HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) (12 page)

“I think so.” The youth looked over his shoulder toward the back seat.

“Don’t.” Hank grabbed Brandon’s shoulder. “Don’t ever look back again.”

Hank pulled Brandon to his feet and slung the AR-15 over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

The pair headed east toward the glow on the horizon that was Freeport. They shambled along like two crippled ships limping toward the safety of harbor lights.

The beacon flickered, flashed back on with one last radiant gasp, then went dark.

Hank and Brandon trudged onward with only the frozen moon to guide their steps.

6

EDUARDO

Eduardo awoke shivering as the sun crested the horizon. Out his picture window, he saw columns of black smoke rising in the distance. The street below was full of people.

A steady stream of refugees flowed from the south. Eduardo guessed the bridges on the southern tip of Manhattan were either choked with traffic or blocked off.

He found a pair of binoculars and focused on the street where stray taxis and clusters of hurried pedestrians pushed northward. Some were well dressed, business suits and the like. Men carrying briefcases, women carrying their high heels. Others were in pajamas or half dressed as if they’d jumped out of bed and into the street. Many vainly kept trying their cell phones, some were bleeding. Even from this height, Eduardo could see the panic on their faces as they craned their necks, looking behind them like a herd of fleeing animals expecting an unseen predator to pounce at any moment.

He tried to turn the TV on, but it was no use. The electric was still out. He checked his cell phone. Still no signal. He then tried the landline. Dead. He opened his front door and checked the hallway. The emergency lights were on, powered by the building’s generator. He buzzed the lobby. No answer.

He slipped on a gray hoodie and turned on his satellite phone. Thankfully, it was fully charged. He checked the signal. It took a moment to sync up, but it worked. The screen said he had fourteen missed calls. He dialed, hoping the phone on the other end was still on.

“Sam!”

“Eddie! Where the hell are you, man? I’ve been calling you for hours!”

“I’m in my apartment. What’s up?”

“Don’t go to the studio. It’s too dangerous.” Coming from Sam, that was saying something. “The city went haywire after the power went out. I got trapped in the studio for a few hours. Barely got out before it was overrun. It started in the financial district. Burning and robbing everything in sight. Killing people for no reason. It’s like freakin’ Fallujah out here. We gotta get off Manhattan.”

“Was Angie at the studio?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see her. She must still be at home.”

“We gotta get to her.”

“Too dangerous. Her apartment is just three blocks from the network building,” Sam protested.

“We have to help her. She’s got nobody else.”
And neither do I,
Eduardo thought.

Sam was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay.”

“Where are you?”

“A few blocks away.”

“There’s a café nearby. Monk’s. You know it?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

Eduardo scanned his place for anything useful. He grabbed some bottled waters and beef jerky then stuffed them into his back pack. He spotted a street map in a kitchen drawer and packed it too. He looked out the window. Fires were spreading across the city, silhouetting skyscrapers and filling the air with thick, choking smoke. He touched the glass. The muted sounds of gunshots and explosions shook the glass under his hand. The street below was quiet. Central Park looked tranquil, but Harlem was aflame.

Eduardo spread the street map out on the floor in front of the window, smoothing it with his hands. He then took a felt-tipped pen and scanned the streets and landmarks, placing an ‘X’ where the fires were. The bridges on the north and south ends of the island were death traps even if they could make it to one of them. He circled a spot spanning the East River.

Queensboro Bridge. It’s that or we swim.

Eduardo folded the map and tucked into his shirt. On the way out of the room, he realized he had nothing to defend himself with. He grabbed the steak knife from a drawer and stuck it in his back pocket.

Just in case.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

Eduardo wondered how long the emergency power would hold out as he descended the dim stairwell. He found the lobby abandoned. Papers littered the floor. Closed circuit television screens still illuminated the unmanned security desk.

“Hello! Is anybody here?”

No reply but his own echo. The silence of the place was unnerving.

A pedestrian sprinted past on the street outside. Eduardo ran into the sunlight and yelled, “Hey! Hey, you!” But the man kept running.

