by Rob W. Hart
My SIG held twelve rounds but I couldn’t remember how many I had fired. Four or five, maybe. I pulled the radio from my belt and tried to raise the precinct. Nothing but dead air. Someone down the street screamed and the crack of gunshots echoed off buildings that were illuminated by swinging emergency lights. A patch of pavement at my feet exploded into dust.
Panic wrapped a forearm around my throat and squeezed. The ambulance was empty, the paramedics gone, so I climbed in the back and shut the door as another bullet struck the side, a dent pounded in the metal inches from my head.
I should have gotten out of that ambulance, rallied the troops, made for higher ground, figured out a plan.
But the only thing that mattered at that moment was June. I pulled out my cell phone, to tell her to get out of the city, but couldn’t get a signal. Everyone else was trying to call someone at that same moment.
The bridges and ferries would be locked down. The only way to get to her was over the water. I figured if I could get down to the South Street Seaport I could find a boat or a watercraft. Something to get me across, and since we only lived two blocks up from Penny Beach, I wouldn’t need a car when I got to Staten Island.
The keys were still in the ambulance. I climbed to the front and got it going, backed up onto Avenue B and drove. I didn’t get ten feet before there were people running into the street, banging on the hood, asking for help.
I went slow, nudging then out of the way. The things they shouted at me, what they called me for not getting out and helping, I don’t like to think about.
At Houston Street traffic was jammed from beginning to end. No opening in sight. I climbed out of the ambulance, didn’t even bother to turn it off, and people ran up to me, wanting to know what was going on. I told them I was on police business.
I got to the middle of the street, to the island between the east and westbound traffic. A woman screamed behind me. When I turned back there was a man jamming his face into her neck. He arched his head back, ripping out a long, stringy chunk of muscle, blood gushing from the wound.
I shot him. Then I shot her, as a kindness.
That set off the crowd. A man dove for my gun. I pushed him back. Bodies slammed against me as people ran in wild directions. I pushed through to the south end of the thoroughfare. I found myself close to Essex, and I could take that down to the water, follow South Street until I got to the seaport.
I ran up to a man straddling a chrome chopper and told him I needed it. He looked like the kind of guy who lived in bars waiting to punch people, but he relinquished it without a second thought. As I was climbing on he nodded his head and smiled, said, Sure thing, officer.
New Yorkers aren’t all bad. In dark moments I wonder what happened to him.
I drove three blocks, stopped, and stripped off my shirt. I wasn’t a cop anymore.
The ride down to the seaport was a mix of quiet and horror. One block would be empty, the next there’d be flaming vehicles and people screaming. Cars were crashed into storefronts and helicopters circled overhead. I ducked and weaved around the obstacles in front of me.
The seaport was deserted when I rolled in. The shops were closed and dark. I got as close as I could to the docks, and it didn’t take long to find a watercraft. There was a man on it, fiddling with the controls, trying to get it started.
He was wearing a polo shirt with a logo and pressed khakis—probably a waiter from one the nearby restaurants. He wore glasses and had a beard and didn’t look at me when I asked him where he was going. He said ‘away’. I asked where away was and he ignored me. I asked if he could get me to Staten Island, anywhere on Staten Island, and he told me to fuck off.
Something exploded behind us, a ball of flame reaching into the night sky, illuminating our faces. The man couldn’t get the watercraft to start. I asked him if it belonged to him. He told me to fuck off, again.
I told him I was a cop and he didn’t answer.
There were boats but I didn’t know how to drive them. Didn’t even know how to start them. Some of them were just there for show and couldn’t run. But a watercraft I could handle. June and I would rent them when we took long weekends down on Brigantine Beach.
All the guy had to do was share.
Every second I stood there was a second I wasn’t headed to June.
He looked up when I trained the gun on a spot between his eyes. But he didn’t stop moving his hands over the console, and the watercraft roared to life.
I couldn't see his face. The only thing I could see was June, huddled in the house, those milk-eyed thing banging on the doors, breaking through the windows.
More screams behind us. I looked back and there were a dozen dark figures materializing from the gloom under the FDR.
As the man reached down for the throttle, I told him that I was very sorry. I shot him in the forehead, the bullet tearing a dark hole in his right temple. His body jerked back, splashed into the harbor, and disappeared.
5. NOW
When I scream my mouth fills with filthy harbor water.
Something big and heavy wraps itself around me, clawing but unable to get a grip as we tumble and sink. The water is black. I can’t tell which direction is up.
My heart slams into my ribs so hard I fear it may shatter them. I fight to control myself, keep from sucking water into my lungs. The thing on top of me grips my jaw, hooks a thumb into my mouth. It tastes sour and tough, like spoiled meat. Something that feels like bone pokes into my cheek.
I twist my body until I can get my feet against its stomach, then push as hard as I can, manage to launch myself off it. My lungs feel like balloons, overinflated, thin and ready to pop.
As I’m trying to orient myself, a hand grabs my ankle, pulls me further into the dark. The hand feels hard and rough, like stone.
It feels like karma coming to collect on a debt.
