Quarantine (11 page)

M
anhattan was dry today, just the light falling of snow and a mist that now hung several feet above street level, like a light box radiating a dull, uniform gray glow. The snow-covered fire engines were the same as before. That massive crater where the ice rink used to be remained undisturbed.

The familiarity of these streets was reassuring. There were no fresh corpses blood-spattering the clean snow. No curling trails of smoke or smoldering embers from new fires. No acrid stench of chemicals or melted plastic. If there was a second act to be played out, it hadn't happened yet. We still had time.

It wouldn't take the girls and me long to get to the rendezvous point. But that was assuming all was well at the zoo, that we could just pack and go, and that Felicity and Rachel hadn't suffered an attack like the one at the piers.

I weaved between smashed and destroyed vehicles and in and out of shattered storefronts. I stopped to listen to the quiet. If the streets remained like this, I knew I could follow Fifth all the way to the zoo real fast. I put my shaking hands in my coat pockets. Which was more alarming—the cold or the nerves, the excitement of what was to come?

Previously when I'd walked north, I'd been always wary, always prepared, always looking for something I might need; not today. I stopped under the awning of a deli-cum-café and looked inside. But I felt no need to go in and forage for supplies. I didn't want to be burdened with the provisions that meant I had a long stay ahead of me. I felt light on my feet now. My pack and me and the streets around me, all of it seemed more manageable. It was liberating. No more tomorrows in this place.

“My last day in this city.”

I spoke out loud, but I wasn't kidding myself that there were people listening. I was addressing the one person I could rely on: myself.

“This is my last day here!” The words echoed around the streets. “Here—here—here!”

A moment later, they were replaced by a rumbling that I thought was a building coming down, except that it reverberated, as if it was happening all over again—then faded. Some kind of engine? An aircraft? I kept moving, heading away from the noise. I couldn't be distracted.

Under the last bare-branched tree at Rockefeller Plaza I paused to catch my breath. Snow crunching underfoot was the only sound audible. At least I'd hear something sinister coming. I found a baseball bat in the back of someone's car and hit snowballs with it as I walked. It was almost easy to forget the dangers around me.

“Good-bye, 30 Rock.”

I'd lived in that tall building for twelve days, and I was thankful for everything that it provided. I remembered the last time I was here, thinking that I could climb up those sixty-five levels and get into my warm bed. But I wouldn't do it, ever again, because I didn't want to alter my memories of that place. Even if this city was fixed and life went back to some kind of normal, I would never go up there again. Right now, there was no room for nostalgia. Why reminisce?

I took a bottled juice out of my backpack and allowed myself a moment to drink it. There was graffiti on a glass storefront, a row of people in black spray-painted stencil-work. A guy in the center was the biggest image, the rest fading into the background. He stood about my height, maybe a rifle in his hand. His face was really just a few sharp black lines of spray-paint.

I read some of the graffiti. I wondered if it would still be called that in the future. Maybe writing on walls would be the new literature of this world. We'd had no newspapers, no magazines since the attack, and maybe we wouldn't again. Maybe, somewhere, people were keeping blogs and messaging online in the hope that they'd be heard and believed. In the meantime, we had:
Innocent obedience versus guilty disobedience to God. Why did this happen?
Another's handwriting, scrawled and nowhere near as neat as the others, answered above it:
You should ask: Why were we born into this?
That one seemed the saddest. Permanent marker on a glass window, there until broken or worn away with time. Or cleaned?

The words rattled around my head as I walked, overriding everything else, even a sharp
CRACK!
that echoed through the streets, and then another. Rifle fire. Close or far, it was hard to tell. At that moment, it didn't matter.

 

Even though I'd seen it on video, heard about it, in the flesh, St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue surprised me. The gothic building, all marble and stained glass and spires, was largely unharmed, just a little stonework crumbling at one front corner and, as I knew from Bob's footage, a hole somewhere in the roof.

I'd just take a quick look. I had to see the missile for myself. I had to see what had done all this damage to my friends, to everything here. I stood at the steps and hesitated. Then I climbed them, slowly, my legs suddenly tired. My limbs were weary of carrying so much around—so much guilt, so much fury.

