Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse

by G. B. Hope

  So, no baseball for Michael Clavell on his American adventure. He hurried away, down empty, windy streets, heading towards the built-up area he had seen previously, planning to get through that and be on the west of New Haven. Only then would he think about the insanely long haul on to New York.

  ***

  ‘Tell me about your family. About your home.’

  Sabrina looked quizzically at Liam, as though he was not speaking English. It was spitting with rain, they were walking along a train track in Massachusetts, and the man was carrying a bagged tent on his shoulder, like a soldier with a kit bag, going on leave. And he had an Uzi in his hand.

  ‘My mum’s a nurse,’ Sabrina finally answered. ‘She’s a marvellous woman. My dad was a doctor, but he died when I was nine. They really loved each other so much. He was a wonderful man.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’

  Liam kept glancing at the fragile, Indonesian girl beside him, finding her more adorable with each passing day spent together. At the same time, he continued to scan all around them, in case anyone else considered interrupting their progress. Once or twice he would look back, seeing all clear, apart from a miserable Allison Davies trailing behind, lugging the stove.

  ‘I have one sister,’ continued Sabrina, ‘she is a photographer on a P&O ship. She loves it.’

  ‘Oh, really, you should have transferred.’

  ‘We were looking into it.’

  ‘Tell me about Jakarta.’

  She suddenly stopped walking, distressed. ‘We will be able to find where we left Julius?’

  ‘Definitely, Sabrina. I marked it well. Don’t worry. Come on, it’s raining again. Let’s get round the next bend. See what faces us.’

  What faced them was a tunnel under a highway, which wasn’t very appealing. Before they got there, up on the right hand side of the track there towered an auto-parts store, while on the other was a BMW dealership. As the rain came heavier, Liam decided to take them up to the left. Once upon a time, heading towards a BMW dealership would have excited Liam. Now he just wondered what, if anything, was edible in the showroom. He helped the girls up the bank, and easily kicked a route through a rickety mess fence.

  The compound, with hundreds of vehicles, appeared undisturbed. Walking towards the showroom, Liam admired all the cars, wondering if they would ever be driven, or just left to be claimed by nature. He considered putting Sabrina and Allison inside one of the SUV’s, smashing his way into it, until he was sure they were alone on the lot. But the rain was getting silly by then and they were virtually at the big, glass edifice with the BMW logo above the entranceway.

  Tentatively, leading with the Uzi, Liam led them into the revolving glass door. Inside was gloomy, which surprised him, but there were dozens of posters on the glass walls which kept out the daylight. Liam checked all around the brand new vehicles on the white tiled floor, went over to the offices and toilets, then jogged upstairs to check there. Clearly the place was empty.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he called.

  Allison found her way to the lounge sofa area, dropped the gas stove on one sofa and herself on another, while Sabrina took a third. Liam examined the coffee machine, but of course it was lifeless. He pocketed the long-life milk cartons and the biscuits. Then he noticed a vending machine against one of the walls. Kicking into it had Allison screaming with shock and shouting at him to give a warning next time. He didn’t bother to apologise, coming back instead with an armful of candy and chips, which they all began to devour.

  As soon as they had finished eating, Liam was going to suggest that the girls get some sleep, but they were already attempting to do just that. He watched them for a moment; Allison the (slightly bedraggled now) preened, English, bitch with extremely sexy lips, and the sweet, adorable, Indonesian, trying to sleep sitting up with her head on her chest. Liam left them there and walked over to a BMW 7-series. He got behind the wheel and savoured the fantasy of actually owning the thing. Satisfied with his game, he smiled to himself and set off back upstairs, intending to make a more thorough inspection for anything that could be useful. Through the upper level windows he could see that the rain shower had passed, allowing a little weak sunshine over the portion of Boston visible to him. But it was the sea that caught his attention, having not realised they would enter Boston so near the coast. Whether he was looking out over a harbour or a marina, he was not sure, but there were many small boats at the shore, with multi-coloured houses and buildings, and with what could possibly be a hotel further along.

  The boats made him think about sailing home to England. More immediately, with the girls being dog-tired, they could commandeer a small craft and, with some proper supplies, lie low for a couple of days. He would feel safer with water all around them. Then they could strike out away from Boston when refreshed. They would certainly head on that way, and see what developed.

  He found only office supplies, a locked safe and the box that housed all the car keys. Technically, for a moment, he owned hundreds of BMWs. He did pick up one of those price boards with the interchangeable numbers that go in the windscreens, intending to put it beside Allison, reading $55, but discarded it as he went back down the stairs.

  Liam sat himself down quietly on Sabrina’s sofa. He had a good look about through the windows, before placing the Uzi down and relaxing. Sabrina then stirred in her sleep, craned towards him, and settled with her head in his lap, well away. At first Liam was taken aback. Then he composed himself, and let her sleep.

  SIXTEEN

  At the Country Club, Ferguson’s men had started to walk about with automatic weapons over their shoulders, after a number of incursions by undesirable gangs of men, no doubt looking to loot the impressive leisure development. To Taylor and Kacie it was just another sign of the world gone mad. The men were still polite to everyone, although there was clearly a new order in place.

