Charges

by Stephen Knight

  “Huh,” the cop said. “Fourteen twenty-two Devlin Drive, Los Angeles, California.”

  “Really?” an older cop asked, stepping closer. The first one handed him the license, and the older one whistled. “Man, you really do have a long walk. Where’s this Devlin Drive?”

  “The hills,” Vincenzo said.

  “So you’re just passing through, then?”

  “As quickly as I can.”

  “Where you coming from, man?” the first cop asked.

  “Manhattan,” Vincenzo said. “I’d just started a new job. My family was supposed to come out next week.”

  “So why are you leaving New York? Why not wait for the lights to come back on?”

  Because they’re not coming back on, asshole. Vincenzo bit back the sarcastic response. “Because New York’s busting apart at the seams. The city’s becoming a basket case. You could probably tell by all the foot traffic coming across the George.”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen it, but the state is handling the response,” the first cop said. “At least, for now. You really think you’re going to be able to make it back to LA on foot, Hollywood?”

  “Gotta get to my family. If things get fixed before then, I’ll gladly catch the first airplane or train or bus I can find.”

  “Yeah? Well, I think you’re a crazy son of a bitch. You should’ve stayed in New York with the rest of the assholes.”

  “Hey, Lenny. Let’s give the guy his license back and let him get on his way,” the older cop said, handing the ID back to the younger one. “As far as we know, his story checks out, and he doesn’t look like he’s interested in getting in any trouble. Are you, guy?”

  Vincenzo shook his head. “Hell, no. I’ve got a long walk ahead of me, and people I need to see.”

  “I say we search him,” the first cop said.

  “For what reason?” Vincenzo asked.

  “Because we can, you mope.”

  Vincenzo eyed the older cop and spread his hands. He hoped the guy had some juice because if they searched him and found two weapons, they would be unlikely to let him go.

  The older cop rubbed the white stubble on his chin. “Nah, let’s let him get on his way. Hand back his ID, Lenny.”

  “We got no idea who this hump is,” Lenny said. “He’s hiding something. I can see it, and so can you.”

  “I’m not hiding shit,” Vincenzo said. “I just want to get on my way. Like I said, I’ve got a very long, very dangerous trip ahead of me.” He turned and pointed at the column of black smoke on the horizon. It had been joined by two more. “You want something to do? Head over that way and start cuffing the looters and arsonists and kid rapers and whoever else might be in Fort Lee. Because they’re headed this way, guys. You’re going to be busy as hell in the next couple of days. Trust me.”

  “How do you mean?” the older cop asked.

  “New York’s blowing up. Anyone who can is going to be getting the hell out of there once they figure out the mayor and his people can’t do anything for them. It’s going to be a hot summer, which means water’s going to start running out. No one can exactly drink the Hudson and East Rivers, right? Those people are going to be moving out over the next few days, not so many at first, but more and more as time goes on. You’ll be up to your ears in people you won’t know what to do with. Trust me on this. I’ve just seen it up close and personal.”

  “Oh, yeah? You some kind of security expert or something?” Lenny asked.

  “No. Just a guy trying to get back to his family, Officer.”

  “We hear what you’re saying,” the older cop said. “Or at least, I do. And since I’m the senior commander on site, you’re free to go.” He stepped closer, and the kindly expression disappeared like a cockroach under a wallboard. When he spoke again, his voice was low and intense. “But you fuck up, you do anything that brings you back in front of us, and I’ll put two in the back of your head myself. You get me?”

  Vincenzo had no doubt the man was telling the truth. “I get you. You guys won’t be seeing me again. Unless I wind up getting killed in your town, and someone brings you my body.”

  The older cop smiled thinly. “Come on, Lenny. We’re holding our dicks here. Give the man his ID, and let him get on his way.”

  Lenny handed back the license with obvious reluctance. “Get the fuck outta here. This street becomes Fort Lee Road a few hundred yards up, but stay on it. Once you cross into Leonia, you’re not our problem anymore.”

