by Reece Hirsch
“Room 217.”
“What sort of injuries?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds. Both are hurt pretty bad.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay,” the man said with a slight tilt of an eyebrow to show that he wasn’t an idiot and he recognized the evasion.
“I think we’ve got a doctor and a couple of nurses across the street in the ballroom of the Marriott. We can see if we can get someone over here.”
The other doorman exchanged a look with his red-faced partner, nodding at the blood that was seeping through Chris’s pants leg. “Carl,” he said.
“You look like you could use some help yourself,” Carl said.
“I’m fine,” Chris said, “but do you know where I can find the police?”
“No, I think every available resource is being directed at the fire,” Carl said, nodding toward the glowing horizon. “Tudor City is burning.”
“Why don’t you come inside and someone can take a look at that. And if you need the police, we can try to call them.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got something I need to do.”
There was a burst of automatic weapon fire from somewhere in the distance and all three men flinched. Chris was no ballistics expert, but he thought he recognized the same quick burst that he had heard in the hotel hallway. It could have been a TEC-9.
When Chris had collected himself, he realized that upon hearing the gunshots, his right hand had flown to the pocket that held his gun. This was not lost on the two doormen, and their hands were hovering near the pockets of their parkas.
Carl was now studying him very closely. “I’m going to assume that you’re one of the good guys—unless you prove me wrong.”
“I appreciate that,” Chris said. “And now I’m going to move along.” He withdrew his hand from his pocket and started backing away. “Remember, Room 217.”
Carl lit a new cigarette as he watched Chris walk into Times Square and up Seventh Avenue in the direction of the shots. His partner had disappeared, hopefully to find a doctor.
Chris stood in the middle of the normally busy intersection of Seventh and Forty-Seventh and turned in a circle. A half a block away, Chris saw a figure in a leather jacket carrying a green nylon gym bag. Dylan was walking away from him toward Sixth Avenue, also known as the Avenue of the Americas, but natives usually didn’t waste that many syllables.
Chris got out of the middle of the street, where he could be easily spotted, and began following Dylan, sticking close to the buildings. It was the Diamond District, so the street was lined with jewelers and not a single plate glass window was intact. After hearing the gunshots, Chris was half expecting to find a body, but Dylan had probably just fired a round to chase away a band of looters who had mistaken him for an easy victim.
He was feeling lightheaded from blood loss and his movements felt awkward and out of sync like he was a poorly tethered balloon in the Macy’s parade. As Chris stalked Dylan through the nearly empty urban landscape, his feet crunching on broken glass from the shop windows, he was reminded of the postapocalyptic New York of the video game that he had seen when he visited the Hive in Barcelona. First-Person Shooter.
This is the ultimate first-person-shooter experience. If only it were a game.
The city was like a video game that night in more ways than one. Each block seemed like a new level, with distinct properties and obstacles. One block teemed with people and the next was nearly deserted. This particular stretch of Sixth Avenue was eerily quiet, with few people in sight. Chris recognized that the seemingly abrupt transitions might be a sign that blood loss was clouding his perceptions.
Chris put one foot mechanically in front of the other and drew inexorably closer to Dylan like he was on a conveyor belt. He would have said that it felt dreamlike, except that dreams didn’t involve such excruciating pain.
Dylan reached the corner of Sixth Avenue. Chris ducked into a doorway, anticipating that he would look back from the corner to see if anyone was following, which he did. Chris didn’t think he had been spotted, so when Dylan turned onto Sixth, he limped forward as best he could on his numb leg. He didn’t see Dylan ahead of him on the sidewalk, nor anywhere else. He gazed up the long, dark alley of skyscrapers that ran all the way to Central Park. Chris slowed his pace as he moved up Sixth, nearing Rockefeller Center.
He was scanning the opposite sidewalk, so he didn’t immediately notice when Dylan stepped out of a doorway twenty yards ahead of him. When Chris finally saw him, Dylan was standing in the middle of the sidewalk with the TEC-9 leveled at his chest.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Dylan said. “You could have gotten out of this alive.”
