 
THE

DAYS AND MONTHS

WE WERE FIRST BORN

THE UNRAVELING

By

Christopher Hunter

_______________

Published by Christopher Hunter

Smashwords Edition

Version 1.14.13

Copyright © 2010-2011 Christopher Hunter

www.christopherhunterfiction.com

christopherhunterfiction@yahoo.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The following two books of the "The Days and Month We Were First Born" Trilogy are now available as:

The Days and Months We Were First Born- The Post-New York Edition

And introducing the paperback version of the series:

 The Days and Months We Were First Born- The Consolidated Edition

Book I

The Unraveling

July 28, 2068

**I have heard countless versions of Awareness Day,** recollections from people who lived to tell them. And each story is unique, as unique to every man, woman, and child as their DNA. But no matter how different the versions, no matter how different the people who tell them, when I hear the accounts I know we're all the same. Wherever we came from, whatever our ambitions, whatever we liked or disliked, whoever we loved or hated; it didn't matter once that day touched us. The memories are there, never to leave, never to fade. And the most common factor was we never saw it coming. I certainly didn't.

My version began in my girlfriend's bed.

I was at the tail end of a dream, a very strange dream. I was in a sphere of water, and I was naked and suspended. Imagine a grown-sized clone, gestating in a giant incubator. It was completely dark beyond the water, yet somehow I could still see. There were no tubes or pipes, the water was breathable, and my balance in the center was perfect, as if I were the core holding all together with my gravity. My mood was as calm as a person near death. I had no worries, no anxiety regarding my nakedness, nothing. It was Zen-like—beautiful. And still, as beautiful and as _bizarre_ as that dream was, it would have easily been forgotten. It would have disappeared from my memory forever, if it hadn't been attached to that fateful day.

The dream fell apart with the smell of breakfast. Once that sweet aroma of turkey bacon on the skillet invaded my nostrils, the water disappeared and the calm awareness crumbled. The dream Zen was replaced with a new Zen: the Zen of me eating soon.

Julie was a glorious cook. Every morning at her apartment I woke to the smell of something lovely; an aromatic alarm clock that I could always count on. It was one of the many perks that came with the relationship. Julie's parents had taught her how to cook at a very young age, and experience was delicious.

I didn't live with my girlfriend. Technically, my residence was a tenement building in Soho. But once I realized I could wake to her breakfast, any given day, living among my pothead roommates couldn't compete.

I also loved Julie's place. She lived in a post-Municipal Explosion building on First Avenue, between 122nd and 123rd Streets. Her apartment was 23F, and it had this fantastic view of the East River and Randall's Island from her living room window. She had a clear, hardened plastic dining set, a platinum-colored leather couch and matching love seat, a blue steel entertainment display, and a map screen that rotated on a ball axis. The map screen was my favorite thing in the whole apartment. I could touch, magnify, and rotate on any location in the world.

In her bedroom, she had a classic Tempur-Pedic bed. It was draped with a Venezuelan spread and soft, Egyptian cotton sheets. (It was so damn hard to get out of that bed sometimes, especially if I'd indulged in wine the night before.) She also had a cherry wood bedroom set made from real cherry wood, and in the dark, a multicolored light display reflected patterns of rippling water against the walls and ceiling.

The hallways were earth-toned, and lined with oil paintings Julie had created herself. She was an artist; she specialized in landscapes. If the paintings weren't of the city, they were of her native Nebraska.

It had taken three months to convince Julie to date me, but waking to her breakfast, enjoying her company, and staying in her apartment had made it well worth the effort.

"Curtains open."

The window tint faded and daylight flooded the room. I winced and squinted as my eyes adjusted. I pushed the sheets off and sat up.

"Television on. Channel five."

The acrylic screen on the opposite wall came to life, first as a dull, blank gray, and then as the commanded channel.

The bar at the top read: _Saturday, July, 28, 2068/ 8:02am/ 24ºC/ sunny with clear skies._

The image on the screen, however, wasn't of the news anchors, or of the meteorologist, or of the traffic lady. Instead, it was of the President. The President of East America: Joseph McArthur. As I wiped the crust from my eyes, I thought: _What in the hell does he want?_

The President was shaking with nervous energy as he waited for his cue. Instead of his usual suit and tie, he had on a white, button-down shirt with the buttons undone, revealing a maroon shirt underneath. His face was pale. His red eyes were wandering all around the room. He was unshaven.

When the cue was given, he nodded to someone unseen and looked into the camera. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then he began.

" _My fellow East Americans..."_ He paused for a moment. He was actually fighting back tears. _"My fellow East Americans, it is my somber duty to report that at 6:46 this morning, I received news of a potential world-wide epidemic. I was told that it is a grave threat to the security of our nation._

"I have met with my Members of Cabinet, and we have decided to take drastic measures. I am hereby exercising my constitutional authority to declare martial law. I am also ordering a nation-wide moratorium on economic activity.

"If you are an employee of vital importance, such as in the fields of health, news, or public services, we need you to continue your..."

"Television mute."

Slumping into the bed, I pulled the sheets over my head.

As I write this, it's hard to believe that I could have been so ridiculous. Here was the President—the President of my country—addressing us all and looking an uncharacteristic mess, shutting down commerce throughout the entire nation, and I had the nerve to put the television on mute. Perhaps it was subconscious denial. Perhaps some part of me knew that this was going to be bad, and that part was prolonging the inevitable. Perhaps that part was seeking one last moment of normalcy. Normalcy before the hell started. That reasoning makes sense. That reasoning is _reason_. But the actual thought that went through my mind was: _This is another one of those damn influenza outbreaks_.

They occurred at least once a year. The outbreaks killed a few thousand people in various parts of the world, then either a vaccine was distributed or the things simply died out. The _colds_ had names just as hurricanes did, and they brought a flurry of media coverage and mass paranoia. But ultimately, they were nothing to warrant shutting down the entire country. In the bed that morning, I thought to myself: _This jerk is putting on a show because it's an election year_.

Julie walked into the room. She had on her lavender pink robe, and her brunette hair was still wet from a shower she had taken while I was dead to the world. The light from outside gave her skin an admirable glow. She was a vibrant, fleshy woman, with a beautiful, slightly freckled face, and blue eyes sparkling and true. At 5'11", she was virtually the same height as me.

Julie had wanted me to propose to her. We had been steady for eleven months by that point. I did spend most of my time with her, and we were compatible in a lot of ways; but when it came to marriage, I had cold feet. She was convenient, she had her perks, and I was even going to move in with her by the end of that August; but when it came to the next step, when it came to a ring, I probably would have been on the fence for a very long time.

"Breakfast is ready," Julie said, on her way to the bathroom. "Is that the President? What is he talking about?"

"I think he's saying the world's about to end," I said. "But let's eat breakfast. If we're all going to die, let's not go on an empty stomach."

"Asshole," she said.

We both laughed. Then I lunged from the bed and chased my girlfriend into the bathroom, grabbing for her ass.

***

I'll always remember that breakfast; the last moment before it all changed. As we ate, Julie and I discussed what we were going to do that day. It was a Saturday, and on Saturdays, we always went to a park or beach, weather permitting. I wanted to go to Riverbank Park, which was on the other side of Harlem. Julie wanted to go to Carl Schurz Park, which was forty blocks south. We also discussed what to send her father for a birthday present. Should it be the usual shirt and tie, or should we just say to hell with it and send him a gift credit card? His birthday was a week away, and Julie constantly stressed over such things.