  “Leonia?” Vincenzo frowned. “Where’s Leonia?”

  “Next town up the road,” the older cop said. “But to get across the Overpeck Creek, you need to stay on Fort Lee Road. Unless you want to get wet, that is. Once you’re over the creek, you’ll be in Teaneck.”

  “No, I don’t want to get wet. Thanks for the information.” Vincenzo tucked his license back in his wallet. “You guys have a good night.”

  Almost three hours later, Vincenzo found the park. Dusk had announced itself almost thirty minutes ago, and as he trudged through the town of Leonia, he had been thinking that he might not make it to the park after all. People were still out and about, but there was a kind of hurry about them. Flashlights cut through the glowing gloom, and through the windows of houses and apartment buildings, he saw the pale glows of candles. In the distance, he heard the rumble of a motorcycle, but it wasn’t headed his way. He knew that his luck was running out. While Leonia didn’t seem to be a hostile place, it surely housed its fair share of unsavory types, people who might be emboldened by the lack of communication among law enforcement. While he’d seen very little signs of looting—a convenience store had been knocked over, but that was about it—he knew it wouldn’t take long for it to start.

  The park wasn’t as heavily forested as he’d hoped, but it was definitely preferable to sleeping behind a dumpster in a back alley somewhere. He also found out that he wasn’t the only person to have the idea to crash out in the park. There were already several tents erected, and a few groups of people had big cooking fires blazing. Vincenzo stealthily moved away from them, pushing into a row of brush. In the shadows, he could see people were already there. They looked up at him with tense expressions. He held up his hand in apology and moved on. He found a copse of trees, but a young family had already claimed the spot. The husband reached for a rifle.

  “Easy,” Vincenzo said. “Just passing by.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” the man ordered, raising the rifle to his shoulder.

  “On it.” Vincenzo spun around and walked away.

  He wanted to stay in the general vicinity of Fort Lee Road, as it was the only artery he knew of that would cross the creek. He hadn’t expected to have the park to himself, but he hadn’t thought it would be a freaking convention, either. As he moved through the center of the park, the crowds grew. Not everyone was well equipped. A social strata seemed to be forming between the haves and have-nots. Those with tents, camping gear, or at least some supplies tended to cluster together, while those without were shunned. The latter group stared at Vincenzo with hungry, desperate eyes. Many were children, and their presence reminded him of Benny. Was Jessie able to take care of him? Had Grant been able to get to them and give them a helping hand? He shook his head.

  Not your problem right now. Find a place where these people can’t get to you.

  Half an hour later, he smelled water. He slowed as he approached a heavy line of brush. In the distance, he heard the sound of running water. He took that to mean he was close to the creek, and for a moment, he considered finding the creek and filling up some water bottles. But he’d always been told that open water sources were horribly polluted and that illness was certain to follow if he drank from a stream. He had no idea whether that was true or not, but he wasn’t going to put the theory to the test just yet. He probed the line of brush, looking for a way through. He finally found an opening, and he crept forward slowly so as not to surprise anyone. He came out in a small clearing that looked as if it hadn’t s
een any activity in quite a while. The grass was tall and weedy. A quick glance at his watch told him it was twenty minutes after eight. He wanted to switch on a flashlight to have a look around, but he didn’t dare.

  He shrugged off his knapsack and backpack and plopped down on the ground. His entire body ached, so he stretched a bit, trying to work out some of the kinks. Overhead, stars shone in a sky made suddenly vivid by the lack of light pollution. The astral vista reminded him of trips to the mountain states, where the nights were deep and dark and the stars blazed like brilliant diamonds strewn across the heavens. He never expected to see such a sight in the east, where the illumination of great American mega-cities pretty much ripped the night apart, slashing through the veil of darkness like a murderer’s dagger through a silken blouse.

