The New Jersey entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel had never been a prime residential area in its heyday and certainly looked war-torn now, the high sidewalls full of pockmarks. Other types of debris, probably from fighting to protect the tunnel approach, had been pushed to one side, leaving two lanes of the once six-lane approach clear, one on either side of the dividing parapet.
“Heavy fighting?” she asked, unnerved by the desolation, and needing to talk.
Murray nodded. “Only good midtown access to the island, ma’am, and had to be defended.”
To the last man? she wondered.
“Hmmm, well done,” she said, noncommittally. And then the road on the left was free of the bombed buildings. This road had always provided a breathtaking view of New York City, as it swept around in a long right-hand curve to the tollbooths and the actual tunnel faces. But the view of New York was vastly changed from her recollection of it. It was as if all the buildings had somehow been blunted. Oh, the Chrysler and the Empire State buildings were still standing, but others, including the Radio City complex, looked as if they’d been sliced off. The once proud city had gaps in its fabled silhouette. They traveled down toward the huge entrance plaza, swinging past tollbooths that had been shattered into rubble. Pieces of burned out vehicles had, as on the approach roads, been pushed to the sides but gave mute testimony to the fierceness of attack and defense.
“And to think I once griped about waiting in the lines,” Jelco remarked. Then armed men appeared from a galvanized shed, tucked under the shadow of the eastbound tunnel entrance. Murray slowed to a stop and turned off the engine, reaching for a sheaf of papers that had been tucked behind the eyeshade. Jelco swung down from the truck’s cab and strode to the approaching guards, whose weapons were slung over their shoulders. Jelco had a slip of paper in his hand that Kris thought was decorated with seals and kelly green ribbons. Jelco had an earnest conversation with a guard, showing him the paper, while a dour man who reeked of sweat was thumbing through Murray’s papers. The breeze was, unfortunately, coming across him and into the truck cab. Evidently soap and deodorant were no longer available.
“Would you like some fresh rolls?” Kris asked nervously and held one up for the man to see. She thought for a moment that the rest of his squad would rush the truck but the man with Jelco issued a sharp order and they moderated to a swift walk. She handed Murray the rolls to pass around and noticed that he dropped one into his own lap, though how he would manage without teeth, she didn’t know. He simply tore a piece off the roll and popped it into his mouth, his eyes widening with appreciation at the taste.
“Thanks, miss,” said the first guard, tipping his fingers in a salute. He passed rolls out to the rest of his unit.
“Klaus?” he yelled, attracting his leader’s attention, and lofted a roll, which Klaus neatly hooked out of the air. “Sorry, ma’am, but a search is required. Becky, front and center,” he yelled over his shoulder, and a woman soldier quickly advanced.
Kris had never been frisked before but, considering what she had seen of the tunnel’s environs, she had no intention of protesting such a security measure. Klaus gestured for Zainal to step out so he could be checked over, too.
“She’s clean,” Becky said after a fairly cursory feel of Kris’s arms and legs, back and waist. Kris offered her a roll. “Thank you. Ain’t had fresh-baked bread in ages.” She bit into it with an almost savage gusto and chewed vigorously, nodding her approval. In all, a dozen rolls had been passed out before Kris was waved back into the truck. She was glad she’d made the offer, judging by the happy expressions on the tunnel guards’ faces and the appreciative thumbs-up gestures as the truck was allowed to roll into the eastbound tube.
“I’m Wylee,” said a small man who came back to the truck with Jelco. “Tunnel squad. Just wanted to reassure you that the fans have been circulating the bad air out. You got anyone in your group who’s asthmatic or has respiratory problems?” He looked at Kris as he spoke, trying to ignore Zainal’s solid Catteni form.
“None I know of.”
“Well, the air in the middle of the tunnel ain’t exactly one hundred percent unpolluted, ma’am. Anybody has any problem, call me, huh? We got respirators.” He motioned to the backpack he was wearing. His expression suggested that he didn’t want to use them unless he absolutely had to. Oxygen was still free, wasn’t it? Kris thought, feeling almost rebellious. She did not really know what those left on Earth had had to face so she swallowed the smart rejoinder. She felt the tilt of the truck as those in the back hauled up Wylee.
As Murray was waved to proceed into the left-hand tunnel, she had more to concern her. She wasn’t claustrophobic but she really didn’t like the idea of all the water over her head, and looked at the cream-tiled walls of the tunnel to see any signs of lack of maintenance. She didn’t know what to look for— but cracks or moisture staining the walls would be obvious signs. Yet if this was one of the only accesses to New York City from the mainland, it would behoove them to keep it in good repair.
She was somewhat surprised to see a huge Dumpster at the entrance and noticed that there were bits of cement and odd pieces of metal jutting from it. Then the truck swerved to the right and she saw the burned-out chassis of a car on the left. This was not the last wreck she was to see in the tunnel. Few had been burned out but all had been stripped down to the chassis.
“Recycling,” Murray said around a mouthful of his roll.
“We’ll get the junk out of the tunnel one of these years,” Jelco said cheerfully. “And sometimes, when we have a group coming through, we get them to hump a chassis out for us.”