  One dewy morning, before the usual exercise walk through the woods, everyone was called out onto the front lawns for a meeting. There was a small wall on the edge of the driveway, inlaid with the Club plaque, and behind which came the poles for the Club flag and the Stars and Stripes. It was on here that Ferguson stood up to address them all.

  ‘What the hell now?’ whispered Kacie to her friend.

  Taylor nudged her to be quiet, then was disturbed within herself at how worried she had felt for her friend’s loose tongue. She looked about her, at the faces all around, people still at ease, apart from being unshaven or without make-up, some a little tired and fed-up. She pulled Kacie protectively against her and strained to see what Ferguson wanted now.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ began Ferguson. He still looked groomed, his suit crisp in the morning sun. Taylor thought that his teeth looked whiter, but surely that was a trick of the light. As Ferguson started to throw himself into a speech, Taylor tuned out.

  ***

  Lulu Springsteen was naturally overjoyed to be reunited with her sons, giving them round the clock love and attention. Ana, the au pair, became virtually redundant, but was made to enjoy the time off and live like a house guest. She and Charlie hit it off straightaway and spent a lot of time together, with Jonathan always included if he wanted to be. There were also Mr Stickford’s two teenage daughters, Cristina and Roxy. Completing the enclave were Mr and Mrs Grainger, and a young, unmarried couple, Peyton and Louise Cross, with their little boy, Ben. All meals were taken at the Grainger household, with Mr Grainger using his barbecue and camping skills to great effect. The extraordinary thing about Stewart Grainger, apart from his mother naming him after the English film star from the 1950s, was that, at the age of fifty-five, he had decided to become a Prepper. In other words, he prepared for an event such as this, for an apocalypse. He tended to avoid the word zombie, and preferred to base his fears on the incompetence of politicians and bankers; his basement was stocked with food and other basic supplies. He had various weapons at his disposal. Out back, there was a generator, which had proved to be useless, but he had no
t anticipated this kind of particularly strange power failure hitting them.

  Everyone gathered for the evening meal, sitting on the Graingers’ back porch. It was burgers (on buns for the last time) with baked potato and various beverages. Charlie and Ana found something about their previous lives to chat about. Jonathan talked automatic weapons with Mr Grainger, while the older man flipped the burgers, everyone else sat talking, watching the children play. It was a beautiful evening on Long Island. It was almost possible to forget the strange situation. No doubt that would have to be challenged in the coming days, though.

  ***

  The food was great in Mr Ivanovic’s house, Danielle thought. The woman introduced as Ivanovic’s “chef” never seemed to leave the kitchen, just kept coming up with nice delicacies like stuffed peppers or garlic dough balls or small portions of fried chicken and rice. And all the neighbours who were gathered in the very large house seemed decent people, talking freely, occasionally trying to solve the mysterious event, or just talking about more domestic matters. It was Ivanovic who unnerved Danielle. He reminded her of that cab driver who had tried to rape her - all friendly chat, but with sly little glances all the time. And that cretin in the security guard uniform, Ziegler, annoyed her too, with the way he deferred to Ivanovic before he did anything, before he even made himself a drink. Also, the way he looked at her creeped her out.

  There had been a lot of talk about safety in numbers, about pooling resources, community spirit. Mostly Ivanovic had been doing the talking. Danielle had expected to be in Elaine’s house, doing her bit through the crisis, but not to be a number in some kind of ad-hoc commune. Kat was just happy to be clean, fed and rested, talking with the woman who should be living next door, but who “felt safer with Mr Ivanovic”. It was Elaine who caught Danielle’s eye - she recognised the weird set-up too.

  Danielle counted nine people in total in the house. From what she could gather they mostly came from the neighbouring properties. With that in mind, she got up and went outside to have a look around. Most of the houses were of similar design, but two had swimming pools. On one of the drives there sat her all-time favourite car: an Audi TT, in silver, and it broke her heart to think she would never drive one. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could get some guys to push the TT to the top of a hill so she could navigate it down. But with her luck the power steering would lock and she would crash to her fiery death.

  As she wandered the grassy areas between properties, she thought of her parents, and her sister, of her boyfriend. Suddenly melancholic, she thought of the boyfriend before the current one, and the one before him, who had robbed the local bookmakers and was probably still locked up - she shrugged; now, these days, that was certainly hard prison time. She told herself to snap out of it. Think of nice things. Number one nice thought, of course, was Harry Styles. Deep in the pit of her stomach she prayed that he was safe.

  Over the next few days, Danielle found out about all the people she was staying with. It started with Mr Ivanovic, who made a point to tell her what he used to do for a living, which was to own a string of dry cleaning companies in the New York area. She got the feeling he wanted her to be impressed, and it took her a moment to see that he was talking about wealth, not particularly dry cleaning. She feigned interest, before finding a way to move away from the conversation. She had already gathered that Stephen Ziegler was the security guard from the estate, and that he was a bit of an idiot. Like Ivanovic, Ziegler stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. So she hung around with Kat as much as possible. The other people seemed very nice, ranging from the retired Mrs Ikin, through Mr and Mrs Miller, who ran a bookbinding and picture framing business from home, to the young teenager, Jacob, who had missed college on that fateful day, and who was still unaware of what had happened to his family after they left for work. She had also met Ivanovic’s cook/housekeeper, who worked in the Millers’ kitchen as if nothing in the world had changed, and even slept on a camp bed in their utility room. Danielle had tried to talk to the woman called Pam, but there was no real interest from her in making friends. The fact that the woman was black disturbed Danielle - it was like there was a slave on the property. But there was nothing practical she could do to change the situation.

