by Adam Baker
‘I’m David,’ said the guy. ‘Where did they pick you up?’
‘Brooklyn.’
A guard sat on the opposite seat. SWAT body armour. Respirator. Remington. The name tape on his vest said GALLOWAY.
‘Where are you taking us?’ demanded David.
The guard didn’t respond.
They continued down the forest track. Weak sunlight through bare branches.
They drove through a high chain-link gateway topped with razor wire. A rusted sign draped with creepers thick as jungle vine:
Ridgeway
Flying School
A neglected airfield. A wide airstrip slowly reclaimed by woodland. Civilian planes overwhelmed by thick brush and saplings.
A wrecked Huey gunship sat in tall grass. Rotor blades dripped rain. Paint flaked from rust-striped body panels. Nose art: red eyes and snarling teeth. Hammer Strike. A tree had grown through a hole in the cockpit floor. Branches protruded from vacant canopy windows.
They kept driving.
A Cessna lay in waist-high bracken, fuselage snapped in two like someone broke it over their knee.
The vehicle stopped.
The engine died.
‘So what is this place?’ asked David, craning to look out the windows. He could see hangars and a couple of fuel trucks.
The rear doors were pulled open. SWAT with assault rifles. Galloway flicked open a knife, leaned across the aisle and cut the plastic ties that bound Lupe and David to the bench.
‘Get out.’
They jumped from the truck.
‘Move.’
They walked a few paces.
‘Stop. Hands on your heads.’
They stood beside a battered FDNY fire truck. One of the cops slung his rifle and unwound the hose.
‘What is this shit?’ asked Lupe.
‘Decon shower,’ said the cop. He threw open a nozzle valve and blasted her with a jet of ice water. She was thrown from her feet. She curled foetal, covered her face and waited for the deluge to stop.
The scavenged hulk of a Fairchild Provider. Faded tail code and insignia of 302 Tactical Airlift. The airframe had been stripped for parts. The Pratt & Whitney turboprops were long gone. No flaps, rudder or undercarriage. The alloy wings and tail torn like ragged sail fabric. NO WALK. PROP DANGER. The fuselage was mottled with moss and lichen. The carcass sat in weeds, wing-tilt to the left like it was banking hard.
The cavernous cargo bay was ribbed with reinforcement spars. Frayed cable and hydraulic line hung from the roof. No seats.
Lupe sat cuffed to one of the spars. The rear loading ramp was down. Rain drummed on the skin of the plane, beat down grass and bracken.
David sat nearby, shackled to a floor stanchion. He shivered with cold.
‘What do you think they will do with us?’ he asked.
‘Nothing good.’
She looked towards the front of the plane. The cockpit door was open. Galloway sat in the pilot’s seat, smoking a cigarette. His feet rested on the flight controls. Reclaimed avionics: sheet metal studded with cookie-cutter holes where dials and fuel gauges used to sit.
David tried to saw the plastic tie against the stanchion.
‘Forget it,’ said Lupe. ‘They make this shit out of special nylon. You need a knife or bolt cutters to slice them.’
‘How many cops do you reckon they have here?’
Lupe nodded to the open loading ramp.
‘Couple of trucks by the hangar. They’re burning pallets inside the building, got themselves a campfire. Less than a hundred guys, at a guess. But they’re well armed.’
‘Reckon we could make it over the fence?’
‘Razor wire would cut you to shit, but you could get through it if you wanted freedom bad enough.’
‘Hey,’ shouted David. ‘Hey, you.’
Galloway turned in the pilot seat.
‘What are you guys going to do with us?’
Galloway stood and stretched. He walked the length of the plane. Boots clanked aluminium floor planks. He stood over them. He leaned against a retaining spar and cradled his shotgun. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke.
‘When do we get to speak to your boss?’ asked David.
‘The Chief ain’t got time for a lowlife like you.’
‘Bring us some food, at least. A blanket.’