Now that I recall, we didn't have the television or the radio on, which was unusual. Instead, we only sat and talked, and enjoyed our turkey bacon and eggs with hash browns. I drank peach juice while Julie helped herself to prune juice (her latest diet experiment). It was nice. It was a frozen moment in time.

Every now and then, I'll close my eyes and imagine. I'll imagine that I'm right there—right on the edge.

Just as we finished breakfast, the first call came through. Julie picked the phone up from the table and answered.

"Hello?"

She winced and held the phone from her ear.

"Mom!" Julie looked at the phone with surprise. She waited a few seconds and tried again.

"Mom! You have to calm down...calm down! Tell me what happened."

Julie held the phone with both hands as her mother spoke, and I couldn't make out a single word. Mrs. Silver's voice was a frantic noise on the other line. But as Mrs. Silver went on, Julie's look transformed. Her eyes watered and her hands trembled. She shook her head slowly in disbelief. And after a minute, Julie finally broke her silence. Her voice was aquiver.

"Everyone...How can everyone have it? How can you, Papa, Jodi, Lenard and all the kids have it? How the _fuck_ can _everyone_ have it?! How does that even happen?"

Tears streamed down Julie's cheeks. Her face was a distressed red as she squealed in agony.

I was mortified. In all my time of knowing Julie, she had never cried in front of me. I began to tremble myself. I could feel my chest tighten. Julie dropped the phone, and then she collapsed to the floor. I wanted to walk over to find out what the hell happened, but the intensity of the moment had left me timid. Then I heard my PCD in the bedroom. Immediately, I ran to answer it, as Julie wailed in devastation.

It was my father. His picture flashed in and out on my screen. I answered, bracing for whatever he was about to say.

"Dad!"

"Martin! Thank God! We've been trying to reach you all morning! Where are you? Did you hear the news?"

I thought of the television, and how I had put the damn thing on mute. A strong sense of embarrassment flashed over me.

"No. But I saw the President. He said there was some kind of epidemic and he declared martial law. What the hell is...?"

"Did you get tested?"

"Get tested? No. Julie and I just had breakfast. What is all this testing...?"

"Son! You have to get tested. Get tested and get out of the city. Get a mask. Get a mask as soon as you can." It started to register.

"Dad. Are you telling me this thing is airborne?"

"Yes, it's fucking airborne! What? Did you and Julie listen to the first thirty seconds and cut off the TV?" I chose not to answer. "Son, this is an emergency," he continued. "Get a mask and get out of the city. It's the goddamn end of the world. Your mother and I are going to die."

I dropped the PCD. I felt lightheaded. A jolt ran through my body and my vision became blurry. My legs wobbled underneath me. I was tackled. _Blindsided_. That was the moment. The disheveled President wasn't it. Julie imploding in grief wasn't it. But when my father told me I was about to become parentless, that was when the gut-wrenching truth had finally set in: This shit was serious, and it was going to touch _everyone._

"Marty! Son! Are you there?"

I could hear my father's voice clearly. The PCD was face-up on the floor. I bent to retrieve it, feeling as if I was doing the bravest thing in my life.

"Dad, tell me what happened."

"Your mother and I saw the news last night. It started as a rumor on the ten o'clock news. We kept watching. Then they showed the lines at the health clinics and hospitals. All over the world, people were in line—being tested. Your mother and I tried to call you. We tried to call your brother and your sisters. But the phones were already overrun.

"This morning, there was an emergency broadcast. It told us to head to Southampton Hospital. So your mother and I went. And the line was long. Virtually everyone in the town was there by the time we made it. The NHC workers gave us masks as we waited to take the test. They had this breathalyzer. If the result was green, you were clear and told to go home. But if it was red, you were infected with some goddamn _cancer_ _!_ Damn near everyone was red, son!"

"Cancer?" I had a sliver of hope. "But Dad, isn't cancer treatable? They have pills for cancer. How the hell is something treatable going to kill you?"

"It's different, son. The workers told us the thing adapts. Chemo doesn't work. Surgery doesn't work. They said the pills will cause the cancer to become stronger—a defense mechanism. They told us the only option was to let it run its course. They told us that will give us the most time."

"That doesn't make any goddamn sense! How could this be determined so fast? Who's to say they won't find a cure within a couple of days, _like they always do_ _?_ They _always_ find a cure!" I said.

My father didn't share my optimism. I only heard the stressed breathing of a devastated and defeated man. Then he spoke once more.

"Martin. Son. Please...just get tested and get out of the city."

"Where's Mom? Please...put Mom on the phone."

As I waited for my mother's voice, I heard footsteps, then a stifled conversation. The interlude of twenty seconds felt like an eternity—going back and forth. My body had grown tight with anticipation.

"Martin," she said.

"Mom..."

It was the only word that escaped. All that anticipation, and now I was frozen.

"Martin, I love you so much, son. I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I'm proud of all of you." I couldn't even breathe. "You, and your brother and sisters have been the stars in my sky."

The phone went dead.

"Mom! Mom!"

Without hesitation, I tried calling them back. I dialed and dialed and dialed again. But I only got the goddamn buzz. The devastating, monotone, _buzz_ _._

After seven attempts, I dropped the PCD on the bed. My initial shock had given way. The practical side took over. I wanted to get tested. To find out what the hell this was. I left the room furious with myself, upset that the only thing I could say to my mother was _Mom_ _._

In the living room Julie was still on the floor, paralyzed in grief.

"Julie? We have to go, Julie."

She didn't acknowledge me at all. She was as still as a bag of dirt, staring at the ceiling. I knelt beside her and attempted to pick her up. She was dead weight.

"Julie!" I said. "We have to go and get tested."

After a few minutes of nudging, yelling, pulling and begging outright, it was evident she wasn't going anywhere. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

I conceded, and gently lowered my girlfriend to the floor. Then I raced to the bedroom. I threw on a random T-shirt and stepped into my brown loafers. I didn't bother to change out of my pajama bottoms. I'm sure my appearance was rather tacky, but who the fuck _cares_ at a moment such as this.

Once I arrived at the front door, I took a last look at Julie. She was right where I had left her: stone still, and in her own devastated world. I thought to try to rouse her one last time, and then thought to hell with it. I took a deep breath and left. It was time to face this world. The world that had changed so suddenly.

***

I saw no one in the hallway. No one rode with me in the elevator on the way down. Even the lobby was vacant. If anything, I would have seen the doorman. _He_ was nowhere to be found. But once I walked through the front door, once I stepped outside, martial law was right there to greet me.

Organized chaos was everywhere. It was a scene right out of a movie. It was as if the whole of Harlem was on our block. People were in the middle of the street and on the sidewalks, and soldiers were scattered throughout the crowd. The soldiers were clad in fatigues. They had on round, tan-colored helmets. They had automatic weapons in hand. And they were barking through clear masks, telling people where to go. Overhead, two hovercopters were flying south toward midtown. I could hear the whiz of their engines in sharp clarity. I stood just outside the doorway, hesitant to move.