  Vincenzo opened his backpack and removed the cold pack that contained one of the Cornish game hens. The poultry was still cold; the container had done its job. He ate it just like that, tearing through it with hunger-driven zeal. It took less than two minutes for him to consume virtually every scrap of meat on the bird, then he washed it down with a draught from the Hydro Flask. It was good to have something cold to drink, a luxury he lamented would be scarce over the coming weeks. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was a hell of a lot he was going to miss. He put the hen bones back in the cold pack, figuring he could use them to season some soup later, if they didn’t go bad before he had the opportunity. For dessert, he helped himself to one of the pumpkin spice muffins.

  He got the bottle of Tylenol from his knapsack and took three, swallowing them with another dose of cold water. He pulled off his boots and socks and massaged his feet, feeling for blisters. He was fortunate not to find any, but the balls of his feet were definitely hot spots. His calves ached pretty badly, so he wrapped a couple of the ThermaCare air-activated bandages around them. Given the humidity level, the heat against his skin wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was preferable to waking up screaming from charley horses in the middle of the night.

  Once he’d repacked everything except the Glock, which he wanted within easy reach, Vincenzo sat and listened to the night. He couldn’t see anything through the brush, no firelight, no nothing. Something stirred in the thicket, but it sounded small and furtive, like an animal foraging. For a moment, he felt dread, not because he feared it would be a predator but because the last thing he wanted was to come face to tail with a skunk. Whatever it was crept away in the opposite direction. He reluctantly put on his boots and got to his feet, feeling his muscles complain. He relieved himself in the bushes, spreading a little human deterrent that he hoped would keep most of the animals away. That important mission completed, he returned to his spot and stretched out, using his backpack as a pillow. He left his boots on, just in case he had to leave in a hurry. He heard distant gunfire, and a few minutes later, some people passed on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t make out the words, but he clearly heard a woman’s voice and those of a couple of exhausted children. Vincenzo mentally wished them well but didn’t leave his den to investigate.

  Minutes later, he was asleep.

  11

  Vincenzo awoke to the sound of high-pitched, angry buzzing.

  Vincenzo slapped himself across the face when it dawned on him that he was being used as a blood buffet for what seemed like thousands of mosquitoes. He sat up, brushing his face and neck, already feeling itching welts forming as he smashed delicate insect bodies against his skin. He had no doubt each blow left a small splash of blood as mosquito guts erupted, spilling their payloads of pilfered circulatory fluid. Damn it. I should’ve put on the bug repellent.

  He fumbled through his knapsack until he found the little pump spray bottle of Coleman DEET. He sprayed the stuff on his arms and neck then rubbed some on his face. The chemical burned when it contacted broken skin, especially across his knuckles. Once he was satisfied that he was fully protected, he replaced the bottle’s plastic cap and returned it to the knapsack. He checked his watch. It was just past four in the morning, which meant dawn would be making its appearance within the hour.

  Vincenzo sighed. He was still bone tired even though he’d had almost eight hours of sleep, and his muscles ached. He popped more Tylenol, drank a good amount of water from the Hydro Flask, then refilled it with one of the warm plastic bottles. He lamented the fact that the water’s chill was fading. He felt a stab of pain in his abdomen and realized it was from the Berretta pressing into his gut. He’d been so tired that he hadn’t bothered to remove the weapon from the holster. He adjusted the holster, trying to find a more comfortable position. When he had it situated as well as he could, he clambered to his feet. His sore muscles protested, but he had no choice. He stretched out a bit in the middle of his little den, trying to work out the kinks in his legs and, more worrisome, his back.

  After brushing his teeth, he used his small entrenching tool to dig a hole so he could void his bowels. He’d had to do the same thing while hunting turkey on occasion, so it wasn’t a new experience for him, but he still found it uncomfortable. The things we miss when the lights go out… like toilets. He buried his mess then used a liberal amount of hand sanitizer. Standing in the tiny glade, he listened to the sounds of the incubating morning. Birds were coming alive in the trees, and small animals rustled through the brush. Mosquitoes still buzzed around him, but the insect repellent made sure they maintained their distance. He heard no signs of human occupation in the immediate area, but that was more wishful thinking than anything else.

