building, but moments later I heard muffled screams, and then silence.

  Even though he didn’t have to say it, Joe warned us all that we shouldn’t go that way now, and he took a left turn down another alley between tall buildings. “Where are we going to go?” Jennifer asked.

  “We just need to find somewhere we can secure ourselves inside. I don’t trust any of these office buildings anymore. That’s where we started.” I told her.

  At the end of the alley Joe turned the corner onto the next street and ran smack into a woman coming the other way. She stumbled slightly, leaning momentarily against the wall of the building. Her skin was ashen gray, her eyes glazed over in a blank stare. She said not a word, paying little attention to us as she continued walking down the street.

  “That’s another one,” Margie whispered. “She’s dead.”

  “She’s not fucking dead,” replied Joe, much louder than a whisper. “Hey lady. Lady! Hey!” he yelled after the woman. But she paid him no attention as if she never heard or even noticed him. She just continued wandering aimlessly down the street.

  “She’s dead.” Margie insisted.

  “Bullshit. Let’s go.” Joe started off up the street in the opposite direction. Another block, another warzone with cars abandoned everywhere and dust covering everything. We passed by coffee shops and bakeries and a liquor store, all with broken windows or smashed in doors; nowhere that looked like a good place to take shelter for a while. It dawned on me that there were no bodies anywhere. Not a single one. It seemed as though there were three types of people left. You were either alive and on the run like us, or already a pile of ash, or you were dead but still walking. That was it. But nowhere were there any motionless bodies in the street.

  A half-block more, another corner, and Joe stopped. “There,” he said, pointing far down the side street. Lagging slightly behind with the barefoot Jennifer, I couldn’t yet see what he was looking at. Once we caught up, I knew exactly what it was.

  “Are you crazy?” Margie asked him. “The old cathedral? We’re going to hide from God in a church?”

  “Sure. Why not? I bet he’s not home.”

  A strange feeling came along with our next few steps. In the past, churches to me were just buildings where misguided and brainwashed people gathered together like a cult. Now, approaching the building with real evidence of Heaven chasing us through the streets, it took on a whole new meaning.

  On the outside, the gothic medieval architecture of the old church stood in stark contrast to the shining modern skyscrapers that surrounded it; the old world holding its ground against the new. As we pushed through the old wooden front doors, the surreal nature of the moment intensified. Inside, the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, painting the interior in a watercolor wash of archaic beliefs, now come to reality. Blatantly ironic, here we would hide from the soldiers of God in his own house.

  The creak of the door, and our footsteps, echoed deep inside. The church was empty, except for the ashes that lay in piles everywhere. It looked like an entire congregation had been caught and cremated here. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Steve whispered.

  Suddenly near the back of the church from behind the pulpit, a figure appeared; a man dressed in all black, walking
towards us. As he drew nearer, the pastel colored light coming through the stained glass windows lit his face, and I could see the little white square on the front of his collar; the mark of a priest.

  “Come in,” he said. “I am Father Donovan. Close the door please.”

  Father Donavan wore a face of contradictions. His hair was graying, the salt and pepper telling his years like the rings in a tree trunk. Yet it was full with no sign of a receding. His face was marked with the wrinkles of experience, yet they seemed to signal wisdom instead of age. He was clearly somewhere just past fifty, yet carried himself in a youthful manner. A handsome man, he exuded confidence and leadership, even now as the very faith he had dedicated his life to had suddenly turned on him.

  “There’s water over there,” he told us, pointing to a small fountain in the corner. “It’s holy water, but it’s certainly drinkable. I’m afraid I have little else to offer but shelter, even if not a very safe one.”