The sounds of chaos sounded much closer from here. Shouts, shots, and sirens echoed through the urban labyrinth of streetlights and high rises. Ghosts of bedlam yet to come.

A familiar face emerged from the hotel next door. It was the man he’d met last night at the bar. He was throwing bags into the trunk of a four-door luxury sedan.

“Chaz!” Eduardo ran to him. “I need a ride.”

“Sorry. No room.”

“Two friends and I just need a ride off of Manhattan. We can pile in the back seat.”

Chaz slammed the trunk shut. “Back seat’s full.”

Eduardo looked in the car window. Chaz’s wife waited in the passenger seat. The back seat was completely empty.

“Please! You can kick us out as soon as we cross the bridge,” Eduardo implored.

A crash sounded somewhere nearby.

“Good luck.” Chaz said as he ducked into the car and sped off.

“C’mon, man!”

Eduardo watched the tail lights disappear around a corner two blocks away.

He started south. The air was heavy with smoke. The gray haze burned his eyes and clawed at his throat. He jogged to the corner and took a right. Halfway down the block, a diner with smashed windows came into view. The sign above it read ‘Monk’s.’ There was no sign of Sam. He picked up his pace.

More gunshots rang out. They were close. Screeching tires and a blood chilling scream echoed down the street.

Tires squealed. Eduardo turned to see a luxury sedan appear from a side street, coming his way.

He recognized the car and waved his arms. “Chaz!”

The vehicle pulled closer. It wasn’t Chaz. Two rough looking young men sat behind a bullet riddled windshield.

The car slowed. One of the youths called out, “Need a ride?”

“No thanks!” Eduardo eased back.

The sedan kept coming. “C’mon, we got plenty of room.”

A woman sprang up from the back seat. “Help! Help me! Please!”

It was Chaz’s wife, her face smeared with blood. A third man shoved her head down with a punch to the face and climbed back on top of her. Her screams pierced Eduardo to his core.

He barely saw the pistol in time, leaping behind an abandoned news stand as bullets tore through his previous location.

Eduardo scanned his surroundings for an escape route, seeing nothing but shuttered storefronts. Monk’s was still thirty feet away, but it was his only chance. He bolted from cover toward the diner’s broken window. Bullets cracked against the concrete around him as he ran, following him into the window as he leapt through.

He scurried past upturned tables behind the counter to the kitchen. He hid behind the deep fryer as he heard the car stop outside the diner. Footsteps crunched across broken glass on the sidewalk outside.

“See him?” A voice asked.

“Nah. Let’s go.”

Once again the sound of glass underfoot, then the thunk of car doors and they were gone in search of easier prey.

“Bad neighborhood,” said a voice from near the kitchen sink. Eduardo pulled the steak knife and whipped around to face it.

“Sam!”

“Nice to see you too,” Sam said. He held a wad of paper towels over his biceps, trying to stem the flow of blood running down the limb.

“Were you shot?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Cut my arm climbing through that damn window on the way in here.”

“Let me see.”

Sam removed the blood-soaked towels to reveal an ugly, jagged gash across his arm.

“You need stitches.” Eduardo found a first aid kit fixed to the wall a few feet away. He emptied it onto a counter. “This’ll have to do for now.” He cleaned Sam’s wound with alcohol and iodine, then bound it snuggly with a large sterile bandage. The rest of the aid kit went into his trusty pack.

They crept the rest of the way to Angie’s building, darting from one hiding place to another in the cluttered streets. The smoke was thicker here. An ambient glow told them the fires were nearly on top of them. Eduardo grabbed the scarf from his pack, wet it and tied it around his face, covering his nose and mouth as he had in Zuccotti Park. Sam removed his undershirt and did the same. It was little help. They still coughed and choked as they closed on their goal.

A trio of looters sprang from the trash-strewn lobby as Sam and Eduardo entered, nearly knocking them down as they passed.

“What floor is she on?” Sam asked.

“Thirty-fifth.”

“Shit.”

They trudged up the dark stairs. The emergency lights didn’t work here. Neither did the heat. Open doors and broken windows on some floor sent a cold draft droning through the corridor, chilling steel and concrete, sucking the warmth from their flesh as they climbed against a steady stream of residents and looters hurrying to the ground level, arms loaded with valuables. At least the smoke thinned as they ascended. A small mercy.