I use the bat, work it between the arm and my leg, wrench us apart. I kick for the direction I think will lead me to the surface, burst through the water, suck in huge gulps of air, sputter the dirty river water out of my mouth. The rotter that rushed me earlier has already sank. I’m alone, bobbing in the water.
Not alone underneath it.
I don’t know how deep the water is. Their fingertips could be brushing the bottoms of my boots. Hundreds of them, inches below me, waiting for me to sink another inch, another centimeter, and then they can get a grip, grab hold, pull me back down.
Completely unable to control it, nearly blind with panic, I scream, kick for the dock, pull myself up, muscles groaning with effort. Once I'm over I crawl several feet away from the edge of the water.
I look up and there are three rotters stumbling toward me from the other end of the dock. I roll onto my back, pull the SIG from its holster, fire until the clip is empty. I knock down all three but I have no idea if they’re dead.
Up on the street there are more coming. Too many for me to handle by myself. Normally I would have jumped in the water, swam out and came back around someplace safe, but the water is now and forever off limits.
The dock is full of debris, things left behind by people rushing to get out of the city. There’s got to be something here I can use. I work my way toward the end, watch over my shoulder as the rotters climb down after me.
I find an upended kayak, the remains of a person stuck down inside it. I reach in, pull out what’s inside by the handful. The debris on the dock is slowing the rotters down, but it’s not stopping them.
When I get the kayak clear I bring it down to the water, climb in with absolute care. I make it less than ten feet when the first rotter falls into the water after me. I paddle out toward the middle of the river.
My head spins from short, rapid breaths. I’m far enough away from the shore, the water should be deep enough. But I lean over, watch it, expect the surface to rupture and for a hand to reach up, grab me by the collar.
Any second.
I need to move. The sky is almost dark, the clouds heavy.
I won’t have the moon to light my way. The trip to Governors Island is probably eight miles down the western shore of Manhattan, and around the southern tip. If I push myself I can do it in an hour. I reach up to adjust the backpack. It feels lighter. I loosen the straps and pull it around.
It’s torn at the seam, gaping and empty.
It must have happened in the water. The bottles are gone. I look from the bag to the water. Consider it, but I can’t. Can’t go down there. I’ll never come back up. My body deflates like I was pricked by a pin, my muscles sagging and unresponsive.
But only for a moment.
I shatter, scream, smash the paddle against the water, beat my hands against the top of the kayak. Wind and rain roar in like a physical manifestation of my anger, making good on the promise of the lingering storm clouds. Thunder crashes above me and I try to yell louder. I yell until my throat feels filled with rocks.
The rain washes away the filth of the river. It plasters my clothes to my skin and churns up the flat surface of the harbor. I can’t stop myself from shaking.
I bunch up the backpack, hold it close to me. Something curved and hard jabs into my stomach. I reach into the bag and come out with a bottle of tetracycline that managed to stay at the bottom, still sealed.
There’s not a single thing in that moment that could have looked better. I shake it and listen to the rattle, just to make sure it’s real. I still have a shot at this. I take one last look at the rotters lined up on the shore, flip them off, put the paddle in the water, and push toward home.
I make it the equivalent of ten blocks before I realize Reginald must have planned for me to not come back. He checked the level of the gas tank. The duct tape was wrapped around the handle just enough to obscure the gauge, so I couldn’t see that I was running on fumes.
Reg is a jerk. Something somewhere made him think he was entitled to a bigger piece of the pie than everyone else. But him trying to kill me, that one I can’t parse out.
I’ll have to ask him about it when I get back.
*
The rain is just tapering off when I see the island in the distance. The muscles in my arms are torn down to frayed nerves, but I put the pain aside and dig into the water, propel myself forward. Concentrate on the breeze and the peace of the water on a cool night, not on the searing pain between my shoulders.
When I get to the storm wall I don’t bother pushing around to the dock. I get a grip on the top of the wall and pull myself over and fall back, stare at the sky, let it swallow my vision, feel my body loosen and unravel.
Two minutes. I just need two minutes. I’ll rest and I’ll find June. Get her the medicine. I’ve earned two minutes rest.
Gunshots ring out from the sound side of the island, faint cracks against the dark sky. High and sharp, like a wooden ruler smacking against the top of a desk.
There’s a lot of them. The exhaustion evaporates off me like sweat. I get up and over the fence, run to Castle Williams. Inside the courtyard there’s a single light hooked into a generator, illuminating a group of deputies arguing over a map. Sophia is trying to maintain some sense of order, yelling at people to calm down and head out to defensive posts. When she sees me her face splits into a massive smile.
Then she sees that I’m alone. I don’t even need to explain it. She purses her lips together and nods. I get up alongside her and ask, “Sit-rep?”
“They’re coming up from the south end. Dozens of them. Same thing as the one you found. Covered in stone. We have a crew picking them off but they’re having a tough time. I’m sending security details to Upper and Lower Gov.”
“Get the civilians on the boats,” I tell her. “Nobody should take anything they can’t carry. And we need to do this quick.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The gas barrels were empty.”
“Why?!”