A driverless vehicle with the East American insignia rode south down First Avenue—in the wrong direction. People and soldiers moved out of its way. There was a screen on the vehicle's side. It displayed:

Everyone in this vicinity is to report to the Zone 7 Health Clinic, located at 2262 Obama Boulevard. Everyone must know their status. Masks will be distributed as you approach the line. Once you know your status, you should return home. Your television will communicate additional information and should be viewed regularly.

The message displayed in Spanish, Korean, and Mandarin Chinese before returning to English.

I was utterly confused. The night before, Julie and I had stayed in. We had planned to go to a restaurant called Knowles Cafe in Times Square, but instead, we ordered Chinese food, had sex, and went to bed early. As I stood there, I thought, _we might have been secluded last night, but what the fuck is this?!_

A man walked by on the sidewalk in front of me. I'd say he was in his late forties or early fifties. He had a round, leathery face and a nappy, salt-and-pepper beard. He wore tattered clothing. He had a homemade poster in his hands, and the poster was covered with newspaper cutouts. The man began yelling to anyone who would listen.

"You have turned your back on the Church, and this is what it has come to! You have turned your back on Jesus and he has turned his back on you! Repent! Repent! Your bodies are condemned, but he may have mercy on your souls! Repe..."

A couple of soldiers grabbed the man by his arms. The poster fluttered to the sidewalk as the soldiers dragged him away. The man kicked and screamed with all his might.

One of the soldiers noticed me. He let the others drag the man away and then he approached, with a hand gently touching his automatic rifle.

I stood my ground, looking at him wide-eyed, unsure of what he was about to do. He stopped within two meters of where I was standing.

"Sir, you need to come with me," the soldier said. He was almost a foot taller than I was, his skin was straight up ebony, and he was well built under his uniform. His voice was slightly muffled behind his clear mask.

"We need to get you a mask, immediately."

"Um...ok." I said.

I walked with the soldier as we weaved our way through the chaos. Some people were plodding around aimlessly in a daze; others were arguing with whomever they could find in a uniform. One lady threw her mask to the ground and yelled, "Fuck the mask! The fuck is this supposed to do?!" I was at the soldier's side like a shy child clinging to his parent.

Eventually, we approached a mobile NHC booth, right in the middle of 124th Street, between First and Second Avenues. The soldier went away as I stood before a middle-aged Asian lady—she was on the other side of a glassless window. She had on a gray, full-body suit, and a helmet that reminded me of an upside-down fish bowl.

"Sir, how many masks do you need?" the lady asked.

"Two." I said.

My throat was dry, and I was already sweating. It was a very hot morning, typical for late July. The lady reached behind her and retrieved two clear masks. She placed one on the counter in front of her and handed me the other.

"Put it to your face," she said.

I touched my face with the mask and it made a suction sound. I jumped a little. The edges had clung to my jaws, there was a little hiss, and that was it—I was breathing filtered air.

"Now, if you want to take it off, you simply grab both sides and squeeze. Only take it off in private, or when you know the status of everyone in your household. You see that building across the street?" She pointed to an apartment building. It had an arched entranceway that led to a courtyard. "Go there to get tested. Once you know your status, go home and await further instructions. Good luck."

She handed me the other mask and I was on my way.

I crossed the street, and people were walking briskly without rhyme or reason. They looked as if they had had their lives ripped right out from under them. There was an animated soldier right in the middle of it all. Compassionless, and as loud as he could, he yelled, "Keep it moving! Keep it moving!" There was also a small Black child who clung to her mother as they both sat on the curb. The daughter was crying in loud sobs; the mother was trying to comfort her. The mother was saying, "It's ok, baby. It's ok."

Once in the courtyard, I entered the line. There were a few hundred people in front of me, but the line moved swiftly and grew behind me at a steady clip. At the front were two NHC workers, flanked by armed soldiers. They were testing people with breathalyzers, just as my father had described.

The guy in front of me turned around. He flashed me a warm smile.

"Hey there, fella. Crazy day, right?"

The guy spoke with a country twang. He was about 5'6", with a heavily freckled face and sunburned skin. His hair was red, and it contrasted against his dark gray security guard's uniform. I assumed he must have moved to New York from somewhere down south.

"Yeah," I said. "How the hell did this happen so fast?"

"I don't know, fella. I woke up this morning and watched the news like everyone else. All hell has broken loose everywhere. They're already rioting in some parts of the world." The Southerner shook his head and let out a little laugh. "Well, at least the soldiers are keeping it in check here."

I looked at him, dumbfounded by his upbeat attitude. Then I thought, _well, if he watched the news, he has a better idea of what's going on_.

"What did the news say about this thing? What the hell is it?" I asked.

The Southerner gave me an unbelieving look.

"You don't know?" he said. I gave him a look that said: _Of course, I don't fucking know_ _!_ Then he took a deep breath and began.

"Well, it didn't start this morning; it was just revealed to the public this morning. It's some kind of man-made virus. It's airborne, and at first, it had spread through exhaled smoke. Cigarette smoke, weed smoke, nutmeg smoke, you name it. Now, they say you can catch it by simply breathing other people's air."

I looked at him as if he had an ass for a head and he just farted.

"What?" I said.

"Yeah, I know. It's crazy. The news said it feeds off carbon monoxide in the blood. If you're a smoker, once it goes active, you're supposed to die quick. If you're a non-smoker, you might live a little longer, about a month or so, but you're still gonna die. The cancer cells generate in the lungs. They restrict your ability to breathe. There's no cure for the thi..."

"I know," I said, cutting the guy off.

In New York City alone, a person ran into a cloud of smoke at every turn. Walking on the sidewalk. Being around family and friends. Hanging out in public, period. I had read an article in the _New York E_ a few months prior. It stated that there were some 3.5 billion smokers worldwide out of a population of 10 billion humans. My father was a smoker, so was my brother and one of my sisters. I didn't smoke cigarettes, but damn sure smoked weed on occasion (when I was around my roommates it was unavoidable). I thought to myself, _if this thing spreads through breathing and smoke, it has touched not just everyone in my family, but also virtually everyone on the planet_ _._

I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

A lady walked by. She had just received her result, and it was not good. Her face was frozen in a mask of shell shock, and she stared ahead as if she were a zombie. She muttered, "It's the end of the world. The end of the world. The end of the world..." She repeated this over and over as she left the courtyard for the street.

Then my attention turned toward the front. A man was taking the test and we were close enough to see everything. He was instructed to remove his mask and breathe into the funnel. The man hesitated for a moment, and then he did what was asked.

After a few seconds, a red "Positive" flashed on the acrylic screen up top.

"We're sorry, sir. You are positive. Please return home as soon as possible and await further instructions," the worker said. But the man wasn't having it.

"Fuck that! Fuck that! You did this. You knew. You're letting us all _die_ _._ Goddamn you all to hell!"

The man pulled a small pistol from under his shirt, but before he could get a good aim, the soldiers opened fire. The man took a shot to each side of his chest. The gun flew from his hand. He did a half-turn as if trying to run, but instead, he crumpled to the ground. Everyone in the line scattered, the Southerner and I included. Panicked people screeched like wild monkeys. Kids began to cry. It was hell on top of hell.

Two soldiers stepped in and dragged the dead man away by his feet. The other soldiers had us surrounded. Our exit through the courtyard was blocked.

Quickly, the soldiers corralled us back in line as if we were livestock. After a few minutes, we were all in the same place as before.

