by Mark Wandrey
“It’s illegal for Uber drivers to pick up direct fares,” the older cop reminded him. The driver blanched.
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t worry about it. With this terrorist attack, we don’t need men like that accosting innocent young women.” The younger officer held Mindy’s hand as she climbed into the back of the Uber car.
“Thank you so much, officers.”
“Think nothing of it,” the younger officer said, and they both touched the brims of their hats. “Welcome to New York.”
As the driver maneuvered his car into traffic, it became quickly apparent that the panic wasn’t limited to the island of Manhattan. People were driving erratically and using their horns more than their senses. When she caught glances of people behind the wheel, many appeared wild eyed or panicked. Too many things were happening at once.
As they were about to pass I-278, the freeway became a parking lot. Without missing a beat, the driver took the off ramp to I-278 south.
“Let’s take a stab at the Queensboro Bridge,” he said. Mindy nodded, trusting his instinct and knowledge of the area. Less than a mile later, they were chased off the freeway onto surface streets. The driver maneuvered around with sureness. Some of the streets didn’t look all that hospitable to Mindy. Somehow, he managed to avoid total traffic stoppage. In just minutes, she had no clue where they were.
Suddenly they were back on a larger road, and she saw a sign that said it was Queen’s Boulevard. Another sign said Queensboro Bridge, one-half mile. The blocks slid by slower and slower until they came to a complete stop. The driver consulted his smart phone one more time before sighing and turning to her.
“Miss Patoy, I’m sorry. There’s no way I can get you across into Manhattan.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“The city has closed the bridges to inbound traffic.” Mindy shook her head and thought.
“Can I walk?” He looked at her and considered, glancing at his phone again.
“Where are you going?”
“Central Park,” she said, without really thinking about it.
“You know that’s where the terrorist attack is, right?” Mindy cursed herself for not thinking her answer through. She stared at him, her jaw set, and her green eyes sparkling. She presented the perfect visage of a determined redhead. The universe knew better than to buck that sort of power. “Okay,” he said and pointed out the window. “Follow that access road. The bridge will climb up to your left. Don’t try to use the bridge itself, there’s no sidewalk. Just as you enter the Queensbridge Park, you’ll see stairs. There’s a sign that says, ‘Bridge Pedestrian Passage.’ That will take you over.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her phone vibrated. He’d ended the ride. “Do you know about how far?”
“Walking distance is two miles. You should be able to make it in about 45 minutes.” Mindy nodded and got out of the sedan, slinging her bag over both shoulders. “You be careful, Mindy.”
She grinned and held out her hand. He had a firm grip as he shook hers. “If I can handle Sao Paulo, I can handle Manhattan.”
“I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about the city.” She glanced back, and he winked. Mindy laughed and waved as she set out toward the bridge climbing into the distance. Beyond it, she could see dozens of helicopters in the sky and thin columns of smoke. Outside the car’s silent embrace, the sound of sirens was overwhelming, as was the flow of traffic coming off the bridge. In minutes, she was swallowed by a sea of human panic.
* * *
Billy had slowly worked his way into the park until he encountered another group of the Followers. This group had better organization and had better training in the use of arms. He almost died twice in just a few seconds. First, he took a pistol round to the abdomen that his vest stopped. Second, a bullet grazed the inside of his left forearm. He’d sacrificed his favorite tie. It stopped the bleeding.
Another officer, part of a tactical SWAT team, found him. When he saw the black outfit, helmet and bulging equipment belt he almost cheered. The man raced up to the tree next to him, panting and wide eyed. But, when Billy looked around he couldn’t spot any others.
“Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Scattered,” the man admitted, “or dead.”
“Dead?!” Billy gasped. “What happened?”
“The 2nd and 3rd Tactical Response teams were staging over by Columbia Circle. Many of us were still putting on our gear when we came under fire. There were snipers in the buildings, groups of civilians with all kinds of arms. It was…horrible. There was fire coming from all directions; we were under constant attack. Nowhere was safe. So…I ran.”
“My God,” Billy whispered.
“I watched some of them move this way, and followed them, at least trying to get some intel.”
“Have you tried calling for backup?”
“You try,” the man said as another, younger, man raced up to join them. Billy grabbed his tactical radio and called. There was no answer. He tried several more times. “It’s been down for a while. We heard a call from the emergency response coordination unit; they were under attack. This was some big job, and whoever organized it knew planning and response protocols.”
“Captain Hicks,” Billy hissed. “You son of a bitch.”
“What?” the SWAT man asked. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. We need to gather as many officers as we can and create a perimeter. There are innocents in there.” Shots still rang out, helicopters circled, and sirens sounded from all directions. “We have to contain this!”
“But, what if there are thousands of them?” asked another officer, a younger man Billy was certain didn’t have more than a couple years on the force.
“There aren’t.”
“How do you know?” the SWAT man asked.
“I don’t.” Billy took a deep breath. “Are you men with me, or not?” Their answer was slow in coming. He’d seen enough tough situations to know when men were near the ends of their ropes. Still, they looked like they were willing to follow his lead. He was about to lead them toward the center of the government camp when he heard a loud speaker booming out from Central Park West.