“I have no idea, Sarge. But we don’t even have enough to fill up one boat.”
It’s funny how quick the answer presents itself.
I don’t even have to think hard. June being the way she is clouded my critical reasoning. That or I’m getting old and my brain isn’t connecting the dots anymore. I should have noticed as soon as I saw it.
Reginald’s lemonade.
There’s a meager pile of ammunition on a table, probably the last of our stores. I grab a box of bullets and load up my SIG. Sophia comes up behind me. “Where are you going?”
“Get a weapon in the hand of every able body. Make sure they’re aware these things need extra muscle to kill. Everyone else, get them in here. The castle has one entrance, so it’ll be easy to defend.”
“Where are you going, Sarge?”
I get the clip filled and snap it into place. “Reginald.”
Sophia doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, and I leave her there as I cross the courtyard, nearly smack into Doc as he’s coming inside. He looks like a lost child. I pull the bottle of tetracycline out of my pocket and put it in his hand. “Get this into June, right now. Then get her here. You, personally. Get her into one of the casemates. Make sure she’s comfortable.”
Doc asks, “Are you okay?”
“In about ten minutes, I’ll be just dandy.”
*
There are three guards outside Reginald’s home. The way they come to attention means they must have known I wasn’t supposed to come back.
I don’t even wait. I make for the guy in the middle, lean back and put my boot into his stomach. He jerks back, hits the brick wall, and bounces right into my fist.
Before his body hits the ground my gun is out, trained on the one guard carrying a visible firearm. He doesn’t have time to pull it from his belt. I tell them, “The island is under attack. You’re reassigned to the south end.”
They don’t bother arguing.
I head for the window next to the door, to see if anyone else is inside, but there’s heavy black cloth hanging over the panes of glass on the inside. Which must be how he hid what he’s been doing.
The door is open so I let myself in, and I’m immediately flooded by the soft glow of artificial light. The entire house is illuminated. I can’t hear the groan of the generator. Must be in the basement.
No sign of Reginald. I cut through the kitchen, find more heavy black drapes over the windows. The refrigerator is humming. Inside there’s a pile of vegetables, a bloody carcass that probably used to be a squirrel, and a pitcher of lemonade. I put my hand inside, just to feel the cool air. Remember what that was like.
There’s a sound from the dining room, where I find Reginald standing with his back to me, fiddling with something on a table. Over his shoulder he says, “You shouldn’t come in without knocking. Someone might see the light.”
“Too late,” I tell him.
At the sound of my voice his body goes rigid. He turns, slowly, sees me standing there with the SIG up and ready. His face blanches. He says something but it comes out as an inaudible squeak.
“I’m sorry Reg, want to try that again?” I ask.
He fights for composure. “You… got back okay. That’s good.”
“Don’t you dare fuck with me right now.” I cross the room, put my hand on his throat and lift him an inch off his feet before I slam him down on the table, press the gun into his eye socket.
“The lemonade,” I tell him. “The glass was sweating when I saw you this morning. It was cold. You gave yourself away right in front of me and I'm an idiot for missing it. You’ve been stealing gasoline to power this place.”
“Sarge, please, you don’t understand…”
“What don’t I understand?” I press the gun into his eye harder. “Do I not understand that you’re a privileged asshole?”
“These people would be dead without me.”
“They’ll be dead either way, turns out. And anyway, what do you do, exactly? You don’t tend the water farm. You don’t work with the garbage or make sure we’re fed. You just stand there and watch other
people do it and you yell at them. So tell me, what do you contribute?”
He pauses. “Logistics?”
I put my face close to his. “So you’re a tactician now? Did you realize that if you used all the gas to power your home, then we couldn’t get anyone off this island? There are kids here. My wife.” I squeeze his neck tighter. “Is that why you tried to kill me?”
His voice is a rumble at the back of his throat. “It was only a matter of time before you found out.”
“Wonderful. Now we can all die together.”
“There’s not enough for the ferries?”
“No, there is not.”
He smiles like he wants to convince me we’re friends. “No, we can get off. I have a little extra gas in the basement. There are a few smaller boats. We can take one of those. Get your wife. You and your wife can come. C’mon Sarge, we can leave here. No one has to know.”
I pause. His smile gets wider and the sight of it makes me angry, so I smack the gun across his face. Something cracks. He looks back at me with a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. I tell him, “That’s for being a dick. If I didn’t need every strong back I’d put a bullet in your head. You better believe we’re going to revisit this if we’re still alive in the morning.”
When I let go he falls to the floor. He puts his hands up over his head, blood streaming from his mouth. He’s crying now. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re just sorry you got caught. Find a weapon and head south. If I don’t see you out there fighting, I’m going to hog-tie your ass and leave you in a field. Let them chow down on you while the rest of us regroup. Understood?”
He nods, not even lifting his eyes to look at my face.
*
The clouds have drifted away and the sky has opened, the wet grass sparkling in the moonlight. Gunshots are still slicing the air on the south end of the island, but they’re more spaced out. Either they’ve got this under control or they’re running low on ammo. I pray for the first but assume the second.