Galloway gestured to a porthole in the wall of the plane. David and Lupe peered through dust-fogged Plexiglas. Silhouette against a stormcloud sky: three lynched bodies swinging from a tree.
Galloway blew the smouldering tip of his cigarette until the embers glowed like a hot coal.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you.’
Dawn. Ceaseless rain.
David sat sobbing. Lupe tried to chew through her cuffs.
Galloway walked up the aft loading ramp. He carried two lengths of rope. He threw the bundles on the floor. He ruffled rain from his hair and lit a cigarette.
‘Why drag it out?’ said Lupe. ‘Kill us. Get it done.’
‘I’m waiting on the results of your appeal.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘There was a trial. Someone spoke in your favour. Someone spoke against. Everything was done right.’
‘Who was the judge?’
‘The Chief.’
‘When do I meet this guy?’
‘You don’t.’
Galloway sat cross-legged on the floor, shotgun in his lap.
Lupe watched him smoke.
‘You’re not SWAT, are you? These other guys. A real takedown crew. Taut. Focused. But you’re just a slob in a vest. What did you do before this? Mall cop? Sit in a tollbooth all day?’
Galloway pulled up his sleeve. Sine Metus. Brotherhood of the Wire.
‘Corrections?’
‘That’s right,’ said Galloway. ‘Don’t expect mercy from me.’
‘Which jail? Some place upriver, I bet. Sing Sing. Attica. You look like a sit-on-your-ass union guy.’
Galloway didn’t reply.
‘Bet you walked out on them, didn’t you?’ said Lupe. ‘All those prisoners. You and your guard buddies. Left them to starve. Poor fuckers. Must have been hell in there. Worse than hell. Tier after tier, hammering the bars, screaming through their tray slots.’
Galloway lit a fresh smoke.
Footsteps. Someone thrashing through tall grass.
A second SWAT climbed the loading ramp into the plane. He handed Galloway two sheets of paper. Galloway read them and smiled.
He handed one of the sheets to David. David held rain-spattered paper with trembling hands and read the terse note.
The State of New York hereby provides notice that the defendant DAVID BLAKE has been found guilty of common assault, attempting to evade arrest and multiple counts of theft, and that upon a finding of guilt at the trial of these matters the State of New York sentences DAVID BLAKE to death on the grounds that the defendant will likely commit further acts of criminality and remain a continuing serious threat to society, pursuant to Martial Code 143.
May God have mercy on his soul.
An unreadable signature at the foot of the note.
David crumpled the paper in his hand. He hung his head and sobbed.
Galloway handed Lupe a similar death notice. She scrunched it unread and threw it at his face.
‘I’ve got pen and paper,’ said Galloway. ‘If you folks have any last words, I can take them down.’
David continued to sob. Lupe kicked his leg.
‘Hey. Suck it up. Don’t give him the satisfaction.’
Galloway took a last long drag on his cigarette and stubbed it beneath his boot.
‘No final message for the world?’
‘Fuck you all,’ said Lupe.
6
They marched through tall grass to the hanging tree. Rain beat down. David stumbled and sobbed.
‘Keep it together,’ said Lupe. ‘They want you to beg.’
They reached the
tree.
‘Stop,’ ordered Galloway.
His SWAT buddy checked wrists, made sure they were securely bound.
Lupe looked up. Three corpses hung from a thick branch, necks broken, flesh pecked by crows.
‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ smiled Galloway.
Lupe stared him out.
He wound a noose and threw the rope over a branch. He stood on a rusted chair and tied off. He tugged the rope, made sure it was secure.
He turned to David.
‘Anything you want to say?’
David stared at his feet. He stifled sobs, tried to regain composure.
‘Want a blindfold?’
No reply.
‘All right. Get on the chair.’
David climbed up. Galloway looped the noose over David’s head and tightened the coiled knot round his throat.
‘Sure you’ve got nothing to say?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Hey,’ said Lupe. ‘David. Look at me. Don’t look at him. Look at me.’
