In the staging area—an enormous space that seemed even more huge with the lights out—Josh could see a faint wash of light peeking in from the elevator shaft on the other side. The elevator itself would probably be out of action, but there was an emergency ladder that ran alongside it, so he pointed himself toward the shaft and made his way over there. Equipment lay abandoned around the place; the evacuation had been quick, unexpected. A hazmat suit peered out from a muddy puddle. Josh looked away; it gave him the creeps.
At the foot of the ladder, he pocketed the flashlight, but had to leave the video camera behind. It was too bulky; he'd need to get a bag or something to carry it up in.
The climb up the long elevator shaft was an effort, but the bright white light above kept Josh pushing on. Occasionally he'd lean back against the cage to catch his breath and let the burning in his palms and the cramp in his forearms recede. As he progressed, the distances got shorter and the breaks got longer, and before the last push, Josh wasn’t sure he was going to make it at all. He needed to get fitter, he decided. He probably wouldn't pass the evacuation testing next year if he was still in this state.
But push on he did, and soon Josh was outside, blinking in the sun. After the darkness of the tunnels, it took him a moment to regain his vision as he shielded his eyes and looked around. As sight returned, he saw that all the CIA trucks had gone. The sentry post was abandoned, the gate to the site ajar. Around the site, plants had overtaken the mud and rubble, as well as equipment left behind by the agents, growth that swamped the landscape until it was unrecognizable. Weirdest of all, though, was the sound. This was Manhattan, one of the busiest hubs in the world, a place where silence was unheard of.
Yet, right now, silence was all Josh could hear.
Chapter 14
Josh looked right up at the sun, as if expecting to look down again and see everything as normal. But it wasn't. It should have been evening—his watch agreed—but it was clearly early afternoon. The site should have been neat, with agents occupying the area, but it wasn't.
A bird tweeted; the day was calm. At first Josh was fixed to the spot, not knowing what to do next. His mind hissed with static, unable to comprehend the situation. A breeze chilled him, and he realized he wouldn't be able to stay there all day, so he decided he would see what was going on outside the site, see if he could make sense of what was happening.
He clumsily picked his way across the uneven ground, occasionally stumbling over a bushel of grass or a piece of equipment hidden by foliage. The hinges on the gate had rusted stiff, but Josh was able to pull it open enough to squeeze out.
The street beyond was quiet, with no sign of life other than the singing of unseen birds. Cars were parked up, shutters were open, but there was nobody there. Cracks in the road gave way to sprouting greenery, the sidewalks in an even worse state of repair. A tree had forced its way up through an area to Josh's right, the roots lifting through the slabs and spreading up into a canopy that cast a cold shadow over him. That tree had to be at least thirty years old—maybe older.
Rust had eaten away at shop fronts and cars, their shapes still recognizable but their condition unsalvageable. There was an aged stillness to it all that Josh found unsettling. He pulled out his cell and saw what he was afraid to see: he had no service. He tried dialing Georgie anyway, and then Lionel, but the calls wouldn't connect. As far as he could tell, he was the only person in Manhattan, a thought that put lead in his belly.
He walked toward the subway for lack of any other ideas, peering in through the still intact windows of the cars as he passed them. To his surprise, their interiors tended to be in a reasonable condition—bar the bleached fabric and light dusting of mold—and Josh wondered if they were still drivable despite their appearance. He tried the door of one; it was locked. The next car was open, but with no keys. The third car, parked up on the sidewalk at an angle, had its door open, its interior in a far worse state than the first two. It still had its keys hanging from the ignition, however, so Josh gave them a twist. Nothing. Battery had probably given up a long time ago.
He was getting hungry, so he stopped at a small convenience market to see if they had anything that might still be good. He used his flashlight to illuminate the space, warm and musty and dark. The shelves were still full, although cardboard packaging sagged, fruit and vegetables were nothing more than black slime, and bags of bread were swollen with gas. Josh rummaged through, picking his way across the dusty floor, holding his nose to keep back the smell of decay. People must have left in a hurry if all this food was still untouched.