Chris’s hand hovered near his jacket pocket and he thought about reaching for his gun.
“I wouldn’t try that. I may not be a great shot, but this bad boy makes it easy,” Dylan said.
“Is it getting easier—killing people, I mean?”
“I’m not a killer, Chris,” Dylan said. “You should know by now that’s not what I’m about. Now, lift the gun out of your pocket with two fingers.”
Chris removed the gun as instructed and held it away from him.
“Now put it down on the sidewalk—slowly.”
Chris laid the gun down on the sidewalk.
“Now kick it into the street,” Dylan said.
Chris kicked the gun and it skittered across the pavement of Sixth Avenue, giving off a couple of tiny sparks and coming to rest under a Mercedes that had been left parked in the street. Dylan smiled and started walking toward him slowly.
Chris heard footsteps behind him. He looked back to see a band of about twelve men, all armed, all with heavy backpacks that were undoubtedly loaded with stolen goods. The apparent leader of the crew was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt under a black leather bomber jacket.
Chris was amazed at how quickly things had deteriorated in the hours since the blackout. He had seen a few isolated looters early on, but now they had given way to more sophisticated criminal enterprises like the group that was now advancing on Chris. They were clearly well armed, organized, and determined to steal as much as possible before the city’s lights came back up.
The gang’s leader, who had short, curly, black hair and heavy-lidded eyes, clocked Chris as a harmless civilian and they ignored him, flowing around him on the sidewalk—until they saw Dylan and his TEC-9. That brought them all to a dead stop, with their guns raised.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Dylan said, lowering the muzzle of his gun. He knew he was outnumbered and outgunned.
“Neither are we, so why don’t you drop your gun?” the leader said. “What is that, a TEC-9?”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, backing up toward the corner. “I’m just going to get out of your way here.”
While the gang leader clearly coveted the TEC-9, he didn’t seem to want it badly enough to pursue Dylan. It wasn’t worth a firefight, especially not on this night when everything else came so easily. Chris was alarmed to see that the standoff was quickly resolving itself. Unless he did something, the gang was going to proceed on its way and Dylan was going to finish what he started.
Chris spoke up, his voice hoarse and strange-sounding to him. “He’s got half a million dollars in that gym bag.”
The man in the black leather jacket stopped again and so did his crew. He nodded and his companions kept their guns trained on Dylan, then he turned to face Chris.
“What did you say?”
“I said that he has half a million dollars in that gym bag.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I saw it.” This was not quite true, but Dylan had said that the money was in the bag when they were at the hotel.
The man addressed Dylan now. “Is what he says true?”
While they were speaking, Dylan had continued to slowly back away, putting more distance between himself and the gang. He was probably trying to figu
re out at what point he could make a run for it without getting instantly gunned down.
“No, he’s a liar. He’s playing you.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“Because I was about to kill him,” Dylan said, shrugging it off like he was confessing a traffic violation. He sensed that, at least with respect to a matter like that, he could confide in these gentlemen.
The gang leader rubbed his hands together for warmth, taking a moment to evaluate the situation. His breath condensed in tiny white clouds. Chris knew that his life hung in the balance.
Finally, he spoke to Dylan. “I could ask you why you want to kill this guy, but I don’t really give a shit. Open the bag.”
“Why would you believe him over me?” Dylan asked.
“Just open the bag.”
Before he could ask again, Dylan made a run for it, dashing around the corner and into the main concourse of Rockefeller Center, which dead-ended in the gray tower of 30 Rock. The gang set out after Dylan, their shoes clattering on the sidewalk as they disappeared around the corner.
Two members of the crew stayed behind with Chris, urging him forward at a walking pace, which was the best that he could manage, anyway. The pair didn’t have much to say to him or each other. They were tall, sinewy city kids who looked like they had mastered petty larceny and B&E and were ready to graduate to the next level.