  He noticed a small glow on the horizon. It wasn’t the coming of dawn but a fire, which wasn’t surprising. With all the downed airliners and other accidents, fire was going to be a big problem in built-up communities. It was like living in the nineteenth century again, where a bucket brigade would be the new tanker truck.

  He wanted to check his map, but it was still too dark. He still felt uneasy about using a flashlight. While he wasn’t defenseless, he was likely still more prey than predator at the moment. He needed to avoid attracting attention. But he felt a desire to get underway again, even if it meant stalking through the predawn gloom. He figured he might as well have some breakfast, so he dug out a couple of the Danishes he had baked in New York. They were already going stale. As he chewed, he wondered how far he had come. Twelve miles? Fifteen? Neither number was particularly encouraging. He drained another bottle of water then placed the empty container in his pack.

  It was time to get going.

  Vincenzo emerged from his hide site in the brush and quickly walked back to the road. His feet and legs protested, but they weren’t in charge just yet. He needed to get gone, and soon. The park was dark, but in the slowly brightening morning, he could see lots of people. Those with tents had it better than those in the open. At least the chances of being eaten alive by mosquitoes were reduced. A few people were awake, but they ignored him.

  Fort Lee Road was empty of pedestrian traffic. There were still plenty of motionless vehicles, though they were far from abandoned. People had used the dead cars and trucks to sleep in. He figured that was wise, and he took note of that. There would be more than a few times on the road where he would need shelter, and vehicles, especially semi-trucks with sleeper cabs, would come in handy.

  He strode as quietly as he could as the eastern horizon slowly brightened. He wanted to be out of there before the rest of the park stirred. From what he had seen the night before, he was one of the more prepared individuals, and that frightened him. His packs and others’ visions of what they might contain would make him a target, and he needed to figure out how to avoid that.

  The road narrowed with the westbound lanes merging into one, while the eastbound ones maintained two. When he saw the bridge ahead, he pulled the Glock out of the knapsack and held it in his right hand. He’d already decided that he would use that weapon first and save the Berretta. The Glock didn’t feel quite right because of the stippled grips, but the weapon had a reassuring weight. He
wished he’d had the opportunity to test fire it, but there hadn’t been time for that. Whipping it out and firing a couple of rounds over the Hudson while crossing the George Washington Bridge wouldn’t have been welcomed by the rest of the refugees fleeing New York City.

  As he mounted the bridge, he found it was surprisingly clear of litter compared to the rest of the road. He figured people had just been tossing their detritus over the side, but if that was the case, it didn’t seem to deter one man who had a fishing line out over the side. Vincenzo kept a lane’s distance between them.

  “Morning,” the fisherman said.

  Vincenzo didn’t try to hide the pistol in his hand, but he figured the gloominess did that for him. “Hi, there. Any luck?”

  “Not yet, but the day’s young. Caught four catfish yesterday.” The older guy wore a bucket hat, big eyeglasses, a vest over a long-sleeved shirt, and cargo shorts.

  “Well, hope you can repeat it,” Vincenzo said, walking past.

  “Thanks. Have a good day!”

  Vincenzo snorted. Not likely, if yesterday was any indication. Unbidden, images of the man he had killed on the GWB came rushing back. He was surprised at the stark emotion that hit him. It hadn’t been a clean, sterile kill, like one delivered from the business end of a firearm. It had been up close and personal, the kind of action Vincenzo had never even dreamed of, much less prepared for. The huge implication of the act—ending a human life, even that of a man trying to do the same to him—was horrifying.

  Get over it, you pussy. If nothing else, you know something new about yourself: you’re not going to lie down and die.

  He crossed the bridge and headed down the road on the other side, still wrestling with his emotions. It wasn’t easy for him to get past what he’d done, though it hadn’t bothered him much at the time. It had been self-defense, after all. But in the light of a new day, it was like a festering sore that he was prodding despite the pain. Because of his musings, he realized far too late that his awareness of his surroundings had drastically diminished. When he looked up from the road, a man was standing in front of him, pointing a rifle right at his head.