There were some tins of fruit toward the rear, and Josh grabbed a couple, retreating back outside. He was glad to be out of there: it gave him the chills. The cans had pull-tabs, so sitting down on a wall, he peeled the lid back on one and ate greedily from it, tipping the contents into his mouth. He drank the sugary syrup too, draining the can of its last drop and setting it beside him on the wall. He pocketed the other can for later.
Feeling better, energized, he was able to turn his thoughts to his situation. Being in that room, it had pushed him forward through time . . . or had it held him back? His brain hurt thinking about it. Whatever had happened, Manhattan must have been evacuated a long time ago. Perhaps if he crossed over the Queensboro Bridge and onto Long Island, he'd find more answers.
With a renewed vigor, he headed east toward the bridge, navigating his way through the overgrown and uneven streets. Shop windows, filled with ageing goods, doors still open, passed by, as did empty apartments with windows dark and fronts crawling with ivy. Progress was slow, the sidewalk crumbling and the roads clogged with abandoned cars.
As he walked, afternoon settled in fast, the shadows lengthening in front of him and the sky turning golden. But something was wrong. When he'd emerged from the elevator, the day had appeared to be breaching afternoon—now, only about an hour later, the afternoon was almost gone. Time seemed to be moving . . . too quickly.
He continued on, a rumble of panic deep in his gut picking up his pace. Walking faster, occasionally checking behind him, he noticed something peculiar through the valley of high rise buildings: the sun was visibly slipping through the sky, down toward darkness. The air began to cool, and he shivered; soon it would be night.
The sun . . . he thought. Something is wrong with the sun . . .
The flash of a memory made him twitch.
Josh sprinted the next block as fast as he could, striding over cars in leaps and bounds, pumped with the energy from the fruit and the adrenaline coursing in his veins. Slipping ever faster, the sun vanished into night. Josh stopped, lungs heaving for oxygen. He stared dumbfounded at the star-speckled sky, rich and bright without the city lights to wash it out. 'It's when I move,' he wheezed to himself. 'The sun moves when I move.'
The room. The sphere.
Josh's thoughts were halted by the sudden flash of a memory: he was on a plane, looking out of the window, the sun leaving streaks across his retinas. But the memory was hazy, and he couldn't piece it together fully. He thought hard, digging as deep as he could, searching for an answer that teased him with its proximity. The more he thought, the more his throat closed up, a lingering sense of death and fire prickling his brow with sweat despite the cold night air.
He shivered again, this time partially from fear. Dark shadows loomed, their contents invisible. With no idea what creatures had become the new owners of the night—and not wanting to know—Josh jogged on, against the burning will of his lungs, until the sun picked up ahead of him. Morning light gave him the chance to think again, and he continued on, walking slowly around cars as he did.
On the plane, the sun hadn't always moved quickly. It was normal at first. The sphere—perhaps drilling into the room had caused its power to leak? The energy was stronger when he had gone back to it. Perhaps that energy distorted time somehow—made the sun move faster? But how? And why?
He continued on to the Queensboro Bridge, the sun looping over him and out
of sight a few times more. During the moments of night he ran to bring the sun back up again, and soon he was exhausted. Traffic, frozen in a rusting stasis, built up as he got closer. Soon the cars were mounted up on the pavements as well, doors flung open. An old shoe, rotten and sagged, stood propped up against the curb. Its owner must not have had the time to retrieve it.
Careful not to cut himself on any of the rusted metal, Josh climbed up and over the cars that blocked his path. His muscles ached and his stomach pined for something proper to eat. He wouldn't last out much longer. As he arrived at the Queensboro Bridge, the sun having completed a few more laps and sitting somewhere around late afternoon, Josh saw that it was a logjam of cars. He considered negotiating his way through, but he knew it would take him hours, and he'd have no way of running through the night.