Somewhere up ahead, Chris heard bursts of automatic weapon fire, with replies from several handguns. The gunfire continued as Chris limped down the main concourse of Rockefeller Center past the shops, his escorts right behind him. They finally arrived at the railing that looked down on the sunken plaza with the ice-skating rink, glowing white in the moonlight and casting its own pale illumination. They took a set of stairs down to the rink and stood at a low railing next to the ice.
The last shots seemed to have come from the offices that adjoined the opposite end of the skating rink—a series of single reports with no response from the TEC-9. Chris wondered if the firefight was over.
The two men stood at the railing, waiting to see who would emerge.
Chris said to them, “I’m going to have to sit …” Before he could finish the sentence, a lightheadedness came over him and he crumpled to the sidewalk at their feet. If his life was a movie, then he had just experienced a jump cut. One moment he was standing, the next he was on the sidewalk concentrating on trying to hoist his eyelids.
“Should we get him up?”
“Not until we have to go. He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.”
Chris stared up at the two thugs looming over him. He wondered if he was dying, considering the question with a surprising degree of detachment.
A burst of automatic weapon fire ruptured the silence. Chris waited for his two captors to return fire, but instead they simply collapsed. The bodies of the two men lay crumpled on either side of him.
I need to get up. Whoever shot them is probably coming over here to make sure everyone is dead.
Chris tried to lift his head, but either his skull had grown very heavy or his neck had grown very weak. Either way, it seemed to be a nonstarter.
The handgun of one of the men lay beside Chris. It was within reach, and he got his hand around the stippled grip.
I need to get on my feet.
Chris managed to sit up and, with the bit of strength he had left, pushed himself up off the sidewalk. As he rose, there was a moment when his eyes swam and he might have blacked out, but he didn’t. He grabbed the railing next to the ice rink with one hand for support.
When Chris looked out on the ice, he saw Dylan awkwardly trudging toward him, the TEC-9 in one hand and the green gym bag in the other. He had apparently been cornered and saw the ice as his only escape route. His pursuers were not yet in sight. Maybe they were dead.
Dylan was wearing sneakers on the ice and he seemed to be on the verge of slipping with every step, waddling in a comical wide-legged stance for balance. When Dylan saw Chris appear before him at the railing, he smiled like someone who had just gotten lucky. Dylan started to raise his gun to take aim at Chris.
“Hey, asshat!” Dylan spun around to see Zoey standing above them at the railing looking down into the rink. As he turned, Dylan pulled the trigger and sent a spray of bullets in her direction. An instant later, Zoey was no longer standing at the railing.
Dylan turned back to Chris, bringing the barrel of the TEC-9 around. But, slow and groggy as he was, Chris had now managed to lift his gun and take aim at Dylan. Chris pulled the trigger and the shot boomed in the partial enclosure of the skating rink.
When Chris regained his bearings from the recoil, he saw Dylan staring at him from the center of the ice. Chris didn’t see a wound and wondered if he had missed. Then Dylan coughed and a spot of blood appeared on his chin. A surprised, anxious look flashed across his face before he fell. Chris had seen that expression before—on the face of fourteen-year-old Dylan at Josh Woodrell’s house in the summer of 1987.
Chris didn’t wait to see what happened next. Somehow, he struggled up the steps to the upper railing to find Zoey. When Chris reached ground level, he saw Zoey sprawled and motionless on the sidewalk, and his heart sank. He dropped to his knees beside her and saw that her eyes were open. They opened wider when he came into view and she saw that he was still alive.
“I heard the gunshot and …” She was unable to finish the sentence.
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“I’m cold,” she said, visibly shivering.
“You just keep your eyes open. You’re going to be okay. Where were you hit?”
“I don’t mean I’m cold as in ‘I’m dying.’ I mean that it’s freaking cold lying on this pavement. I haven’t been shot. I tripped and banged my head.”