The NHC workers were still flushed. Their cheeks were red, their eyes were wide, and the breathalyzers shook violently in their hands. But they had gathered enough of their composure to continue. The one on the left adjusted his mask with his free hand. Once the mask was in place, he took three deep breaths, he stood upright, then he calmly called, "Next."

The Last Trip Home

**I was lucky,** blessed, whichever you like to call it. My result came up green. I was immune.

After the test, I returned to Julie's apartment. And as I made the short trip back, I couldn't stop shaking. I had never seen a dead person before other than at a funeral. So to see some poor bastard gunned down like that, even if he had it coming, well, it was just...damn.

Julie had moved from the living room floor. When I entered the bedroom, she was lying in the bed with a hollow expression on her face. I stood at the door and asked if she wanted to go and get tested. I told her that I would come with her.

She looked at me. Her eyes came to life. She gave me a stare that said: _No, you asshole._ Then her gaze emptied once more.

That was the last time Julie paid me any attention. From then on, she stayed in bed and watched television in silence. She didn't pay attention to anything on the screen. Likely, it was just something for her to see. She only left that bed for two reasons: to go to the bathroom, or to get something to eat and drink from the kitchen.

My time that night was split between trying to call my family and watching the news.

I couldn't reach anyone on Julie's phone or my PCD. There was only a buzz for every number. A buzz for my parents, a buzz for my brother, a buzz for all my sisters, a buzz for my cousin, Bruce, in Toronto; for everyone I called, there was only a buzz, buzz, fucking _buzz_!

The news was more fruitful. It explained the nature of the virus and confirmed what the doomed Southerner had told me (He wasn't immune, and the vanishing of his chipper attitude was drastic. He burst into a fit of tears and ran away before I could say a word to him.). The news explained how the virus had spread worldwide. Correspondents were swamped on every continent, either conducting interviews or giving eyewitness accounts. The news explained that if one was immune, one didn't have to wear the mask. And people were stranded unless they walked, biked, or had their own vehicle. Public transportation was done for.

I slept on the couch that night. I tried sleeping with Julie, but it was way too strange. Around 11pm, I had cut the television off. And in response, Julie walked to the wall and pressed the button to cut it back on—when she could have commanded it on with her voice. Then she returned to bed and resumed her blank stare.

I grabbed my pillow and left without saying a word.

On the couch, I made up my mind. I was going to my parents. They were the only members of my family close enough. Usually, I would take the commuter train, but that obviously wasn't an option. I thought of how to get to Long Island and a host of other things while lying in the dark. I might have gotten two hours of sleep.

***

In the morning, I pleaded with Julie to come with me. I told her it would be best if we were around others, and tried to convince her that we shouldn't be apart. But talking to my girlfriend at that point was useless. I might as well have been talking to the air.

After an hour of useless lobbying, I made a sandwich-sign; packed a book bag full of clothes, toiletries, and food; promised Julie I'd return; and I left.

I was pissed as I exited the building. I shoved the front door open, and it nearly knocked me out cold when it swung back in place—my hands caught it just in time. I stormed down First Avenue, muttering curse words and other nonsense aloud. We all handle grief differently, but I felt that Julie had no right to shut down the way she did.

***

My sandwich-sign read:

HEADED TO SOUTHAMPTON TO BE WITH DYING PARENTS!

I made it from some of Julie's art material. It was a poster board for my front side, another one for my back side; and both were scribbled with permanent marker and held together with duct tape.

I made as far as Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn before anyone had cared to stop. By that point, I had been on the move for five hours. I was agitated, sweaty, and numb with dejection. I must have looked as haggard as I felt. As haggard as that Christian fanatic from the day before.

A horn blew to grab my attention. I turned, and it was a navy blue Mercedes. A tinted window rolled down and a cloud of smoke escaped. Then the voice of a female asked, "You need a ride?"

***

"She wouldn't say anything?" asked Eliza Goldberg.

"No," I said. "Julie looked at me once and that was it. Everything else was a void. Gone. I don't know what to do. At least she's not shitting on herself. Thank goodness for that, but still..."

Richard, Eliza's husband, burst into laughter. Loud and inappropriate laughter. He let go of the steering wheel and we swerved onto the right shoulder. But the sound of tire hitting sandstone snapped him back to focus.

"How long are you going to stay at your parents before you go back for her?" Eliza said. She took a pull from her Marcee cigarette. The inside of the car was a fog. I could barely see her or anything else.

"I don't know...a day or two," I said. "If she's still in that damn stupor of hers, I'll see if I can drag her by force."

"Well, hopefully, she will be alright by the time you get to her," Richard said. He had grabbed another pre-rolled joint from the silver case on the dashboard. He held the joint in his right hand. "Having my wife with me is the only thing that makes this bearable. This is not a time to be alone."

"I tried," I said.

"Well, whatever you do with yourself, Martin, make sure not to take your life for granted," Eliza said, while lighting the joint for her husband. "Richard and I were so busy at our boutique. We always believed we'd have time for a family. And now look. We won't live to see thirty-five."

Richard passed me the joint. I took it, pulled a long drag, and held it in my lungs for a few seconds. I exhaled, and the only thing I could see was a gray-white cloud. Richard had his window cracked, but I had no idea how he could see to drive.

"I know I should be upset, but I don't feel angry. I don't feel angry at all," Richard said, while taking the joint back from me. "If anything, it's all put in perspective now. God is wiping most of us out, but it is all part of a bigger plan."

"But the virus is man-made," I said.

"We don't know that for sure," Richard countered. "And even if so, it's God's will that it was carried out. No one could carry out such a thing as this without His will."

My head slumped on the leather seat. My mind was swimming. I was lost. Lost in the gentle swaying of the Mercedes, lost in Richard's powerful statement, lost in the toxic atmosphere, and lost in the high that made the toxic atmosphere tolerable.

"I enjoyed my life," Eliza said. "I enjoyed living on this Earth, and most of all, I enjoyed my husband. I thank God for him every day. And I'll thank God for him every day we have left."

I couldn't see Richard's face, but he certainly must have been beaming. I felt a vague sense of jealousy and admiration for him.

Every now and then, I'd look outside, and I had to cup my hands between the window and my face to see. We were on Highway 27, headed east, and we were in one of the few vehicles traveling in-island—everyone else was heading toward the city and mainland. Among them were a few hitchhikers and bicyclists. They were traveling with whatever possessions they could carry. And they reminded me of the street messengers I used to see in the city.

An assortment of government vehicles were on patrol, keeping things in order. There were green military Humvees, Nassau County police cruisers, NYPD police cruisers out of jurisdiction, and many more. For a second, I was paranoid because of the marijuana, then common sense prevailed: _No one gives a shit about drugs right now!_

Overhead, there were news copters and private aircraft. The news copters were hovering in place; the private aircraft were flying one way or the other.

***

We arrived in Southampton around 6pm. Richard pulled the Mercedes to the side of the road and we all got out, right where Montauk Highway turned into Hill Street. As we stood in front of the car, I gave the Goldbergs my thanks and wished them the best. They asked if I was sure I didn't want a ride the rest of the way. I told them, no thank you, and that they had been troubled enough.

They both took turns giving me a hug—we were all saturated with the smell of smoke—and Richard told me to keep with God. I told him that I'd do my best, and that I'd keep them in my memories and prayers.

