by JJ Zep
“Promise me you won’t go.”
Ruby said nothing.
“Promise me.”
“I promise, dad.”
“I love you, Ruby.”
A pause, a long pause. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to respond. “I love you too, dad.”
thirty seven
Joe adjusted his position in the seat, cupped his hands together and blew on them. Then he leaned forward and using the sleeve of his coat wiped away a circle of condensation on the windshield. “Colder than a nun’s tit in here,” he complained.
“Cold as it is, there’s no call for blasphemy,” Hooley said.
“Blasphemy is using God’s name out of context. Nuns ain’t gods.”
“Nuns are the brides of Christ,” Hooley insisted.
“Far as I know, ol’ J.C. was a bachelor.”
“Now that there definitely is blasphemy.”
“Thank you Bishop Hoolihan,” Joe said. “What the hell are they up to in there? A threesome?”
They’d been sitting in the car for over an hour, watching the dark façade of City Hall. They’d followed Justine here, watched her call first at the San Remo, then drive down in Barlow’s limo, pull into the lot and enter the building. A short while later Rosenthal had shown up looking pissed. He too, had gone in. Since then there’d been no movement.
“Reckon we should go in?” Hooley said.
“On what pretense? We were in the neighborhood and decided to drop by?”
“I guess not,” Hooley said, then, “How long do you reckon this will take?”
“You in a hurry, Hooley? You got someplace you need to be?”
Hooley hesitated before speaking. “It’s just that Sunday nights. Me and Janet…you know…”
Joe chuckled. “She’s got you on a tight chain, Hoolihan.”
“Aw, she ain’t that… What the hell was that?”
Joe had heard it too, a distinct pop.
“That my friend, was the sound of a pistol being discharged.”
“Should we check it out?”
“No, we’re strictly surveillance. They want to shoot each other up, I say fuck it. Let’s just see who walks out alive.”
A short while later the lights in the corridor were extinguished and not long after one of the French doors at the front of the building swung open.
“Looks like we have our winner,” Joe said, as Justine stepped through with Barlow close behind. “Looks like Jim Rosenthal ain’t going to be around to see his grand plan to fruition.”
“They shot the mayor?” Hooley said. “Son-of-a-bitch, let’s get ‘em!”
He reached for the door, but Joe stopped him. “Sit tight, Marshall Earp. Surveillance, remember?”
***
Barlow looked shocked and that kind of amused Justine. All of his tough talk about getting things done, about doing what it takes, and here he was just about wetting his pants at the first sign of blood. He stood by the limo, holding the door for her, regarding her as though she were a particularly venomous variety of snake.
Justine shook her head. “I’ll take the Audi,” she said. “The mayor won’t be needing it any more.”
“But,” Barlow said. “When they find him tomorrow, when they don’t see the car, won’t they wonder how he got here?”
“By tomorrow,” Justine said. “It won’t matter.”
***
“Which one do you want me to follow?” Hooley said.
“Follow Justine,” Joe said. “And don’t be too discreet about it.”
“What?”
“Stay on her tail. She’s already made us.”
“How do you know?”
“She made us right after we picked her up, not long after we left the apartment.”
Justine was standing on the steps, a gym bag slung over her shoulder, watching Barlow’s limo pull away. She waited a while longer then turned and looked to where Joe and Hooley sat in the front seat of Ana’s ancient Subaru station wagon. They were concealed in shadow but she knew they were there, all right. She gave them a broad smile and then walked casually down the steps, swirling the Audi’s keys around her finger.
The Audi’s hazard lights blinked twice and it gave a “dweep-dweep” as the security system was disengaged. Justine dropped her bag onto the passenger seat and then got on board. In the next moment the powerful engine roared into life and she floored it. The Audi sped out of the parking lot, kicking up snow as it did.
“Go!” Joe shouted.
Hooley turned the engine over and the Subaru spluttered twice and then eventually gained ignition.