Chris managed a smile. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“A doctor got there pretty fast for the agents, so I followed you. The doormen sent me this way.”
“Very ill-advised, but thank you.”
Chris and Zoey descended the steps to the ice rink to see if Dylan was still alive. Zoey put Chris’s arm on her shoulder so that he could brace himself as they made their way across the ice. Chris leaned down over Dylan’s body.
Dylan’s eyes opened.
He spoke with effort through teeth smeared with blood. “It’s not over. Not even close.”
“What do you mean?”
“I activated a second strain of the virus just a little while ago. The target is the Indian Point nuclear power plant.” He coughed. “Guess I win after all, huh?” With that, Dylan’s eyes closed.
Chris felt for a pulse, but Dylan was gone.
He looked up to see the gang leader and his men advancing carefully across the ice.
“He dead?” the leader asked.
Chris nodded.
The man zipped open the gym bag and lifted out a laptop, setting it down on the ice. He plunged his hand into the bag again, and drew out a couple of fat stacks of banded hundreds. Performing a rough tally of the money in the bag, he seemed satisfied with the contents.
Before he could put the laptop back in the bag, Chris asked, “Could I have that laptop … as a finder’s fee? I could use a new one.”
The man considered for a moment, then said, “Sure, take it. You earned it.”
The man and his crew crossed the rink and walked briskly away into the night like last-minute shoppers looking to check the last items off their Christmas lists before the shelves were bare.
“Indian Point,” said Zoey. “That nuclear plant’s only like—what?—thirty-five miles from Manhattan.”
“If a virus caused a nuclear disaster there, then the radioactivity would reach the city.”
“And you can’t evacuate New York.”
The scenarios were unthinkable. The Chernobyl nuclear disaster had left the town of Pripyat in Belarus a radioactive ghost town, uninhabitable nearly thirty years later. The Fukushima Daiichi event had done the same thing to the J
apanese town of Okuma. But both of those meltdowns had occurred far from a major population center. Chris couldn’t even begin to contemplate the consequences if a nuclear disaster at Indian Point sent a radioactive cloud over Manhattan and the nation’s most densely populated areas.
Zoey stared at Dylan’s laptop like it was a live grenade. “You think he launched the new virus from that?”
“I do,” Chris said. He picked up the laptop and carried it over to the steps next to the rink. “I’m going to work on this,” he said, sitting down on the steps. “You get on your phone and see if you can get through to someone at Indian Point.”
Chris opened the laptop and saw that it was password-protected. Since he hadn’t known Dylan for the past thirty years, the chances that he could guess his password were slim, but he was going to try.
Chris typed in “Lothar,” the German Shepherd that Dylan had loved when he was fourteen. “ACCESS DENIED.” Even hackers could be careless enough to use a pet’s name as a password.
He tried several variations on Josh Woodrell’s name—“JoshWoodrell,” “JWoodrell,” “WoodrellJ.” “ACCESS DENIED.”
Chris keyed in “Enigma,” “Ripley,” and “Blanksy.” “ACCESS DENIED.”
A different approach occurred to Chris and he carefully entered the numbers “81687.” “ACCESS DENIED.”
He was growing desperate, running out of ideas. He tried a variation on the last attempt—“081687”—not expecting much, just unwilling to give up. And a moment later, he was staring at the desktop of Dylan’s laptop.
“I’m in,” Chris said to Zoey. 081687. August 16, 1987. The date that Chris, Josh, and Dylan had accessed the DOD database and altered the course of their lives. “How’s it going over there?”
“I’ve reached someone and told them we had information about the cyberattack. They put me on hold. I think he’s trying to find his boss.”
“This laptop is encrypted,” Chris said. “I’ve gotten past the password protection, but now I’m stuck.”
“Let’s trade places,” Zoey said. “I’ve got this.”
Chris took the phone. Zoey sat down at the laptop and her fingers began flying over the keys.