As I walked down Hill Street, the couple held each other and watched. They watched me as if I was the child they would never have. It was sad and unnerving. I turned, gave them one last wave, and then made a right on Captains Neck Lane.

***

The little shops and food stands along Dune Road were closed, but other than that, things were normal. There wasn't a policeman or a soldier in sight, and a few locals were out for the afternoon.

One man, in a white T-shirt and jean shorts, was walking his Collie along the beach. The dog made a break for a seagull that was close, but the owner held her back with an effortless tug of the leash. I tried to gauge the man's mood, but couldn't tell what he was thinking. His face was vacant as he and his dog strolled by.

Farther along, an old couple was jogging in the opposite direction. They both had on matching, navy-blue sweat suits on a blazing hot day. Both were drenched in their own perspiration and both looked ridiculous. As we passed, the two flashed me cordial smiles.

There also was a sandy haired lady; she was well into her thirties. She was dressed in overalls, and she was washing her gold-colored, drop-top convertible in her driveway. The car glistened in the sunlight, and there was a rainbow in the water spray from the hose. And the woman had a contented smile on her face

That walk and everything along it was a complete contrast to the barely contained hell of the city.

***

After half an hour, I spotted Mr. Kingston, my parents' neighbor, in his front yard. He was standing on a stepladder, clipping his bushes. I approached him, happy to see the first familiar face.

"Mr. Kingston!" I said.

He stopped trimming and turned toward me. He shaded his eyes with his left hand. The afternoon sun was a bastard.

"Martin," he said. "It's good to see you, young man."

"It's good to see you too, sir."

Mr. Kingston stepped down from the ladder and came to stand in front of me. I took a good look at him. He was old, older than my father who was sixty-seven. His skin was damn near orange in hue, wrinkled, and covered with liver spots. However, his face was friendly, and he _oozed_ earnestness. He was wearing a soaked, white linen shirt, with khaki shorts and dark leather sandals, and he had on a wide straw hat. He flashed me a bright, dentured smile.

"Have you seen my parents, Mr. Kingston?" I said.

"I saw them yesterday. We were at the clinic together. You must know their status by now. I'm sorry for your eventual loss, young man," he said.

He lowered his gaze and exhaled dramatically.

"Thank you, Mr. Kingston," I said. "Are you..."

"Yes," he said. "I'll be joining my wife soon, and I am counting the days. The only thing left for me to do is keep my place tidy and enjoy the beach." He tilted his head and paused for a moment. "I felt my wife and I were cursed because we couldn't have children. But now, I believe we were the lucky ones." His lips quivered as he finished.

I was at a loss for words. What could I possibly say to a man who is waiting for the end?

His wife had died a couple of years before. She had been in a car accident while leaving Shelter Island. Mr. Kingston was devastated, and my parents took it upon themselves to help him through. They invited him to dinner every evening for over three months. Then one day, Mr. Kingston declined, and never came to dine with my parents again. He might have talked to my father occasionally if they met on the beach or in their yards, but that was it.

"What about you, Martin?"

"I'm immune, sir."

I said it as if I were guilty of something. Couldn't help it.

"Praise God," he responded, and I gave him a perplexed look. To my knowledge, Mr. Kingston had been a devout Atheist. "You have been given a gift, young man. I hope you plan to do good things with it. Make sure your life means something."

"I'll certainly try, sir."

There was an awkward pause.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go and find my parents."

We shook hands, and then I walked on.

Mr. Kingston watched as I crossed into my parents' lawn. And it was déjà vu on the same day.

***

I rang the bell, and I could hear the chime resonate throughout the house. I stood at the door, anticipating the sound of footsteps at any moment.

After thirty seconds, nothing. Not a thing.

I rang again.

Still, nothing.

Three minutes later, I went to the other side of the house to grab the spare key. It was hidden under a garden figure—a meter-tall, plastic turtle playing a saxophone. My mother spotted the thing at a yard sale one day, and she _had_ to have it. You should have seen her when she took the thing to our car. You would have thought we were bringing home a fountain of youth that poured chocolate.

I opened the front door after struggling a few seconds with the key. The damn thing always gave me trouble.

I stepped inside and looked around.

Everything was in its familiar place. There was the brown marble flooring at my feet, the mahogany dining set to my left, the living room with black leather furniture to my right, and dead ahead were the twin metal staircases that led to the bedrooms and study. Right underneath the second level, where the staircases met at the top, was the digital picture frame that rotated the images of my family. The pictures were in black and white, and we each had big smiles. Beyond the staircases were the kitchen, the entertainment room, and a small bathroom with the door closed. I could also see the rail of the back deck and the horizon of the blue ocean through the patio door.

This was my parents' dream home. They bought it in 2056, after the large estates of Southampton were broken into seaside neighborhoods. As a family, we drove out from Manhattan to spend weekends and large swaths of summer at our getaway house. But as the years went on, my brother and sisters grew older, had families of their own, and moved to different parts of the world; I graduated from high school, found roommates, and began college at NYU; and my parents retired from their jobs, sold their condo in the city, and moved to Long Island to live full-time.

During the holidays, my brother and sisters flew in, and we all stayed together under one roof.

My nieces and nephews, five in total, ran all over the place. My father and brother watched sports in the entertainment room. My mother and sisters had long talks in the living room. And for the most part, I was in my bedroom, either on the phone with a girl or reading a book on my e-reader. (I had no patience for loud kids, no attention span for chatty women, and no interest at all in sports.).

However, when it was dinnertime, we all sat at the mahogany table, and enjoyed our meal as a whole family.

The house was in order, but my parents were gone. So I began to search for clues.

I checked the bulletin board in the kitchen. The board was always a good spot to start. My mother chronicled her life with the thing; she was very meticulous in that way. But when I reached board, it was blank. The thing was as blank as the day it was made. There wasn't even a pushpin. I shook my head in disbelief. It was complete blasphemy.

I went to check the communications console, a wooden desk in the living room with two mobile phone docks and a small screen for video conferencing. It was where my parents had called me from the day before. I figured if anything, someone at least had left a message. But when I reached console, it wasn't functioning. The screen was black and there wasn't a dial tone. Everything was connected properly, but still, nothing.

Next, I went upstairs to my parents' bedroom. As I walked through the door, the motion detector turned the lights on. And inside, the room was neat. Professionally neat. As if no one had ever slept there. The large, blue quilted bed; the handsome, hard-plastic furniture; and the neat pictures on the walls. It was all so very perfect.

All except for one thing.

It was a piece of paper, half-tucked under the pillows on the left side of the bed.

I walked over, grabbed the suspect object, then I unfolded it. It was a note, written in my mother's handwriting:

To anyone who finds this,

_Donald and I are out to sea. We took the_ Voyager Jacob _to spend our final days sailing the Atlantic. It was what we had always wanted. To our friends, we thank you for being in our lives. You have made our years here in Southampton so memorable. To our children and grandchildren, we will miss you so much, and wish we could have seen you again. But it is fitting that we remember each other for the best of times, and not for what has fallen upon our family. To those who may survive, never forget the proud people you came from. Carry the torch forward, and represent us well in your hearts and in your actions. For the last time in this life,_

Olivia Jacob

July 29, 2068

I put the letter down and sat at the edge of my parents' bed. They took the sailboat. They took the damn sailboat and couldn't have waited two days for me to see them one last time.

