by Unknown
He heard the rattle and pop of gunfire one afternoon. It had died away by the evening.
The wide blue emptiness of the skies was only punctuated by the occasional drone of a police or military helicopter. They swept the city and hovered over the streets. Sometimes the faint echo of a metallic human voice reached Bishop’s ears as the aircraft addressed the city over tannoys. A military chopper passed quite close to the roof of the hotel, close enough for the occupants to be able to see Bishop sitting in the sun, and he waved a hand lazily in its direction. It did not deviate or respond in any way. Bishop laughed and gave it the finger.
After a few days, he stopped seeing or hearing any aircraft and the sky became the sole preserve of birds and insects.
The city became calm and peaceful. A state of serenity settled over it like a balm, a state that had not existed here since before the first European settlers had started to encroach on the region. Bishop found it a little tedious.
He spent the last couple of days of confinement amusing himself in other ways. He outfitted himself in designer clothes from the hotel’s boutiques. He visited each of the hotel’s three-hundred and forty rooms. Around three quarters of them had been occupied during the outbreak. Of those, perhaps a hundred rooms had emptied, presumably when the occupants decided to leave the city in a vain attempt at avoiding contamination. Thirty or so rooms had been occupied by people with the presence of mind to lock them securely from the inside before retiring to what they must have thought were merely their sick-beds, not their death-beds. Bishop pressed his ear to these doors but could hear nothing from within any of them. He moved on. There were plenty of rooms to which he could gain access.
The occupied rooms announced their status as soon as Bishop opened the doors. The stench made him grimace at first, but he quickly became accustomed to it. Without exception, these rooms had their blinds and curtains tightly closed. Some had blankets thrown over the windows, too, secured by packing tape. Most occupants lay putrefying in bed, a process hampered by the hotel air conditioning that continued, for now, to pump out cool air. Bishop was therefore able to remove gold watches from wrists that had swollen and blackened, but had not yet begun to grow furry and weep and slough away.
Rings on fingers he ignored—the only way to remove them was by also removing the swollen fingers that the bands had sunk into. It wasn’t that Bishop didn’t possess the stomach for such a procedure; he just didn’t feel that his need was that great to go to the trouble. In truth, he had no need for any of the items he took back to his room and placed in one of the suitcases. For years he had been accumulating a cache of gold against the day when paper currency became worthless. When gold and silver and precious stones became the new world currency, Bishop would still be extremely wealthy.
Besides, there were plenty of such items lying on bedside cabinets or stuffed into underwear drawers. Also, the hotel safe, once he had found the combination on a sticky note on the back of a cupboard below the reception desk, had provided a treasure trove of diamonds, rubies and precious metals. He left the passports and cash there.
Not all occupants had died in their beds. Some lay blackening on bedroom floors, maybe having fallen out of bed in a death throe or having got out to go to the bathroom before discovering that they no longer possessed sufficient strength to make that journey or to get back into bed. One man he found sitting naked on the toilet, hunched forward with forearms resting on knees. Bishop prodded him curiously on one cold shoulder. The man toppled sideways and into the open shower, rigor mortis ensuring that the corpse retained its hunched over posture.
In the unoccupied rooms, Bishop amused himself by eating peanuts and chocolate from the mini-bars, or taking a shower and using the free range of toiletries, or jumping up and down on the beds as though they were trampolines, or smashing mini bottles of wine and spirits against the walls or against television screens. He had no other use for the alcoholic beverages—the only alcoholic drink he could tolerate was beer and he preferred the taste of lemonade. If there was one thing, apart from the sexual act, for which he slightly envied the human race, it was for their obvious enjoyment of alcohol. It merely made him piss more as his body ejected the poison.
It was in almost the last room that he entered, the room closest to his own, that he found the woman. His senses were assailed by the usual sour stink as he opened the door, but with a small difference. The stench in this room was warmer, moister, fresher, as though the air conditioning had more than a rotting corpse to contend with.
“Interesting,” Bishop murmured.
As usual, the occupied room was tightly shuttered against daylight. Bishop flicked the light switch, casting away the gloom. From the doorway, he could see that the bed was empty, the bedclothes thrown back. He strode into the room and glanced at the floor either side of the bed. Empty, too. The bathroom door was closed. He approached it and turned the knob. Locked.
To enable parents to extract children who had managed to lock the bathrooms but could not then unlock them, the locks were fitted on the outside with a groove into which the edge of a coin or butter knife could be inserted and twisted to disengage the lock. Bishop scanned the room and located a woman’s purse. He opened it and glanced at the credit card: Miss A. Anderson. He grabbed a coin and threw the purse onto the bed. In a few seconds, the bathroom door swung open . . . then stopped as it hit an obstruction. The gap was wide enough for Bishop to squeeze around and, with a grunt, he was in the bathroom.
A young woman was lying on the bathroom floor. She wore a dirty white nightdress that had pulled up, exposing lithe, creamy thighs. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. Her eyes were closed and a dribble of spittle ran from her open mouth to pool on the tiled floor.
Bishop knelt at the woman’s side. She was of slight build and Bishop barely grunted as he got one arm under her knees, the other under her shoulders and lifted her. Nevertheless, she was starting to feel heavy as he climbed the last few stairs and emerged onto the roof terrace.