The main doors were ajar, ash and snow piled up against them. The door hinges squeaked and I had to push with my shoulder and all my weight. The interior of the cathedral was lit by a dull blue light from the windows. On the floor, I noticed the glint of little golden coins. I picked one up. It was a holy medal, the picture of a winged man and the inscription: “Saint Michael Pray for Us.” I wanted to hold it but my damaged left hand could not close to make a fist, and in my right I held the loaded Glock pistol. I didn't know how many bullets I had left but there were enough for any eventuality—any more than a few Chasers or attackers and I would be done for, anyway. I pocketed the coin, as if for luck.

Deeper within the church, the shadows were darker. I rummaged in my pack for my wind-up flashlight, but when I found it I discovered that, last time I used it, I hadn't folded the little plastic handle back in place and it had snapped off. I tried the switch; it was totally out of juice.
Damn
. I went through the smaller pockets, looking for—
yes, a lighter
. But its flame did little to light the way.

I inched forward, along the space between the banks of pews—an avenue of solace. Candle stands were dotted around the perimeter of the cathedral. I stopped to light three little white candles to carry as a torch. Remembering those times my dad and I had gone to church, I imagined who these candles might represent. I lit a fourth, for Caleb. No. I decided that the fourth was for that Chaser I dispatched. As long as Caleb was alive, he still had hope in this world. I left them there to flicker against the gloom. We all burn, eventually, all of us.

I took another candle and held it at arm's length, as I continued up the nave, my feet unsteady on the debris-strewn floor, towards the pulpit, the sole representative of a congregation of one. I could see the hole in the ceiling, nearly perfectly round, smaller than I'd expected, like that manhole in the street I'd climbed out of on the first day of this new earth. Light gray sky shone through, just like that day.

It was impossible to forget that Mephistopheles was just beneath me, ever present if I fell. He was there if I went down through the ground, never to return. He was always in every next step, waiting in the wings. But his nemesis, his rival, was here too and, looking ahead, my eyes focused on the cross before me, at the body of the man worshiped by so many of the people who had flocked here in safer times.

And there, by his feet, was what I'd seen in Bob's footage. Among the shattered timber and tiles, the unexploded missile lay bare. I shielded the candle's flame with my other hand, placing it between the missile and the warm light, and leaned closer. Brushed steel, no marking to give away the identity of its creator.

I knelt down, closer still: long pearl-strands of glass balls, deep-red colored marbles, exactly as Bob had captured on film. My mind worked overtime. Each ball must contain the contagion. Was it a liquid that turned to vapor when it met heat? Here before me, waiting to be released, was a fresh batch that could turn other survivors into the bloodthirsty Chasers, simply by being too close when the contagion reached the critical temperature . . .

Reeling, I felt myself break out in a sweat. What could I do? It was a massive responsibility. In a movie, there would be some clever way to defuse the bomb, to neutralize it, but I hadn't a clue how to do that.

I checked the illuminated dials on my watch—aware that I was on borrowed time. I turned—and tripped sideways, catching myself on a pew. To my right—rolling across the ground towards the missile—a lit candle.

I dived for it. Missed it.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, crawled after it and lunged forward . . .

And blew it out.

 

I ran flat out, fast as I could, up Fifth Avenue.

What had possessed me to put my life in danger like that? To throw away all those days of caution? Going in there was stupid, but maybe I'd had to see it for myself. I'd been drawn to it. Maybe churches have that power over everyone, no matter what you believe. When the consumer gods are no longer talking—the billboards smashed, the adverts streaked with soot and water—maybe we have to listen to whoever is left. Or was I simply being pulled to join the others—not the religious, but the damned?

There was something exhilarating about surrender, about giving in to a force that was so determined to claim you. It was even more powerful than the instinct to survive. And why not let it take you away, spare yourself the effort of clinging on, of forging ahead? So much easier to let go . . .

But I kept on going, I kept running. The habit was too deeply entrenched in me now to do otherwise. And no longer did I worry about snow-covered holes in the road collapsing beneath me and swallowing me whole. I forgot about familiar dangers. I got to 56th. It was because I rushed, because I didn't bother to worry about my safety, that I let it happen. I was caught by surprise—didn't see or hear the attack coming.

S
trong hands were pinning me down, then closing around my neck so tightly that I struggled for breath. A heavy, strong person, on me. His breath, fetid with old blood. I put my arms inside his and brought them out wide with all my strength. His grip loosened. I rolled and pushed him off but he was too quick—he was at me again, rolling me over to face him. He was clawing at me with disgusting blackened hands. I punched at him, twisted my body under his weight and wriggled to get away. He reached after me and bashed my head against the ground.