***
Broadway was the only street that had been plowed (probably, she imagined, because it connected the mayor’s apartment on Columbus Circle with City Hall). They’d expect her to head up Broadway, and for that reason, she by-passed the intersection and sped towards West. She was sure that she could make the corner before they got that heap they were driving started. She floored the Audi and felt it respond instantly, threw it into the curve and felt it slide and then correct.
“Ain’t German technology great,” she chuckled as she consulted her rearview mirror and saw no sign of them.
thirty eight
“Not a lot, Joe. Why do you ask?”
“She say where she was from?”
“L.A., I think.”
“Yeah, she told me the same story.”
“Story? You don’t believe her? What’s this about, Joe?”
He considered telling Kelly what had happened at City Hall, but decided against it. She was already worried about Chris. News had now reached Manhattan that the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge had collapsed and despite the weather lifting there’d been no word from the volunteers on Staten Island. Right now work was being carried on round the clock, getting the last surviving Staten Island Ferry into shape, so that they could send a team to find out what had happened, what had gone wrong. Kelly didn’t need any more stress right now.
“It’s probably nothing, Kel. I’m probably just bored sitting around here. I’m probably getting my panties in a bunch over nothing.”
“Bullshit, Joe Thursday. That’s bullshit and you know it. If you’re sitting here asking questions about Justine then something’s going on, so fess up. What is it?”
And so he told her about Justine’s visit to his apartment, about him and Hooley following her, about what had happened at City Hall. He told her how Justine had given them the slip and how they’d then driven to Councilman Barlow’s apartment building.
“Except we couldn’t get past the front door because Barlow has hired himself some extra protection. He must have had eight guys down there, packing heavy hardware. Almost like he’s expecting a war.”
“Jesus, Joe, shouldn’t we call this in?”
“To who?” Joe said. “Rosenthal’s dead, Bamber’s on Staten Island, I tried to get through to the guard commander and there’s no response.”
Kelly looked across the table at him, her eyes wide. There was fear in those eyes, and something else too.
“It’s happening again isn’t it?”
“What’s happening?”
“What happened in Lancaster, what happened in Memphis, it’s happening here too, isn’t it?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Kel.”
Kelly gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Jumping to conclusions is all you’ve got when the bridge is down, Joe. It’s all you’ve got.”
A tear formed at the corner of her eye and trailed its way down her cheek. “Where is he, Joe?”
“He’s okay,” Joe said. “Trust me Kel, he is. Now, I want you to put some stuff together, traveling stuff for you and the kids. I want you to get them up and into traveling clothes, I want them to sleep in those.”
“I won’t leave without Chris, Joe. You know that.”
“Chris can look after himself. Your kids…” he indicated her swollen belly “especially that one…can’t.”
thirty nine
B
obo Benson woke from a dream in which he had been walking through a forest with trees made of human limbs, where the path was constructed of powdered bone and blood ran in the streams and dripped from the leaves. He woke with a headache that felt as though his skull cavity was packed with broken glass. His arm was itching fiercely, and when he looked, he saw a worrying mess of pus and suppurating skin that resembled the site of an acid burn.
He dragged himself from his cot and swallowed a couple of aspirin, then splashed water on his face. The light in the room came from a LP powered lamp. He placed the lamp beside the mirror and took stock. The disease, the infection, was certainly spreading, definitely accelerating, the telltale yellowish tinge of the eyes its clearest indicator. Six months he’d figured on, this looked at most like six weeks. Maybe less.
“Not going to happen,” he told his reflection. “Not until I’m done here. Up until then, the good doc is just going to have to up my dosage.” And if she refuses, an internal voice queried. “If she refuses I’ll just have to do it myself. Hell, I might even twist off that sullen little head of hers and send it back to Marcus Pendragon in a box.”
That thought enlivened him. He pulled on his shirt and headed for the clinic. The camp was already stirring into life. Humvees were being pulled into formation on the tarmac, weapons checks were being run, his small force was being formed up in front of their vehicles.
He found Dr. Payne in her office, and received a surprisingly warm greeting from her. The doctor was in battle dress, which Bobo thought was both interesting and amusing.