I felt alone. Small. Abandoned. The other members of my family were in different countries. There was no chance to see them. I accepted that. But my parents were a day away. They had to have known. They had to have known I would come for them, and still, they left. My last chance to see another Jacob in this life was gone.

***

I ate the food my parents had left behind. There was enough for me to prepare a simple meal of spaghetti. I took two bottles of wine from my father's stash in the basement. One was a Riesling from Germany; the other was a Chardonnay from Mexico. I also slept in my parents' bedroom. I'd always wanted to sleep in their plush, king-sized bed, and the reasoning was clear: _It's either now or never._

In the bed, I watched television. And of course, the news was the only thing on. In Tokyo, the police were overrun by mobs and the city had devolved into anarchy. The same thing was happening in Tehran, London, Paris, Beijing, and Buenos Aires. Every few minutes, a government announcement interrupted the broadcast. The announcement listed the locations of emergency distribution centers. The wine put me to sleep around midnight.

***

I woke in the still light of dawn, took a shower, did the dishes, and straightened whatever mess I had made. I left everything in place, including my mother's note. It was a slim chance, but I figured someone else from my family might show up one day. They would want to know what happened just as I had.

My parents had left their car in the garage, but I didn't take it. Instead, I flipped the sandwich sign over and wrote: _HEADED BACK TO THE CITY TO BE WITH DYING GIRLFRIEND._ I imagined it would be more effective than: _HEADED BACK TO THE CITY TO BE WITH WITHDRAWN GIRLFRIEND_.

Outside, I placed the key back under the turtle, then I walked around the house. While in the back, I took a moment to gaze at the ocean. The surface was blue-gray and vast, and the waves crashed gently against the white sand beach. My parents were out there somewhere, never to return. Solemn reflection overtook me. My old life had vanished so fast.

Mr. Kingston was out on his back deck. He was sitting in a wooden recliner, and he had what looked like a glass of tea in his hand. I waved at him, and he waved back.

I wondered what he was thinking as he watched me on the beach. What was going through that old man's head? But I had no desire to strike up another conversation. Instead, I continued to the street.

Before leaving the block, I turned behind me and took one last look at my parents' house. And in a whisper, I said, "I love you," to the family no longer there.

The Last New York Friend

**When I returned to New York City,** I returned to stay. My attachment to my hometown was strong, and I couldn't think of anywhere else to go. The virus was everywhere. The hell was everywhere. And since everywhere was hell, I thought it'd be best if I stuck to the hell I knew. If my parents had been home, it would have been different. I would have listened to my father, borrowed the car to snatch Julie, and returned with her to Long Island. I'm not saying that things would have been better if it had turned out that way; actually, to see my parents die in front of me...that would have been a lot worse. But still, things certainly would have been different.

Back at Julie's, I resumed calling relatives. And still, no luck when it came to my sisters and cousin. When I dialed their numbers, the buzz of before was replaced with: _Service to this line is no longer available. Goodbye._

It was final. There was nothing more I could do. I'll never know what happened to them or their families.

However, finally, I reached my brother Paul. He actually called me on August 1st. We were elated to hear from each other. We both yelled like children at the sound of the other's voice. This excitement lasted an entire minute, and then we settled into a conversation.

Paul said he had borrowed someone's satellite phone. (Paul was in San Francisco. He was a freelance engineer and was working on a project.). He said he, his wife, Maribel, and son, Travis, were infected. And he said I was the only one he could reach.

I told him I was immune. I told him our parents were infected. And I told him I tried to see our parents, but had discovered that they were out to sea.

Paul was happy for me. He sobbed with joy after hearing that at least one of us was going to be spared. And once again, I felt guilt. Who was I to be so fortunate, if you could call it that? Why did this thing skip over me, while so many others were destined to perish? It made no sense. No sense whatsoever.

Paul was also pleased to hear that our parents were out to sea. He thought it was romantic and fitting for our parents to enjoy the end together, and in such an adventurous way. He was right in the middle of explaining how he secured rations for his family when the line went dead.

My network had chosen that moment to shut down. I screamed at my PCD. It took everything in me to refrain from throwing the damn thing against the wall. That was it for talking to my loved ones.

***

On the morning of August 4th, I discovered Julie dead. She had hanged herself from the living room ceiling while I was asleep. She had used the belt from her lavender robe, and had tied it to a wooden beam. She had kicked one of the dining chairs out from under her. It was on the floor, lopsided, a meter from her feet. She was naked. Her smooth and slightly plump body was naked. I couldn't see her face. Her hair was out of its customary ponytail. It was like a drawn curtain.

The night before, I had decided to brave it out and sleep in the bed with her, despite her silence, despite the awkwardness. I wanted to show Julie that I was there, _there for her_ , and that we would get through this.

I knew that I could have handled things better. Leaving her on the floor after the phone call from her mother, getting tested without her, heading to Long Island while leaving her in Harlem alone, sleeping on the couch; it was all so selfish, so inappropriate. I was an _asshole._ Things were off to a terrible start, at a terrible time, and it was my intention to change this. We needed each other. We needed to bounce back. This was what I had wanted her to see.

But the only thing Julie _saw_ was an opportunity. She felt she had lived long enough. That it was time to go. And with me in the bedroom, she didn't have to worry about me interfering. That empty shell of a woman wasn't so empty after all.

I had to stand on the back of the love seat to reach and cut Julie down. She hit the floor with an ungraceful thud, and I was upset at myself for being so careless. I wrapped her body in the Venezuelan spread that she loved so much, I got dressed, and then I carried her out the apartment. I carried her to the elevator, through the hallway, through the lobby, down First Avenue, and all the way to a makeshift drop-off center on 120th Street. I carried her as if we were newly-weds. She was as heavy as a sack of lead, but her weight and my comfort was of no concern.

Julie was a great. She was a great daughter and sister. She was a great friend and artist. She was a great lover. And she damn sure was a great cook. She was a beautiful person, inside and out. She didn't deserve for it to end like this.

Julie Silver, dead at 23.

***

After the drop-off, I returned to Julie's apartment, and it didn't feel right the moment I stepped through the front door. The only thing that came to mind was: _This is my girlfriend's place. This is my DEAD girlfriend's place. I have got to get the fuck out_! So I packed a duffle bag full of essentials—some clothes, soap and deodorant, underwear and socks, and my e-reader—then I left.

I didn't bother to go to Soho. There was nothing of value there, and it seemed inappropriate. I regret that decision now. I should have at least tried to see my roommates. Jack Goodman, Dominique Worthington, and Steve Peterson might have been potheads, but they were good-natured potheads, and they were also my friends. They had disappeared from my life like so many others: without a word, without a trace.

***

It hadn't taken long for the chaos to finally breakthrough in New York. For the first few days, when I still lived with Julie, martial law held. The security was stifling in Manhattan, and rationing stations had been set up in the middle of city blocks like street fairs. I had to wait in long lines, but eventually, I was able to obtain food and supplies and return to the apartment with little trouble. But by August 2nd, things started to turn for the worst.