As soon as the bright sunlight hit her face, the woman moaned and turned into the crook of his arm, trying to escape the glare.
Bishop carried her to the wall that ran around the terrace. It came just past Bishop’s midriff and formed a wide ledge that Bishop had to bend as far forward as he could manage in order to see over. The hotel was seven storeys high and if Bishop had been one to suffer from vertigo, he would not have been happy to gaze over the ledge; the pavement below looked a long way down.
He placed the woman on her back on the ledge, his arms burning a little, glad to be free of her weight.
She immediately turned her head towards him, away from the sun. Her eyes flickered.
“Help me. . . .”
It was little more than a croak. Her lips were caked in dried phlegm.
“What’s you name, Miss Anderson?” Bishop said. “Anne? Amy? Amelia?” He laughed. “Let’s be honest, is there anyone left who cares?”
“Please. . . .” Her eyes opened and Bishop was struck at their greenness; cat’s eyes. She must have been quite a stunner before she fell ill. “Help me. . . .”
“Course I’ll help you,” said Bishop in what he imagined was the tone employed by a friendly uncle.
The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips and her eyes fluttered closed.
Bishop shoved her off the ledge and craned forward to watch her descent.
Her nightdress flapped out like a failed parachute.
She didn’t scream.
* * * * *
Milandra gazed out of the picture window at Central Park. Nothing much moved out there except litter, blown about by the strengthening winter winds, and squirrels, who seemed to be enjoying having the park to themselves. She watched them scurry here and there, leaping onto benches and off, emboldened by the absence of people. She yearned to be out there with them.
Jason Grant and Lavinia Cram were out there. They had left almost two hours ago on a scouting mission. Milandra had tri
ed to persuade all four Deputies to go together, but Grant had insisted that George Wallace and Simone Furlong remain with her.
“Just in case unwelcome visitors come calling,” Grant had cautioned. “Me and Lavinia will be quite safe.” He patted the Uzi that hung against his side from a shoulder strap.
Milandra did not argue. She knew that he was right: he and Lavinia were more than capable of taking care of themselves, with or without guns. On the other hand, so was she, and the main reason for her suggesting that the other two Deputies go with them was that she would welcome a little time on her own. Although Milandra had never truly been alone—as the Keeper, she was in constant connection with the rest of her people here on Earth—she enjoyed being physically alone. In this open plan apartment, solitude was almost impossible to find except in the bathroom or one of the bedrooms, and Milandra did not want to disappear into her bedroom too often. Once or twice, when the girl wasn’t away with the fairies, she had caught Simone regarding her in a cold, calculating manner, as though measuring her, and she did not wish to give the Chosen any excuse to find weakness. Now was not the time for challenges. Besides, the girl had a lot—an infinity—to learn before she would be ready.
The return of Grant and Lavinia brought her out of her reverie. Wallace let them in and Milandra moved to the armchair at the head of the couches around the coffee table to hear their report. The Deputies took their places around her.
Not one for preliminaries, Grant launched straight into his report.
“There are no indications that there is anyone alive in this building. Most apartments are locked and silent. We could sense no signs of life from within.”
He glanced across at Lavinia, who nodded. Milandra thought briefly about the woman who had knocked on the door of her apartment. Holly; that had been her daughter’s name. She pushed the image away.
“Three apartments,” Grant continued, “had been left unlocked but are deserted. The concierge desk is unoccupied. The main entrance to the building is still secure. When the power fails, that will no longer be the case, but that won’t much matter. So far as we could see and sense, there’s no-one out there alive to cause problems.”
“In any case, we’ll be gone soon, right?” said Wallace.
“Right,” said Grant. “Though how we’re going to leave is something we need to decide. Let me continue.
“We scouted round some of the other apartment buildings. No signs of life. Most windows we could see from outside have been blocked against the light.”
“We heard a dog barking,” said Lavinia. She folded her arms across her chest. “Grant wouldn’t let me find it.”
Grant nodded. “It sounded far away and towards the Hudson. Not the direction we need to take. We went across the Park. There’s only squirrels moving about in there now.”
“And penguins,” added Lavinia. She smiled.
Grant smiled back. “Yep, we took a detour and, ah, liberated the animals from the zoo.” His smile faded. “Those that were still alive.”
“That was an unnecessary risk,” said Milandra. “I’ve seen those polar bears. Captivity has driven them crazy.”
“Yes,” said Grant. “Though crazed may be a better description. There was no risk, though. I could have handled them both on my own. With two of us, no problem.”
“I told them to go north,” said Lavinia. “We caught them some squirrels. Man, they was starving.”
Grant chuckled. “They sure were. Never seen a bear chew on a squirrel before with such relish. Anyways, the bears have gone. Headed for Canada last we saw them.
“After the zoo, we went along East 65th to 1st. From there, we went down to the 59th Street Bridge. Everywhere we’ve been, the roads are empty. It worried me a little. Where had all those vehicles gone? The answer, or part of it, we found at the bridge. It’s completely blocked. Both directions. Something must have happened on the Queens side. An accident maybe? Shit, even a truck breaking down and blocking one lane might have caused it, the number of cars trying to get off this island. There are a lot of people still in them cars. Rotting people.” He shrugged. “Whatever, we ain’t getting out that way.”