She got Bobo to sit on the examination table, gingerly removed his shirt. “Ouch,” she said. “That looks nasty. We’ll need to get that cleaned up. Any other symptoms?”
“Yeah, I’ve got one hell of a headache.”
“The BH-17 will take care of that,” Dr. Payne said. “Let’s do something about that arm first.”
She busied herself with the wound, swabbing it with cotton wool, flushing it with hydrogen peroxide, applying an antiseptic gel, a wrapping of gauze and then, finally, a protective bandage. She worked in quick efficient movements and Bobo had time to reflect that, when she wasn’t being a total bitch, Dr. Payne was actually quite good at her job.
“There,” she said when the job was complete, even proffering a faint smile. She turned and picked up a vial and syringe, filled one with the other, and held the filled syringe to the light.
“I’m upping the dosage, Colonel. Today’s a big day. We need you at your best. Tilt your head slightly.”
Bobo did as he was told. “I was meaning to ask you –”
“Don’t speak.” Bobo felt the needle enter his neck, felt the BH-17 flushed into his veins.
“That hurt?”
“No, it feels the same as it always does. Warm.”
“Good,” Dr. Payne said. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”
thirty nine
They set out before first light, walking directly down Palisades Parkway, through the toll plaza and onto the approach to the GWB via a series of short tunnels. The weather appeared to be holding, but the wind had picked up. It elicited a loud clack-clack-clack sound from the bridge that was hardly encouraging. Chris was thinking about the Verrazano-Narrows as they approached. He was sure the others were thinking about that collapsed bridge, too.
He kept them in single file and closely bunched. At the first opportunity, he got everyone to drop onto the pedestrian walkway on the south side. The slight tilt of the bridge was hardly perceptible, but the sway made him feel dizzy. It was as though they were standing in the wake of a powerful earth tremor. He looked down at the dark water below, frozen near the shore, breaking into chunks and sheets further in, likely to be liquefied slush closer to midstream.
The bridge was just shy of a mile across and they covered the distance in twelve minutes, moving at a pace that hovered between a brisk walk and a jog. At the Manhattan end they found a steep ramp that led them down and deposited them among the snow drifts and waist high weeds of the Hudson River Greenway. They were in Z-Central. They were in the Wastelands.
***
Justine had the mayor’s Audi SUV parked at the junction of Madison Avenue and 123rd Street. To her left was a large park, right of her, on the other side of the road, was some kind of medical building, likely a base for over-priced physicians in days gone by. Neither of these features interested her particularly. What held her attention was the barricade wall straight ahead on 125th.
Barlow had told her about the wall. It wasn’t particularly strong, constructed as it was from cinderblock and not reinforced in any way (the Z’s on the other side were hardly likely to fire rockets at it) so the twenty pounds of plastic explosive she had in her gym bag was more than adequate for the task. Her plan was to split the charge, ten pounds here and the other ten close to the access gate on Columbus. But she’d have to wait until Barlow did his part and placed a call through to the duty officer, gave him the command code they’d extracted from Rosenthal and instructed him to muster his men and attend to a crisis at the Brooklyn Bridge.
She hoped Barlow would come through, hoped she’d been explicit enough as to what would happen to him if he didn’t hold up to his end of the bargain. She consulted her watch. Barlow had thirty minutes.
***
Chris had briefed his team before they’d left Hudson Palisades. They had less than three miles to cover, and with clear ground and decent weather conditions, he expected them to make the journey in under forty-five minutes. That would bring them to the barricades around first light. They’d find cover and then attract the attention of the guards using one of the flame-throwers. Hopefully, the guards would spot them and open the gate, hopefully they wouldn’t just open up with their 20 and 50 mil cannons, hopefully they’d open the gate before the Z’s got to them.
There was a contingency plan, too. It went something like this. If they were engaged by zombies before they reached the barricades, they’d hold fire for as long as possible (gunfire would only attract more Z’s). If they were forced into a retreat they’d have no option but to go out onto the ice, break the surface close to shore to discourage pursuit and hope they didn’t go plunging through into the icy river.