When they were out of sight of the tunnel entrance she saw that the raised walkway along the inner side of the tunnel had been damaged, though most of the cement and tiles had been cleaned away from the break.
“That’s as far in as the invaders got,” Jelco said, pointing to where the damage ended with a hint of pride. “But then,” and he cast a quick glance at Zainal, “Catteni don’t like being underground, do they?”
There was a look on his face that suggested he’d hoped to see Zainal react.
“True enough,” Zainal said with complete composure. “You did well to fight off Catteni soldiers. No other species has been able to.”
“So I heard,” Jelco replied amiably.
That exchange seemed to please both participants and the rest of the journey, past other cars stripped to the bare bones of their chassis, passed without remarks. Kris had to keep reminding herself that Wylee had said the air had been circulated so she must be imagining the stink, but the stench of gasoline, oil, and burned tires was heavy enough to keep her taking shallow breaths to keep her lungs as uncontaminated as possible by the stale air. Shipboard air got to smell stale, too, but this tunnel was rank with ancient odors.
“Nearly there, ma’am,” Jelco murmured reassuringly. She was undeniably relieved to see more light on the tunnel tiles.
She smiled, turning her head in an almost regal nod in his direction. She would be glad to fill her lungs with clean air again. Then the truck drove up out of the tunnel. Debris from the old Port Authority Building was tumbled around the exit; she inhaled and wished she hadn’t for there was a stench of rot and garbage that almost made the tunnel’s air seem sweet. Two huge Dumpsters were on either side of the exit, filled almost to capacity with debris that had been cleared from the tunnel. Maybe they should have used the lifts and brought out more, like one of the car bodies. But Zainal had mentioned that the floats had only so much power in their batteries and he had no spares to replace them with.
Then they had to go through a second security check, and Kris passed out the rest of the rolls she had in her backpack. Again the identity papers were shown, and Wylee swung out of the truck and went to confer with the squad leaders, beaming as he passed out the rolls to grateful Manhattan recipients.
“Green for go,” he said, coming to the window. “Roll away, Murray.” He added a grandiose gesture for t
he driver. Murray grinned, crumbs of the roll he had eaten visible on his gums, and shifted into first gear, ignoring the complaints from the transmission. She hoped the truck would last to bring the heavy dental equipment back.
The truck rolled up the curved road at Forty-first and onto Tenth Avenue.
“I can detour up Broadway so you can see Times Square,” Murray offered. “Won’t take much gas.”
“I think not, thank you, Murray,” Kris responded. She had seen that landmark once when her family had come east for a wedding, and she vaguely remembered the place for the cigarette smoke bill board and the colored lights on in the middle of the day, but she didn’t think she could stand seeing it in ruins. Likewise she didn’t want Zainal to see it at less than its best either.
Tenth Avenue was really a minefield of potholes, through which Murray drove carefully. It had never been one of New York’s finest neighborhoods and looked even grimmer now. Especially when she saw the remains of a huge spit that had been erected over one of the potholes, still black from the fire that had been laid in it. A pile of utterly unfamiliar, and large, bones occupied one corner. And the street sign pole sported a huge skull. She couldn’t imagine from what animal it had come.
“Had us quite a party that night,” Murray said, grinning at her. “Rhinoceros, wasn’t it, Jelco?”
Jelco nodded, a slight smile of happy reminiscence on his face.
“Rhinoceros?” Kris couldn’t help blurting out the word. “A rather large African beast. How on earth…” She looked across Zainal at Jelco for an explanation.
“Well, we couldn’t feed the zoo animals,” he said with a wry grin, “so they fed us.”
“Oh!”
“Miss going to the zoo on a Sunday, though,” Murray said. “But we had enough to eat for everyone. Tough to chew, even if you had teeth.” He gave her another grin. “But we had soup for a week afterwards from the bones. One day, maybe, we can erect a monument on the spot. Sort of thanks for the best meal many of us had had in weeks.”
“They were humanely put down, ma’am,” Jelco added. “Better than all of us starving to death—and them, too.”
“Yes, yes, I quite see the expediency,” she murmured.
She was silent as she counted the streets on their way to Columbus. There were one or two street signs still in place—no more with skull adornment —and then the buildings turned from residences, if you could call the old shambles “residences,” to the beginning of office-type buildings. By then she realized that very few, except upper stories, retained any glass panes in their windows. Many of the walls and entrances showed the pockmarks of bullets, and not a few entrances had no doors at all.
She hadn’t seen many people about, but as they neared the Circle she saw folk hurrying in both directions, some carrying armloads or hauling the little wheeled carts as quickly as possible toward the Circle.
The Circle itself surprised her no longer the place of artistic display but filled with carts and rudely made stalls, some with awnings to keep the sun and rain from whatever merchandise was on offer. She saw additional carts like the potato one.
“We got a bizarre every day now,” Wylee said, and Kris blinked at his mispronunciation because the place was indeed bizarre. Not only were there ardent traders making bargains but also swarms of men armed with weapons slung to be brought to bear quickly. They wore brilliant red armbands and berets with some sort of an insignia on them.