  One morning, Danielle regretted not having Kat outside with her, as Ivanovic came up to her and asked if she would like to see his car. She felt flummoxed, in a mental quandary thinking about being invited to see a man’s “etchings” and the fact that cars were redundant now.

  ‘Come on,’ encouraged Ivanovic, ‘it really will be of interest to you.’

  So, hiding her reluctance, she went with him to his house, which was larger than the Millers’, making her wonder why they didn’t all move in there.

  ‘I’ve had to break the garage doors,’ said Ivanovic, as they went up his drive to the double-garage. ‘They only worked on a remote control.’

  ‘Right,’ said Danielle, keen to get it over with.

  Ivanovic hauled up one of the wooden doors and propped it open with a pole. At first, Danielle could see parts of a car spread around on the concrete floor, then the green shell of a racing car was illuminated.

  ‘It’s a Jaguar XJ13, from 1966,’ explained Ivanovic. ‘I’ve always wanted a Jaguar. I came to the US for business reasons, but I wanted to live in London. Live like a real Englishman.’ He giggled, which was odd for such a rough looking man. ‘With an English wife.’

  ‘Right,’ said Danielle, again. ‘The car’s a beautiful shape, Mr Ivanovic.’

  It was, indeed, beautiful, and curvy, in British Racing Green - a work of art, even in pieces.

  ‘You are a beautiful shape, Danielle, if I am allowed to say so.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Mr Ivanovic. But, you know…’

  ‘Yes, I know, terrible times. But when things are strange…’

  Ivanovic then kissed Danielle, with her in his arms so she couldn’t pull away. When he was done he let her go. Danielle was livid. In normal times she would have slapped his face, but precisely because the world was how it was, she hesitated, quite lost. She was annoyed with herself for not reacting immediately like the old Danielle.

  ‘I expected to be struck,’ said Ivanovic. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. You didn’t have to hold back from striking me because of the way things are…’

  Danielle slapped him harder than any man she had ever slapped before, and there had been four in total, for various misdemeanours. With her face flushed and her hand now hurting, she stormed off, leaving the man there. Ivanovic touched his cheek, not too concerned, obviously having been hit harder in his life.

  SEVENTEEN

  Michael observed many people moving about on the streets of New Haven. It was inevitable that someone would emerge from a looted building, or from around a corner, and he would come face to face with them - be forced to communicate in some fashion. When it eventually happened, it was a middle-aged woman in combat gear and black beanie hat, although unarmed, stepping from the shattered front window of a Delicatessen with a big bag. Michael looked at her as if she was an alien. A friendly smile formed on the woman’s face, yet Michael was so drained and stressed he didn’t even want to deal with that. He just kept moving, giving her a wide berth.

  ‘There’s still food in there,’ offered the woman. 'if you want, mister.’

  Michael kept walking, keeping his eyes on her, so she shrugged and went on with her own plans. Michael paused, until he knew she had gone away, then doubled back, stepped inside, onto the crystallised glass, and quickly found various cuts of meat. He quickly fed himself, then actually picked up a store bag and filled it, adding several jars of olives and the like.

  Back on his journey through New Haven, his close encounter with the woman had reminded him of the perilous state of affairs, so he brought the rifle out and carried it in front of him, still imagining it was ready to shatter at the next time of firing. The pastrami, or whatever it was, had cheered him up immeasurably. He was l
ooking around for a sports store, thinking about acquiring a bicycle again - it was the only sensible way to progress westward.

  There were many burnt out cars, and several buildings on fire or smouldering away. But nothing had really horrified him yet - he had expected to wander into a street with a dozen corpses hanging from the street lamps - that was what the movies had done to him. Then one particular street did distress him, seeing two dead bodies on the sidewalk. At first he considered retracing his steps, but then told himself that he would only come across similar things on a different route. So he pressed on. Dried blood across the sidewalk, empty shotgun shells, another two corpses, more obviously riddled with bullets. He felt his heart speed up, walking into where a gun battle had taken place, maybe the night before, frightened that the assailants were still about. There was a car with bullet holes all along the side panels, very much an image from the movies. Another dead man on the road in front of that, a pistol nearby. Michael’s brain urged him to get beyond this place, and he increased his pace, until he came across a huddle of lifeless bodies. These people seemed fairly mature, not what he would expect to be getting involved in street fighting, in normal times, for sure. Now Michael was ready to jog on, until one of the bodies caught his attention. Clearly, the man had been a fireman, judging from his clothing. The automatic rifle in his hands was obviously superior to his own rifle. Quickly he threw away his own weapon, took up the fireman’s, wordlessly thanked him, and got the hell off that street.