David looked at Lupe.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s a shitty world. You’re going to a better place.’
He nodded.
Galloway kicked the chair from under him.
Jerk. Neck-snap.
David hung limp. The rope creaked. He spun and swayed. Piss darkened his pants.
Galloway knotted a second noose. He turned to Lupe.
‘Didn’t think you were the religious type.’
She ignored him. She closed her eyes, tipped back her head and savoured the rain.
‘Get on the chair.’
‘Go to hell.’
He punched her in the gut with the butt of his shotgun. She doubled up and fell to her knees.
He hung the noose round her neck and pulled it taut. He threw the rope over a branch. He and the SWAT got ready to pull.
A voice echoed across the airfield. An indistinct shout.
They looked towards the hangar. A figure ran through bracken, waving his arms.
‘Wait. Hold on. Just wait.’
7
They led Lupe to a hangar. An old Lockheed Jetstar, minus engine pods. A government plane. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA blurred by mildew and corrosion. Pooled sump-oil on the hangar floor.
Galloway nudged her up the steps. She ducked through the low doorway and entered the executive jet.
Eighties decor: white leather and chrome trim gave the place a coke-snorting, last-days-of-disco vibe.
‘Release her hands.’
A small guy wearing the dress uniform and single collar star of a Deputy Chief of Police. He sat in one of the padded flight chairs, papers spread over the table in front of him.
‘I said release her hands.’
Galloway reluctantly flicked open a knife and cut the tuff-tie binding her wrists. Lupe massaged deep skin welts.
‘Take a seat.’
Lupe looked around. Galloway and his SWAT buddy flanked the door. An army guy and a woman in civilian clothes sat across the aisle from the Chief.
‘Please. Sit down.’
Lupe took a seat opposite the Chief. The woman cracked a Coke and set it on the table in front of her.
Lupe massaged the rope burn at her throat.
‘My name is Jefferson.’ He pointed to the army guy. Fifties, pale blue eyes. ‘This gentleman is Lieutenant Cloke. He’s with the Institute of Infectious Diseases.’ He pointed to the woman. Thirties, lean. ‘And this is Captain Nariko. She was, until recent events, with the Fire Department.’ He examined a mug shot. Lupe holding her inmate number, mouth twisted in a defiant sneer. ‘You are Lucretia Guadalupe Villaseñor, am I right?’
‘Where did you get that?’
Jefferson ignored the question.
‘You were under observation at Bellevue’s secure psychiatric facility, correct? You were under the care of Doctor Conrad Ekks?’
Lupe feigned boredom. She looked out the window. Cops stood in the corner of the hangar, warming their hands over an oil drum fire.
‘Your life is in my hands, Ms Villaseñor.’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen your handiwork.’
‘I’ve got sixty men living by candlelight. Rationed food, rationed water. It’s a miserable existence. We average two suicides a week. I try to keep the men busy because if they think further than sundown, if they think about all they’ve lost, they blow their brains out. There is a place here for honest folk, people willing to work, people willing to contribute. But I’ve got no time for junkies and gangbangers. Can’t have them running around.’
Lupe sipped Coke.
‘You fled along with Ekks and the Bellevue team when the hospital was overrun, am I right? You took refuge underground.’
‘I was held prisoner,’ said Lupe.
‘At Fenwick Street. The disused subway station.’
‘Yes.’
‘There is reason to believe Doctor Ekks and his team may still be alive. We have been ordered by the continuity government based at NORAD to send a rescue party.’
Lupe sat back.
‘Why are you so anxious to find this guy?’
‘You need to understand the context of your time below ground. As soon as this disease took hold, medical teams across the country, across the world, started looking for a cure. Every virologist, haematologist, got to work trying to figure out this disease. Ekks and his team at Bellevue were studying the neurology of infection, trying to understand how the virus attacks the central nervous system.’
‘We were lab rats,’ said Lupe. ‘Me and a bunch of other poor fucks. That’s the only reason they kept us alive.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘We broke out. Me and two other guys. We fled into the tunnels. We split up. No idea what happened to them.’