There were a lot of “hopes” in the plan, a lot of intangibles that Chris didn’t particularly care for. But there was no choice now. This was all they had.
He turned to his team and spoke in a low, urgent tone. “Stay close, move fast, don’t fire unless you absolutely have to. With a bit of luck we’ll be at the gate before the Z’s even know we’re here.”
But the Z’s already knew they were here. Chris spotted one of the dead things emerging from the buildings opposite the park. A second now appeared and stumbled into the road, scenting the air as it walked. A third, a fourth, a sixth, detached themselves from the darkness.
“Move,” Chris said, already in motion himself.
forty
He ran with the frigid air tearing at his lungs, with the ground slippery and uncertain under his feet, with the bulk of his ammo weighing him down. He hugged the shoreline as he’d instructed his team to do, trying to make as much distance as he could before they were forced out onto the ice, as now looked inevitable. He had a good idea where that point would be, at the pinch created by Henry Hudson Parkway, where the grass met blacktop. Already he could see Z’s swarming across to cut off their advance. Now the first of the screams came from behind him and he knew it was pointless holding fire any more. They’d been made. With less than half of their journey completed, the Z’s had them hemmed in.
He slowed his pace, dropped to a walk and looked back in the direction he’d come. Ruby was a few yards behind, Chico following in her wake, struggling to keep up. Then came Julie and the others, too far strung out for his liking. At the back of the column the zombies were feeding on whoever they’d pulled down, the scream Chris had heard.
“Richie, they took Richie!” Chico panted as he and Ruby finally caught up. The kid
’s eyes were wild and frantic.
Chris looked towards the dilapidated buildings running adjacent to the park, maybe a hundred yards back. The Z’s were swarming across the field, a wall of them, an army, shuttling across to intercept. Still, he held fire. It was pointless firing into this mob, they’d just be wasting ammo and hardly making a dent in their numbers.
Julie had reached them. “Why have we stopped? Jesus Christ, keep going! Keep going!”
Rather than answer, Chris pointed to the path ahead, to the Z’s advancing along a broad front. The frontrunners were fifty yards away, trundling through the snow in their urgent, staggering walk, their black silhouettes just visible against the white backdrop in the pallid light of early morn.
“We’re going to have to go out onto the ice,” he said.
A shiver passed over him, as though the depths of the Hudson had already claimed them.
forty one
A cataclysm is about to befall the New York borough of Manhattan. All the actors are in place, each familiar with the role they are required to play. A spark is needed. That will be provided by twenty pounds of plastic explosive.
Justine Goodwillie waits on a deserted street for the clock to count off fifteen more minutes. She is calm. At least, so she tells herself. Truth be told, a worm of anxiety has begun to insinuate itself into Justine’s thoughts. She has begun to have doubts as to the fortitude of Councilman Joseph Barlow. She wonders now if she made the right choice singling out Barlow as her agent provocateur, wonders if the councilman will deliver on the twin tasks she’s assigned him.
And Justine is right to have doubts. In the penthouse apartment of the San Remo building’s South Tower, a suite once occupied by the late Bronson Chavez, Councilman Barlow has risen early from a sleepless night. He is pacing. Despite the hour, a glass of Kentucky whiskey is clutched in his trembling hand. Like Justine, he has an eye on the clock. Twelve minutes remain before he is required to make a call to the guard commander at the barricades. Before he does that, his instructions require that he flick a switch on a radio set. These simple actions will earn him the mayorship of the city, a long held ambition he has, thus far, failed to realize (officially anyway - with Rosenthal dead he is de facto mayor). Failure to carry them out will result in his untimely (and no doubt painfully protracted) death. It seems an easy choice to make, but it isn’t. At one moment he is resolved to comply, in the next determined to disobey. He briefly considers flinging himself from the parapets. That thought is fleeting only. He wants to live. He continues pacing.