“We’re in the Cardinal Coord now,” Jelco informed her, touching his own kelly green armband. “They keep the peace.”
“Peace?” Kris blurted out, astounded.
“You’ve no idea how hot under the collar people can get when they lose a deal,” Jelco said. “Newark runs its own bazaar Saturday and Sunday at the airport. No one really likes the duty but every now and then we get a chance at something fresh and tasty.”
“Like the rolls?” Kris asked.
“Those were elegant, ma’am,” he said earnestly. “D’you have more?” he asked hesitantly.
“It’ll smooth our way here in the Cardinal Coord?” she asked.
“Yes indeedy, ma’am. You’ve no idea.”
Possibly, she thought to herself, she didn’t. But then, she’d had the reality of Barevi and Botany to open her eyes. Idly she thought of goru pears and how juicy they had tasted during her days of refuge in the forests of Barevi. And she thought she’d been deprived there! She wondered how much she could get trading fresh goru pears at this bazaar.
The truck was swinging around the Circle in the appropriate traffic pattern before Murray drove it up onto the wide concrete apron fronting Eric’s office building, which dominated its arc of the Circle. Immediately Jelco swung out of the truck as guards from the entrance to the building came forward to protest illegal parking.
Jelco beckoned urgently at Kris, and she called for someone to bring out a fresh supply of rolls. It was Eric who hurried forward, the straps of his backpack looped over his forearm and a roll in his hand as evidence of the treat. The pack was quickly emptied and then Eric was fumbling in his pockets, producing his license and a business card, which were passed around to verify his bona fides. Several of the guards kept curious people moving along, and it was evident why Dan Vitali had said they’d need guards.
However, Eric was approved and he waved for Zainal, Kris, and the others to join him. If folks eyed Zainal warily, he was in the midst of armed men they patently trusted so they ignored a single Catten.
“You’re in luck,” the head guard was saying as they approached, Dover and Wylee unloading the awkward-looking lift platforms. “We got electricity for another half hour.”
“You mean the elevator’s working?” Eric exclaimed, staring around at their party, his eyes bright with relief.
“Yup. The weekly dispensation. You guys got good timing,” the guard said, taking another bite from his roll and urging them into the foyer.
This was evidently a prime location to judge by the sophisticated stalls set about. “Outta the way. Official business.” He had cleared customers away from the stalls to the voluble complaints of the merchants. Then they were at the elevator banks and with a flourish the guard punched the button. The light in the cracked display above the door came on. The elevator had been called.
Kris was not so sure about the noise that was coming from the shaft but she had not thought about having to walk up eighteen flights of stairs, much less coming back down.
“Both ways?” Eric asked.
“Only if you ain’t got no more weight than you took up,” the guard informed him. “Thing’s ancient and stubborn. Has a tendency to get cranky and stop between floors. Passengers get to wait hours.”
Eric sighed. “It would have been a squeeze with my units,” he said diffidently and was happy enough to step into the car, watching Jelco and Dover as they cautiously entered with the upright lift platforms.
The door creaked shut, and after Eric had punched the floor button with an air of importance, an alarming amount of chain rattling, hissing, and bucking ensued until the elevator began to ascend. Kris’s eye caught on the inspection card that most elevators displayed. This was an Otis, which she knew to be a reliable make, and a hastily penned notation informed that it had last been inspected on July 2, 1992.
For the life of her, Kris couldn’t remember what date this day should be. The weather had been warm but the forsythia bloom she had seen suggested early spring. Time seemed to have stopped … at least recordable time. It had been so for so long that she endured one day at a time and was thankful to live through each one, week after week as they added up to months and then years, but she couldn’t have said what day, week, month, or year—Anno Domini—she was currently living in. Nor did she wish to embarrass herself by asking. Anyway, Botany time was different from Earth time.
The elevator lurched to a stop, terminating Kris’s anxiety about getting stuck between floors. The elevator had not only ascended but also had stopped at the desired dest
ination. There, as proof, on the wall opposite were the figures, gold, framed in black, that identified the eighteenth floor. Eric stepped out first, the others following quickly on his heels as he led the way to the right. Office doors on either side of the dark corridor were ajar, which lit their way, but also showed them that few offices had escaped pilfering. Mostly chairs had been taken though Kris rather thought some of the stalls in the foyer had once been tables in the upper levels. Torn curtains flapped in whatever breeze whined around the eighteenth floor.
Eric let out several startled exclamations. He did not need the keys he had brought with him, for his outer door, too, had been forced open. But as he charged forward into the inner office, he let out a cry of relief as he spotted his dental chair and the tower, which held the drill apparatus. Relief changed to mild expletives as he saw that the drawers of his accessory cupboards were pulled out.
“They only looked and saw nothing they could use,” he cried after a closer examination.
“Now, where’s your electrical supply? Like the man said, it’s on and I don’t want to electrocute anyone, especially me,” Herb Bayes said, lumbering forward.
Eric showed him both the panels and then where he would have to disconnect the tower and the chair, which could be adjusted by the dentist as needed. Kris remembered such a unit, with its foot controls, from visits to her own dentist. They had to pull up the carpet and unloosen the bolts that held the two pieces to the floor.
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