“What about the Midtown Tunnel?” asked Wallace.
Grant shook his head. “There was a lot of smoke coming from that direction. Difficult to tell with the wind, but it might have been coming from the U.N. building. I think we should avoid it. And tunnels in general. If we are going to encounter anything that might cause us problems, I’d rather do it in the open air. Not trapped like rats underground.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“North, then?” said Milandra. “The RFK Bridge?”
“I think so,” said Grant. He sighed. “It’s a pity we weren’t in Florida when the message came. We’d have had much further to travel, but it would have been a hell of a lot easier.”
There was no hint of it in his tone, but Milandra sensed the mild rebuke nevertheless. She could have waited for them to pack and return to Florida before sending the e-mail; a day or two’s delay would not have made any difference. She couldn’t tell him the real reason why she had sent the e-mail immediately: every minute that she delayed meant another minute during which she could invent excuses to delay further, which meant more minutes to come up with reasons not to send the message at all.
“Yes, well. . . .” she sighed, “we had no control over when the message would arrive. So. North?”
“Yes. We’ll have no problems reaching FDR Drive. If there are blockages, that’s where we’ll encounter them. I think we should take the flatbed, with the bikes on the back. If the bridge is blocked, we may be able to get through on those.”
“Why not just start on the bikes?” said Simone. Milandra had almost forgotten she was there.
“Well,” said Grant, speaking slowly as though addressing a child. “We can travel together on the truck and carry more equipment. If we’re lucky, we can take the truck all the way to JFK and not have to dump anything along the way. If we need to switch to bikes, some of our stuff is going to get left behind.” He shrugged again. “Nothing we can’t cope without, but still. . . .”
Simone tittered. “Cool. Okay.”
Milandra sat forward. “Is that decided then? The flatbed. As far as we can take it?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good,” she said. “The only thing left to decide is when do we start. There’s no hurry. The others are coming in from all over the country and Canada. We’ll have to wait in JFK for them to arrive. Nevertheless, I for one would like to get going as soon as possible. I think we’re all going a little nuts cooped up in here.”
“As far as I can see, there would no advantage to be gained by delaying,” said Grant. “If there’s anyone still alive out there, they’ll be in no condition to cause us any problems.”
“Okay,” said Milandra. “So unless there are any objections, I suggest we head out tomorrow. At first light.”
Nobody objected.
* * * * *
With each passing day, Diane Heidler encountered more and more obstacles during her cross-country trip. The route she had chosen was intended to make maximum use of interstate freeways, but she frequently had to retrace her steps when she found the way blocked by a tangled wreckage of vehicles. This was especially true near cities and she could always tell when she was approaching a large city by the number of abandoned or crashed vehicles she encountered.
It seemed that many people had decided to flee the cities in a last desperate attempt at survival, even though they were already ill. Quite possibly, many of the pile-ups she saw had been caused by drivers passing out at the steering wheel and careering across carriageways, causing mayhem.
Whenever she left the main highway, she’d find an alternative route to bypass the obstacle and rejoin the main road as soon as she could.
On more than one occasion, she had been forced onto the hard pan to the side of minor roads to skirt an accident scene. During one of these de
tours, for a few heart-stopping moments the car’s wheels had spun in loose sand and the engine’s pitch rose alarmingly, before the tyres had found traction in some harder material beneath the surface and the car shot forward. As Diane thankfully rejoined the paved road, her hands had been shaking. It would have been no joke having to abandon the car in the desert midst or plains of Utah or Colorado or Kansas. She would no longer be able to call a recovery firm. It was evident from the bodies strewn around crash sites or still sitting inside cars that emergency services had ceased operating days past.
She guessed that it might have been possible to take one of the cars that had been pulled to the side of the road when, presumably, the occupants became too ill to go any further, but the thought of having to drag putrefying bodies from them first made her shudder. Hand on heart, she didn’t know if she would have been able to do it.
Fortunately for her, she never had to. She always managed to find an alternative route, a way of skirting around the major obstructions. She became adept at judging the optimum moment to leave the main highway and find circuitous roads, sometimes meandering back roads, that avoided the approaches to the main cities like Denver, Kansas City and St. Louis where the congestion was worse.
Sometimes, she saw thick, billowing smoke in the distance that usually marked a town or city and that served as her signal to exit at the next ramp and head south or north until the smoke was behind her and she could make for the main highway again.
In this manner, driving day and night, Diane passed through seven states in four days.
That is when she began to notice the next, and more serious, problem. More and more of the rest stops and filling stations were closed. Some had handscrawled signs saying things like, ‘Closed until further notice’ or, more starkly, ‘Shut—Plague!’ Many more had simply been abandoned. She had been lucky to come across an abandoned filling station off Route 64 in Illinois whose former owner had not bothered shutting off the power to the pumps. She was able to fill the car’s tank, but all the stations she found from then on—and she stopped at them all, in case—either had their power turned off or it was already down.