So many people were infected, and the virus didn't discriminate. Police officers, soldiers, politicians, rich people, poor people; the virus touched them all in one way or another. It spared the few who were immune while everyone else was doomed. And when you have a scenario where most people are going to die, could you really expect things to be held together? Could you fault a police officer for not protecting citizens, when he or she had a condemned family? Could you blame a soldier for quitting and returning home, if he or she was infected and wanted to be with the ones who mattered most? Could you sustain anger at a politician for losing interest in his or her leadership, when there would soon be no country, state, or city to lead? It's hard to imagine how someone could. And like a chain that was broken, government collapsed at all levels.

As the government collapsed, the barely contained hell became uncontained hell. According to some of the stories I heard, many prisoners were rounded up from their cells and executed. They were systematically gunned down, regardless of their sentence, if they were deemed a significant threat. But for every prisoner killed, several were released into the public. And these criminals, as well as maddened, everyday citizens, began terrorizing the city.

For most of these thugs, there was no future and there was no restraint—a very bad combination. New York became a playground for looting, robbing, rape, and murder. If people were not predators, they were prey; and if they couldn't defend themselves, that was too bad.

Faced with the prospect of starvation and vulnerability to violence, many people formed into militias, and other groups and gangs. These makeshift communities, made up of the infected and non-infected alike, tried to maintain order the best they could.

The day Julie died, I joined one of the militias. I ran into a few of their patrollers as I was making my way to midtown. They called themselves The Last Standers, and their leader was Eric Wu, a former NYPD sergeant.

We were a thousand strong in the beginning, and every capable man or woman was assigned a role. We had patrollers who combated the criminals and rescued who they could; we had foragers who went into apartments, gathered supplies, and scouted where we were to sleep on a given night; we had childcare providers who watched over the children (many of these children were abandoned and rescued by our patrollers); we had commissaries who arranged our food and administered our supplies; and we had body removal who buried the dead whenever we ran across them.

I was assigned to body removal. We had a unit of sixteen men and four women, and we rode in a NYPD truck, a flatbed barricade transport. We wore hazmat suits that used to belong to one government agency or another, and four armed men guarded us with automatic rifles. After we had gathered enough of the dead, we took them to different parks, dug trenches, and buried them. Our most frequent site of burial was Sheep Meadow in Central Park.

It was very hard work. We worked sunup until sundown with an hour lunch (if we could stomach to eat), and three thirty minute breaks. I used to love lunch and break time with a passion. I was only twenty-two years old, but my body had the aches of a man much older. Clearly, it was never my calling to do hard labor.

My first few days, the deaths we encountered were from suicide and violence. New York had no shortage of tall buildings. Jumpers were everywhere. And they were a broken and bloody mess. The deaths by violence were both diverse and disturbing. I remember an old couple from Battery Park City who we found tied, gagged, and knifed up. Their apartment was smashed pretty bad, and their food and valuables were gone.

I remember a young family of five from Hell's Kitchen who were murdered down to the infant. Husband, wife, young twin boys, and baby girl were forced to the floor in order, where they had had their throats slit. The carpet was saturated with spoiled blood, and I was grateful to have a helmet protecting me from the toxic air. It was awful. Three members of our unit quit that day. We also found individuals who were caught in their homes alone, at least two dozen. And often, both the men and the women were raped before they were murdered.

One of the more memorable things we encountered was the aftermath of a Kool-Aid party. It was at Club Pictures on 27th Street, between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. There were over five hundred and forty partygoers, and they all had had a last night out.

From the evidence, they had one hell of a time. There was an abundance of cigarette butts, drug refuse, bottles of alcohol, panties, and sex paraphernalia scattered throughout the venue. But for the grand finale, they all had drunk cyanide laced punch from champagne glasses.

It took us the entire day to clear out that club. The true tragedy was these people were beautiful, and in life, they had everything going for them. There were women who were obvious runway models. There were professional athletes whom anyone could have recognized from watching television. And there was even a famous star couple: Selma York and Gerald Lacoste.

Selma and Gerald were known for their tabloid headlines. You could hardly visit a newsstand or browse a newsfeed without reading something of this handsome couple. And now, here I was, removing their bodies. I have to hand it to them, though. They went out in style. They both were dressed in thousand dollar outfits. Gerald's cologne was hypnotic through my unfastened helmet, and Selma's makeup was perfect, even in death.

***

My last best friend in New York was David Patrov, a light-skinned man from the Republic of Oregon, with a medium height and build and a Harvard education. He was thirty, and had lived in Manhattan for five years. He was a classic Big Apple bachelor. He worked for one of the Chinese conglomerates on Wall Street as a negotiator, and he used to broker seven-figure deals with produce and commodities vendors. He boasted that he worked hard and played even harder. He said that his down time included frequent clubs, frequent vacations, frequent drugs, and very frequent women.

I liked David, not because of his enviable lifestyle, but because of our similarities. He was a mutt just as I am. Both our mothers were Black and our fathers were Jewish. The distinct difference is his father was from Russia, while my father was a native New Yorker. He also came from a big family. He had five sisters and three brothers. Three of his siblings stayed close to home, while the rest lived in different parts of the globe. And out of all his siblings, he was the only one who had yet to have children.

David said he was in his home the morning the news broke. He had left work early the day before, and was prepared for a flight to his hometown, Portland, at three o'clock that Saturday afternoon. When he learned that the virus was going to touch everyone, he tried calling his family; and like me, like billions of others, he couldn't reach anyone.

Naturally, David was frantic. He went outside to get tested; and he was blown away by the scene. It was similar to what I saw: people in masks; soldiers and police throughout the crowd; plus utter confusion and drama from his neighbors.

He came up immune. Then he returned home, condensed his possessions to one suitcase, and set out for LaGuardia Airport, despite martial law.

He had to walk there. It took him several hours to make it through midtown, over the Ed Koch Bridge, and through Queens. Soldiers and police were everywhere, but they didn't stop anyone from coming or going. They were only concerned with keeping order.

The airport was barricaded upon David's arrival. But that didn't deter him one bit—him or a few thousand others. The sizable crowd protested that they should be allowed to fly out of town. But the line of East American Soldiers, State Troopers, and NYPD held fast.

Eventually it grew hostile. Someone from the crowd threw a bottle of lye on one of the soldiers, and a storm of violence ensued.

The crowd rushed forward, and the line of defense opened fire. People fell all around David, either succumbed to rubber bullets, or stunned by sonar rays. The crowd reversed direction and scattered as best they could; but as the crowd retreated, many were trampled. David said he was helpless as he and hundreds of others were forced to step on and over the fallen. It was a matter of survival. To stop was to fall and die; to keep forward was a chance to live.

After a few terror-filled minutes, David escaped the danger. Then he returned home, shaken but intact.

A couple of days later, David finally heard from his sister, Calina. She said everyone was infected except for a few of his nieces and nephews. Calina said she drove to Portland from Los Angeles to see their parents, their brother, and two of their sisters. She also said they all planned to stay under one roof, likely at their parents, to wait out whatever happened. David told his sister he was immune, and he explained what had happened at the airport. Brother and sister talked for over half an hour. And then the phone went dead.

David said he couldn't reach anyone after that, and he became depressed. Portland was too far. He didn't know how to get there, or what to expect once he made it. So he remained in his home. He watched the news, did a lot of sleeping, did a lot of crying, and only went outside once to get a round of food rations on August 1st. David stopped showering, he stopped shaving, and he was completely absorbed into his dark thoughts. He even contemplated suicide, but couldn't quite take it to that extreme.