‘What was the status of the Bellevue Team when you left?’
Lupe shrugged.
‘Scared. Fighting amongst themselves. Who gives a shit? They’re dead. Nobody could survive the bomb.’
Jefferson glanced at Nariko; her cue to speak. She sat forwards.
‘There was a transmission,’ said Nariko. ‘Just before detonation. A voice. Very weak.’
She took a digital recorder from her pocket. She pressed Play.
A mournful wind-howl of static and feedback. A faint ghost-voice carried on the ether.
‘…Mayday, mayday. Can anyone hear me, over? Hello? Is anyone out there? This is Bellevue Research Team broadcasting on emergency frequency one-two-one point five megahertz. We have a solution. We have a cure. If anyone can hear me, please respond…’
‘Is that him?’ asked Jefferson. ‘Ekks. You met the man. Is that him?’
‘No,’ said Lupe. ‘That’s Ivanek. A young guy. A radio operator.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Ekks has a southern accent. Very distinct.’
Nariko gestured to a dossier in her lap.
‘The file says he is from Ukraine.’
‘Not any more,’ said Lupe. ‘When he opens his mouth, it’s pure Tennessee. Hypnotic son of a bitch.’
More static. Churning electromagnetic interference. The desperate voice battled fast-dying signal strength, shouted to be heard over a desolate static-storm.
‘…The virus. We have a solution. We have an antidote. Hello? Anyone? If you can hear me, if you can hear my voice, please respond…’
Nariko shut off the recording.
‘We tried to reply to their Mayday. We got no response.’
‘Like I said. The bomb dropped. They’re all dead.’
‘A few months ago there were ten billion people on this planet, give or take. Now there are a handful of us left. If Ekks and his boys achieved some kind of breakthrough, some kind of antidote or vaccine to this virus, then we have to retrieve it. Yes, the Bellevue team were probably killed by the bomb. If they survived the blast, they are fatally irradiated. But they might live long enough to tell us what they know. And if not we can, at the very least, secure their research.�
�
‘Only a fool would make the journey.’
‘We have our orders,’ said Jefferson.
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘Like I said. You were down there, in the tunnels, with Ekks and his team. The only surviving witness. You know the layout, the environment.’
‘Are you coming along on this joyride?’
‘Nariko and her rescue squad will escort you to Fenwick Street Station. My men will provide fire support.’
‘And why should I help?’
‘Freedom.’
‘I get to join your happy band?’
‘No. You’re a liability. In fact, you make me want to puke. We use a rope because scum like you aren’t worth a bullet. Only silver lining to this situation: we get to start the world over, wipe it clean, make it fit for decent folk. But help us, and we’ll spare your life. We’ll put you out the front gate. Give you a little food and water, send you on your way. My advice? Go out of state. If our paths cross again, there will be no second chance.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No. No, you don’t.’
8
Grey dawn light. Rain dripped through holes in the corrugated hangar roof and formed splash-pools on the floor.
Two Bell JetRangers. One brown, one blue. SWAT loaded weapons and ammo. Nariko and her crew loaded rescue gear.
Lieutenant Cloke flipped open a couple of equipment trunks. NBC gear and respirators.
They stepped into overboots and squirmed into canary yellow C-BURN radiological suits. Heavy fabric. Nylon ripstop over a layer of Demron gamma shield.
‘Hold out your hands,’ said Nariko. Lupe held out hands sheathed in heavy gauntlets. Nariko wrapped sealer tape round each wrist.
Lupe checked her out. ‘Fire department, huh?’ said Lupe.
‘Yeah.’
‘A captain.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t look the type.’
‘Rescue Four. Extraction crew.’
‘Three man team. Seems pretty light.’
‘There used to be six of us.’
‘This is messed up,’ said Lupe. ‘The whole thing.’
‘We’re packing plenty of firepower. You’ll be okay.’