They emerged onto Angie’s floor.

“Let’s hope she’s home.”

They found her door wide open and stepped into her apartment.

“Angie?”

No reply.

The place was torn to pieces. Wind rushed in through a shattered window, blowing her belongings in all directions.

“Angie!” Eduardo called out, a touch of panic in his voice.

“Eddie,” Sam said, “Over here.” He tried the bedroom door. “It’s locked.”

Eddie knocked. “Angie! It’s me, Eddie!”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah. We came to get you outta here.”

“Who’s with you?”

Eduardo pulled the scarf from his face. “Just Sam. C’mon. Open up. We don’t have much time.”

There was a sound of something heavy being pushed aside and the lock disengaging. The door opened. Angie peeked out. She had blankets wrapped tightly around her against the cold. “Eddie!” She hugged his neck. “Thank God!”

“Good to see you too.” Heavy footsteps ran down the hall outside her apartment door. “Put on your warmest clothes and some sturdy shoes. We’re getting out of here.”

He retrieved a towel from the bathroom and put it under the faucet. No water. He used the last of his opened bottled to wet the cloth and gave it to Angie. “Here. You’ll need it outside.” He asked, “You have a gun?”

“Of course not.” She pulled a container of mace from her purse. “But I have this.”

“It’s better than nothing. Keep it in your pocket. Do you have a back pack?”

“No.”

“Gym bag?”

“Yes.” She reached in her closet and pulled out a black nylon shoulder bag. “It’s for my fitness gear.”

He grabbed the bag, dumped its contents on the floor, and handed it back to Angie. “Fill it with food, water, and an extra pair of walking shoes.”

She hurried to the kitchen and collected all the food and bottled water she could carry.

Sam looked out the window and said, “Eddie. We got problems,” as if they didn’t already have enough.

Eduardo looked onto the streets below. The neighboring block was on fire. A flood of people poured away from the inferno. Some lay still on the cold asphalt. There were others, lurking at the fringes of the flow, robbing, killing, and raping at will like jackals bringing down antelopes at the edge of the herd. His stomach turned at the sight.

As Eduardo considered their options, a scream sounded from the hallway. He turned, ashen faced, to Angie and Sam. “Block the door.”

7

COLE

Fort Campbell, Kentucky

Cole scanned the parade field, wondering what the hell was going on. The battalion was formed and waiting to be called to attention, but Colonel Lee was missing. A stranger in a black tactical uniform stood in his place.

The newcomer walked over to Captain Prescott, Cole’s company commander, and whispered something to him. As the man turned, Cole saw the letters ‘D.H.S.’ stitched in big bright yellow letters across the stranger’s back. He also saw something else. Something in Prescott’s eyes. It was fear.

Prescott called out, “Lieutenant Young. Post.”

Cole’s platoon leader double-timed to his captain and saluted.

“You are now in command,” the captain said to the junior officer then followed the stranger to the head of the battalion where Colonel Lee usually stood.

Cole moved to fill the vacancy in front of the platoon. It was his now—Cole’s second promotion in as many days.

Captain Prescott barked, “Battalion! AttennnShun!”

The formation snapped to attention. The captain nodded to the black-clad man who stepped forward and addressed the battalion.

“Good morning. I am Special Agent Piven, liaison of the Department of Homeland Security. As you know, our homeland is under attack. Terrorists and traitors are everywhere. As unbelievable as it sounds, we have even uncovered seditious plots in our own military. These turncoats have infected every part of the armed services including your own chain of command. Several high ranking officers of this division have sympathized, associated with, or assisted right-wing extremist groups. Sadly, your former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Kwan Lee is one of them.

The formation erupted in disbelief. Piven glanced at Prescott.

The captain yelled, “At ease!”

The men quieted and Piven continued. “Captain Prescott is now your acting commander. Anyone with information as to Colonel Lee’s whereabouts will report to me immediately. Anyone withholding such information is guilty of aiding a known terrorist and will be treated as a terrorist.”