I flailed out with an elbow, felt it connect and I was free.

On my feet, I pulled the lids of my left eye apart with my fingers. The eye was okay, just stuck shut with blood; the stitches above my eyebrow must have opened up. I carefully touched the back of my head. There was a large wet lump. My fingers came away red.

He was on his feet and rushed me.

I sidestepped and connected an uppercut to his jaw as he shot past. He faltered, righted himself, and then I hit him in the sternum with everything I had. He doubled over on the ground; I kicked him and he fell on his side.

Up Fifth Avenue, another Chaser was running towards us.

Shit
.

I ran away, eastwards on 56th.

Over my shoulder I saw that my attacker was back on his feet. Behind him, not one but four other Chasers arrived.

I could hear them running as I crossed Madison. It was impassable here to the north, forcing me another block away from my friends at the zoo.

I took Park Avenue and ran north. I knew the Chasers were still behind me. The streets were familiar, but that didn't make it any easier to decide what to do. I just knew I couldn't lead them to the zoo.

Ahead was 57th Street. Caleb's bookstore was at that intersection. It was secure, at least. Maybe I could hide without being noticed, let them run on by . . .

 

I dropped the steel bar into the brackets, locking the bookstore's doors behind me. It was near pitch dark in here. Caleb had blacked out all the windows, leaving small peepholes at eye level, with black sheets of paper taped over them like porthole covers. I tried to be still and listen; all seemed silent. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the room. The sports gear strewn everywhere, the neat stacks of books, the whiteboard with the big scrawled note I'd left for Caleb last time I was here. Everything was as I'd last seen it, four days ago, although the carpet was wet and spongy underfoot.

The silence lasted a couple of minutes. While I wasn't eager to look outside, I had to know if the coast was clear. I lifted a corner of the paper covering the view-hole.

The Chasers had stopped in the intersection. I watched them as they slowly moved across the road, looking around the wrecked Citibank building, checking behind smashed cars, searching the snow for footprints. Maybe tracks left by someone else would send them down a wrong path, away from me. It was something to hope for.

I checked my watch: the minutes were slipping past. I took another glance outside.
There!
Across Park Avenue, the Chasers were backtracking. It started to snow, a light dusting. I didn't have time for a waiting game, but neither could I simply head out there and shoot my way clear. I doubted the snow would cover my tracks anytime soon.

I used the lighter to find my way around the ground floor of the bookstore as best I could. I couldn't recall if Caleb had any other weapons apart from the shotgun he'd had with him that last night. I couldn't see much of any use, though I found a skateboard helmet, which I tried on, but it only served to further aggravate the lump at the back of my head.

There was a shuffling sound outside. I moved to the side windows, peered under the flap. They were headed down the street, farther along East 57th. My heart raced as I watched them.
Please go, please don't come back
.

When I couldn't see them anymore I waited two more minutes, then went over to the doors. I lifted the bar—

Cold air rushed in. There was nothing outside except the falling snow. I pulled the doors shut behind me, ran across the street. The pistol was in my hands, but I was otherwise unburdened. At peace. A deadline ticking, but I was back on track now.

I took one final look back at the bookstore, and thought I saw a flash of movement in an upstairs window. My first, obvious thought was:
Caleb
. Had he been watching me? Why didn't he come down and attack me? I'd warned the people at Chelsea Piers that he might attack them, but in the back of my mind I suspected that I would be his number one enemy, that the contagion would have poisoned our friendship. Maybe it would be a point of pride for him to kill me—or if not pride, then whatever instinct motivated the Chasers. They
were
still human . . .

I considered the possibility—tentatively—that some part of the old Caleb remained and he might still respond to the bonds of friendship, that he had stayed out of the way just now, allowing me time and space to collect my thoughts and, most important, not alerting the other Chasers to my presence. A conflict of loyalties for him, an act of protection, perhaps even forgiveness. It was something to hold on to, at least.

But no reason to linger. I turned for Fifth Avenue—and stopped dead still. The Chaser I'd fought with moments ago had reemerged from an apartment across the intersection. There was nothing Caleb could have done for me, even if he wanted to. The Chaser saw me. I did what I'd been doing for near-on three weeks. Maybe the only thing I could still do. I ran.