“Attention in the park, this is the NYPD. We wish to negotiate a cease fire.”
“Are they serious?” the SWAT sergeant asked of no one specific. Billy shook his head as well. It was inconceivable, after the last several hours of chaotic murder, that they would simply call it quits. Then a voice yelled back from the park.
“Cease fire, then!” Billy gawked. “Fifteen minutes,” the person added. Just like that, the gunfire tapered off and ceased. The city now only echoed with emergency sirens and car horns. He heard the screams of the injured nearby. He engaged the safety on his rifle and slung it. Just like that, his job had gone from one of hurting to one of saving.
* * *
Crossing the bridge amidst a sea of humanity moving in the opposite direction was a surreal experience for Mindy. Every instinct told her to turn around, go with them, and flee the sounds of sirens and gunfire that grew closer with each step.
Many of those walking east didn’t notice the lone woman walking west like a fish moving upstream against the flood. Those that did looked at her in confusion, and a few with consternation. One man she had to push past cursed her and tried to grab her backpack. Mindy barked in surprise, only holding onto it because she had her arms through both straps. Without thinking she threw an elbow and felt a jab of pain as it connected with his cheek.
“Bitch!” he screamed, and then the crowd parted them.
“Jesus,” Mindy said, shaking her head as she massaged her elbow and continued west. She clipped the snap that locked the backpack’s two shoulder straps together and adjusted them across her sternum. The city was full of people either panicking or acting like animals. Actually, the city wasn’t full of them, the city was emptying of them.
She finally reached the end of the bridge as it descended into t
he city, passing over FDR Drive a hundred feet below. The road was a parking lot, with a thousand cars spread out in both directions. Many drivers blew their horns in frustration, or abandoned their cars, making the situation on the roads unrecoverable.
Ahead, the police had closed the bridge to cars and were ushering foot traffic toward both the pedestrian walkway she was using, and all the traffic lanes as well. They allowed buses to use a single lane that moved slower than the people walking beside it. Mindy stopped for a moment and looked up at a school bus with Johnson County Unified School district written on the side. Just a few feet away, a girl no more than nine years old stared back at her, eyes wide in terror.
She watched the police for a minute then picked her time to push past them. The nearest cop did a double take before responding.
“Miss, stop! Where are you going? The island is being evacuated.” Mindy waved over her shoulder, then cut sideways past a big crowd of burly construction workers before the cop decided to run her down. She’d made it, she was on Manhattan.
For a time, it was harder going than the bridge had been. The funnel to get to the bridge created a compacted, slower flow that was almost impossible to move through. This became one of those rare times that she was glad she was a girl. A lot of those trying to get out were men, and they naturally noticed a pretty redhead girl going in the opposite direction, and made room for her. In just a few blocks, the crowd fell off and she could walk as quickly as she wanted.
Just as the Uber driver had explained, it was only seven blocks from the bridge to Central Park. She was just three blocks away when she realized the noise level had changed dramatically. It took a few moments to process what she was hearing. There were no more gunshots. The shooting and explosions had stopped. She stood on the sidewalk for a while listening as the crowds continued to move east.
When she moved on, she ran into more police. Only a block from the park there were hundreds of police cars and many, many more cops. As if anything could make it worse, the military was there. If she had to guess, she’d say they were national guardsmen. They were there in force. Big army transport trucks were disgorging hundreds of soldiers who were assembling barricades from pallets of sand bags taken from flatbed trucks marked New York Dept. of Transportation.
“This is spinning out of control,” she said aloud.
“You know it,” someone said, as they hustled by. Mindy glanced over her shoulder but only saw the back of the suit.
Mindy worked her way, block by block, along the perimeter of Central Park. Moving was hard enough in normal midtown traffic, but the fact that they were fighting a war on the city streets made it considerably worse. While there were no more shots, the police and military presence was increasing by the minute. In the end, she found herself among a group of war weary New Yorkers watching an area of the park where ambulances congregated, and life-flight choppers were coming and going every minute or so. Whatever had happened was big if there were so many helicopters. It had mass casualty situation written all over it.
“How can I get in there?” she asked herself. The portal was in there, and probably her old friend Leo Skinner. The file he’d sent her said to make contact at the perimeter security off 5th Avenue and East 65th Street. But she couldn’t even get close to that intersection. Armed with the knowledge that regardless of the situation, she would be welcome, she began sneaking around, looking for a way in.
* * *
The city’s HRT, hostage rescue team, used a robot to deliver a special cellphone to the big concrete dome, thus establishing communications with the “Followers of the Avatar.” The 15-minute cease fire turned into two hours. Medivac helicopters and ambulances had been arriving and leaving nonstop ever since.
A supervising officer finally appeared at the scene, and Billy gratefully let him take over, helping as best as he could. They’d begun establishing a perimeter, backed out of weapons range, and split their job into three tasks.
One, help FDNY evacuate the wounded.
Two, move any civilians out of harm’s way.
Three, continue to find and apprehend any Followers of the Avatar, or FA, as they were now calling them.