As he stood to contemplate his next move, he noticed something else. If he stayed where he was, time seemed to move normally. He tried walking back toward Central Park, back toward the sphere, and still time seemed to move normally. It was walking away from the sphere that accelerated time. A horrible thought hit him: how far was the sphere's reach, and how far ahead in time would he have to travel to get there? Years? Decades? Centuries? Would . . . would Georgie and Joseph still be alive?
The thought made his stomach knot. He had to turn his mind away from it, for now at least; to dwell on it would be his undoing. Right now, his survival was paramount. To start, he would occupy himself with figuring out what he was going to do next.
The last twilight rays shone across the East River, and Josh could feel the weight of sleep clawing him down. He could try and make it back to the site, but the thought of clambering over all those cars made him want to die. If he hadn't had to climb the ladder out of the staging area, he'd probably have been all right, but he had, so he wasn't.
Continuing on wasn't an option, either. Even if he wasn't about to pass out from exhaustion, he had no idea how far he'd need to travel before he reached civilization, or even normality.
A snap: El Paso, that's where I was flying. The memory bloomed in full, rich color, but carrying a disheartening message: if it had been like that in El Paso, he'd have to travel two thousand miles at least.
The other option was to go back to the site, back to the sphere. Really, it was the only option. Anything else filled him with a hollow sense of despair. But first—sleep.
Picking his way along 2nd Avenue, Josh scanned for an appropriate place to lie over for the night. Buildings and rooms wouldn't be scarce, even unlocked ones, but Josh wasn't thrilled with the idea of fumbling his way through a dark apartment block in the middle of the night, and preferred the idea of locking himself in something like a truck.
The ideal candidate was parked up half a block away in a line of traffic. It was a big semi, hauling an open trailer loaded with spoil. It could well have had something to do with the East Side Access. In fact it was very likely. With darkness nearing, and feeling the cold and fear settling in, Josh hurriedly climbed up to the cab and swung the door—which was thankfully unlocked—open.
It wasn't too bad inside: the interior had no mold and only smelled a little. Shining his flashlight in the back, he saw that it was empty, so he pulled the door shut and flicked the lock. Then he checked the other door to make sure that was locked, too. Sitting from this vantage point, he could see quite far around himself, the last hint of day picking out the cars in front and behind with a deep, almost black, purple. As long as he stayed where he was, night should be as usual.
The back quite conveniently had a small cot already made up—one reason why he'd chosen the semi—and he retreated into it and pulled the curtains shut behind him, before having a closer look at his temporary accommodation. The walls had posters up on them: a band that probably played music far heavier than Josh would have enjoyed, judging by the fonts and color palette, as well as several topless pin-ups. They caught Josh off-guard; that was the last thing he wanted to think about.
With nothing else to do, Josh dug out a blanket from the box under the cot, wrapped himself up in it, lay down and tried to go to sleep. At first he struggled to keep his mind from swirling with thoughts of his family and everything that could have happened to them, but soon exhaustion got the better of him and took him into unconsciousness.
He awoke in the pitch black a while later, his stomach hurting. In his sleepy confusion, at first he couldn't work out why his stomach ached, but then he realized: he was hungry. Awake, he sat up and retrieved the other tin of fruit, which he ate quickly. His hunger, although not satiated, was reduced, and he climbed back into his cot. Just as he got comfortable—if a little cold—he needed the bathroom.
'Shit,' he said, sitting up again. With the flashlight shielded to avoid light escaping the cab, he looked around for a bottle or something he could go in, but couldn't find one. He'd have to go outside. 'Shit,' he mumbled again.
Flashlight off, he searched up and down the street by the light of the moon to see if there was anything else out there. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and detail began to resolve itself, he convinced himself that he was alone. Quietly, he unlocked the door and opened it, climbing out onto the step. He did his business from there, the spatter of urine on the cold street below painfully loud in the quiet of night. He willed it to come out faster, until finally—finally—he was finished. He zipped up and was about to retreat into the cab when he heard a noise.