As Billy was one of the few who’d had the presence of mind to get his long arm from his cruiser before abandoning it, he was one of several tasked with Mission Three. Of course, that meant he had to also help with One and Two, when they encountered them.
He was on Madison Avenue by 61st Street, helping a woman wounded by flying glass, who staggered all the way there from 5th Avenue. While he held a sterile gauze pad from his medical kit against the still-bleeding wound, he noticed a woman on the other side of the street passing the Macklowe Gallery, glancing at the display of Steuben Glass. On any other day he wouldn’t have given her two glances, but today wasn’t any other day. Window shopping during a terrorist attack?
An EMT saw him tending to the woman and came at a trot. He quickly told the young EMT about the patient, then turned to look for the window shopper. She was gone. He looked east, then west, and finally caught a glimpse of her. He noticed she was wearing a large backpack. She was walking toward the park. Shit.
“You need any help with her?” he asked the EMT.
“No, I got it, officer.” Billy nodded and headed west at a trot.
If the girl had been good at this, he would never have caught her. But like a lot of the FA, she’d taken to her trade late in life. He caught up to her just west of Madison on 60th Street. She was leaning around the corner looking toward the park. Billy put a hand on the grip of his service Glock and cleared his throat.
“Ma’am!” he said in his trained policeman’s voice, “don’t move.” She squeaked and jumped, making Billy grip the weapon more firmly, ready to draw. “NYPD, you’re inside a restricted area. Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly.” She looked good from behind, even under the backpack. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot a pretty girl. She turned around, her red hair visible for the first time, and her jade green eyes as wide as dinner plates.
“Don’t shoot!” she said, hands high and shaking. “I’m just trying to get to the park.”
“Yeah, I can tell that.” She was even prettier from the front. “You’re awfully good looking for a religious terrorist,” he said.
“Terrorist? Religious?” She looked genuinely confused, and he began to wonder if she was just a rubbernecker going the extra mile.
“What’s your name?”
“Mindy Patoy.”
“Where are you from, Ms. Patoy?”
“S-seattle,” she stammered.
“You’ve come a long way to sightsee.”
“I’m not sightseeing,” she explained.
“Yeah? Tell you what, put your hands against that wall, lean forward, and spread your legs.”
“Excuse me?” she asked and blushed in that way only a redhead could blush. He took a step toward her, hand still on his service weapon, and her eyes grew big again. “Okay, okay!” she said and did as instructed.
Billy had been on the force a long time, and he knew you didn’t last long as a cop by taking people for granted. A 90-pound crack whore could bust you up and take your gun just as effectively as a 300-pound bruiser. The whore was more likely to be carrying a weapon, too. He maneuvered behind her, out of her view. When she tried to turn her head to follow him, he told her to keep her eyes forward, and she did.
As he took the last step, he none too gently kicked her legs a bit further apart to put her a bit off balance. He’d done that to a drunk in his first year and the plastered insurance broker fell face first down an adjacent basement access. He’d been too drunk to complain. Billy put a hand between her shoulder blades and relieved her of her pack. Setting it on the ground, he quickly and efficiently frisked her. All he found was a cellphone, a little Urban Outfitters multitool, and a clip holding a couple hundred dollars.
Billy told her she could stand back up and ordered her to wait a few feet away. He put the confiscate
d items on the sidewalk within easy view, and proceeded to investigate her pack.
“Is that necessary?” Mindy complained. He kept one eye on her as he rummaged. “What do you expect to find, anyway?”
“Guns or explosives,” he said casually. She blanched. The bag was an Osprey Porter, not the kind of bag you saw on New Yorkers or even tourists. It was an expensive traveling bag that doubled as a fully functional hiking backpack. It held all manner of camping gear, everything from a cable saw to water purification tablets. “Going camping?”
“I never unpacked it a few years ago when I got back from Honduras,” she said.
“Honduras? You a drug runner, or something?”
“Radio astronomer.” It was his turn to look surprised. In an outer pocket he found a wallet. An Oregon State ID read, “Mindy Patoy,” from the city of Woodburn.
“Where’s Woodburn?” he asked. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s a little town between Salem and Portland,” she said, “Nobody who isn’t from Oregon has heard of it.”
“I thought you said you’re from Seattle?”
“I moved recently.”
“Do much astronomy there?”
“In Woodburn or Seattle?” she asked.
“Either.”
“I’m a customs broker now.” He looked at her again. He had a distant cousin who was a customs broker. No one who wasn’t would claim to be. The rest of the pack held clothes, a toiletries kit, and a computer. The bag also had an American Airlines claim check ticket still hanging from a strap. He was about to zip it back up when he noticed a mark on the computer. As he looked, he heard her sigh. “Property of the Federal Bureau of Investigations” it said. That settled it.
“Well, Ms. Patoy, or whoever you say you are, unless you can produce a badge, I’m taking you in.”
“Can’t I explain?”
“Can you?” he asked. She seemed to consider, then shook her head.
“I want my phone call.” He nodded, took her things from the ground and slung the pack. He removed a pair of cuffs from his belt.