It sounded like snuffling, the padding of paws, too—big paws. Without another moment's hesitation, Josh retreated into the cab, pulling the door shut as quietly as he could and locking it behind him. He stayed down and out of sight for a while, until eventually building the courage to look out of the window. Peering in the direction that the noise had come from, he watched the shadows, but he could see nothing. Opening the window a crack, he listened for the sound again. After a moment of held breath, he heard it, and looked for the source, searching for movement. Then he saw it.
Haggard and thin, the big creature wore a coat of fur that was patchy in places. It lumbered along, sniffing in cracks and gaps, searching for food. Occasionally it would stop, licking the side of a car or a patch on the sidewalk. It was a bear, full grown and padding along 2nd Avenue, and Josh was stunned. He was even more so when a cub, small and frail, tottered along out of the shadows after its mother. It wobbled unsteadily, it too looking malnourished.
Josh watched the pair as they wandered down the street and around the corner. He didn’t breathe until they'd gone. Window wound back up, he retreated to his cot, pulled the curtains shut and fell quickly into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 15
The curtains did a good job of keeping the morning sun out of the cab, and by the time Josh woke up it was already blooming midway up in the sky. He felt surprisingly refreshed, and even more surprisingly, he felt calm. He knew what he needed to do.
The sun bleached the cabin as he pulled the curtains back fully, and he stretched out the tightness in his muscles from climbing that damn ladder. He would have to go back down it again, but that would be easier, thankfully. The pit of his stomach rolled with nervousness at the thought of approaching the sphere again.
First, he needed to find some food. His stomach growled at an alarming volume, and he could feel the onset of cramp beckoning his body to fall into spasms. Being well-rested, he also needed to be well-fed before attempting the climb into the pit again, or else he risked falling and dying, or worse—falling and getting seriously injured. He would lie there in agony while the crows slowly pecked the flesh from his bones, and that would be how he ended. He shuddered.
Scanning the road from the cab, Josh could see no sign of the bear and its cub. At first he thought he might have dreamed it, but a rather anemic and dehydrated heap of droppings on the sidewalk below indicated otherwise. Saying farewell to his small fortress, Josh hopped down from the cab and pointed himself back toward the site. As he'd expected, time seemed unaffected as he drew closer to th
e room.
A good night's sleep meant a fresh mind, and he thought as he walked, hoping to bring sense to this otherwise senseless situation. He remembered a documentary he'd seen about space-time, and how the universe was connected. The video had shown a big, elasticated sheet, representing space, and the tutor had dropped ball bearings of various sizes onto it. The had sheet sagged and the ball bearings were drawn together. The tutor had explained that the dips in the sheet, the visual representation of gravity, had also been dips in time, that areas of high gravity also had a big impact on the way time worked, too. Just like a black hole, he remembered.
Perhaps that's what this sphere did. It somehow affected space-time, plunged deep into its fabric. The closer he got, the more distorted time became.
The room—the crystalline material, Josh realized. That was supposed to contain it. When Josh had cracked the room open, the effects had spilled out, expanding across the world. What was clear was that this—this sphere—was not here by accident. Edwards had said there had been other rooms, although they were dead, lifeless, destroyed. Why was this one different?
The other question Josh mulled over as he trundled down 61st, looking for that convenience store, was—why him? Was he the first to ever go in there? Did his presence somehow activate the sphere? The room wouldn't let anyone else in, or so Edwards said. It was connected to him somehow. But why?
And what about its creator? What had happened to them? Who were they? There was the possibility that the sphere was government-owned, funded, constructed, whatever. But Edwards, he'd denied it, and Josh believed him. He seemed too worked up about it to be lying.
What about the Mayans, he thought, didn't they have advanced technology or something? After a moment's hazy wondering, he came to the conclusion that the Mayan theory was probably just something misremembered from a late-night B-movie he'd drunkenly watched.
New York Deep Page 11