David said that his stupor lasted until the night of August 7th. On that night, a group of thugs broke into his building. They were noisy and they were looking for victims. The apartment units had paper-thin walls, their greatest flaw, and David had excellent hearing.

A few neighbors were in their homes as the thugs invaded. Some screamed, some begged, and there were even a few neighbors who fought back, but it was of no use. It always ended with the victims shot, and the monstrous bastards bragging and ransacking afterwards.

Terrified, David improvised and found a way out. He grabbed a set of rope that he had from a rock-climbing expedition. He also grabbed his hunting knife. And he escaped onto his balcony with minutes, perhaps seconds to spare.

He said he leapt from balcony to balcony until he was well on the other side of the building. Then he tied the rope and lowered it to the ground. Fortunately for him, it was only four levels. He climbed down. And once he hit 35th Street, he ran up Second Avenue, with the knife in hand, stoked with adrenaline.

He made it as far as 38th Street before running into a group of our patrollers

***

David and I first met the next day. He was assigned to our unit to replace one of the men who had quit. We were in the middle of clearing an apartment on 91st Street. Inside was a family of four, dead by murder-suicide. He walked through the front door with his hazmat suit on and helmet in hand.

"Hi, I was sent in here by Cody. He said that I was to start with you..."

David's voice tapered as he saw the family. The two children, a boy and a girl, were strangled. They were slumped on the opposite ends of the couch. The mother was in between them. She was against the back of the couch, with a kitchen knife plunged deep into the left side of her chest. And the husband was on the floor. He had shot himself in the left temple with a .22 caliber. He was sprawled before the family he had slain.

And just like a new guy, David ran to a corner and began to puke.

A couple of men laughed, while others sighed in irritation. But I watched the new guy, and I felt a tinge of sympathy.

We removed the two children while David gathered his nerves in the hallway. He cursed to himself, and drank water from a bottle and spit, trying to remove the aftertaste. One man teased him as he was hunched over. "Toughen up, Mocha! It's going to be a long day." And David gave the man the middle finger as we walked down the hall.

By the time we came back in for the adults, David was standing by the husband's feet, helmet on and ready to assist. I walked to the corpse's arms, and together we lifted and carried.

"Most of us throw up on the first day," I said.

"I bet like hell you do!" retorted David.

"I know. It's hard. But trust me, after a while it becomes a job like any other."

He gave me a scornful look. His eyes were intense and bloodshot red through his visor.

"A job? This isn't a damn job," he said. "This is a nightmare. And somehow we're all stuck to live in it. I had a _real_ job. Do you know what I would be doing right now? I would be in a conference call, trying to close a deal with some Soybean farmer in Midland. I would have had that Arab hick hook, line and sinker, eager to undersell a season's worth of crop for sixty-five cents on the dollar. And when we were done, my partners and I would have gone to Capital Grille for steaks and a bottle of Combs 16 to celebrate. Now that, my friend, was a _job_!"

I could tell he was envisioning a juicy slab of beef and a glass-full of champagne as he spoke.

"It's not good to think of what you _would_ have been doing," I said.

And despite myself, I had a vision of me in Southampton, out on the beach. I was sitting in a lawn chair, watching the waves crash and drinking a Budweiser. Julie was with me. She was wearing her red tinted shades, the pair that covered half her face. She had on a skimpy bathing suit, and her skin was layered in sunscreen. It was a sunny day without a worry in the world. The following week, I was to show up in Stamford, Connecticut to begin lesson prep. I was to begin my first year as a History teacher for a private school.

"So what should we think about?" David said. "What type of life do you think we're going to have now?"

"I don't know..." I paused for a few seconds to gather my thoughts. "I suppose we have to let these bodies bottom out, get a hold of these bad guys, and see what we have left. But one thing is for sure. I am an optimist for my city. At some point, things will get better. Good people will find their way here. And when they do, we'll make something out of New York...out of our lives. It won't be what it used to be, but it'll be something.

"My family is gone, my girlfriend is gone, my old life is just fucking gone. But I live for some reason. Whatever that reason, I intend to put it to good use....That's something we all should do."

David didn't say anything. We carried the body down the two flights of stairs and to the truck in silence. Four men were standing on the passenger side of the payload, chatting and taking a breather. So far, we had eighteen bodies in the back of the truck. Usually, we went to the dumpsite when our total was fifty.

As we turned to go toward the building again, David touched my shoulder.

"I like your attitude," he said. "The world is going to need more men who think as you do."

He took off his right glove and extended his hand.

"My name is David Patrov."

I removed my glove, and shook his hand firmly.

"Martin. Martin Jacob."

The Descent of August

**As August continued,** the situation deteriorated for our militia. The cancer went active around the same time David and I met, and steadily, it began taking its toll.

At first, there was only consistent coughing among the former smokers. One infected member of our unit, or another, suddenly began hacking. In reaction, we all paused to look at him or her with concern. Immediately, the hacker claimed that he or she was fine. And only slightly reassured, we all continued our work.

But the hacking didn't stop.

Within a couple of days, the infected people's skin became pale. The areas around their eyes became dark. The color of their lips became purple. And their bodies grew weak. The infected became bed-ridden. And on August 12th, we had our first death: a man named Ted.

That first death had a profound effect on all of us. It was one thing to know that death was pending, but to actually see it happen, well, it was a turning point. An avalanche. By the end of that day, twenty-six others had died.

As you can imagine, people were stressed, especially the ones who had to see their family members succumb. I remember this one man named Preston, who blew his brains out with a semi-automatic. We were in Windsor Court, in line for dinner, about fifty of us, when without warning, he pulled the gun out from under his shirt and fired under his chin. Plenty of us lost our appetites that day. Preston was immune, but his girlfriend had just died, and his two children were soon to follow. It was simply too much for the man to deal with.

And then there was Abby. Abby had caught some guy smoking a cigarette during our break. Smoking had been forbidden in the Last Standers, it was one of the conditions for joining, but this guy was smoking anyhow. Well, Abby walked right up to this guy. She was very slow when she did it. Then in quick motion, she removed a Glock from her satchel, shot the poor fucker seven times, and turned the gun on herself. At least a dozen of us witnessed this, but once we had caught on to her intent, she had already begun to fire. We were helpless to stop it. The incident did assure one thing, though. No one tried sneaking a cigarette again.

In the beginning, there were other militias and gangs that the Last Standers collaborated with. We pooled resources, we used the same burial sites, we often ate together during breaks, we cooperated to hunt bad guys, and we had even set camp in the same buildings on certain nights. But as the resources ran tight and as the deaths began to mount, those same allies became rivals. Rivals who would just as soon set us up for the kill and take what they could. As a result, we had to keep on the move and watch our backs. And that was a hard thing to do with so many of our people were becoming immobile.

***

All of this became worse when the power gave on August 25th. We had set up camp at an apartment complex in Columbia City, and there were thirteen of us to each unit. (They tried to keep us segregated. Families kept with families, singles kept with singles, children kept with children, and the sick kept with the sick.). My roommates for the night and I were gathered in the living room. We sat in a circle Indian style on the hardwood floor. We had portable dinners heating in the microwave and oven. And some of us were engaged in a rigorous debate.

"We have to get off this island, that's all there is to it. How could you have the gumption to argue otherwise?" said Alicia, a former Physics teacher of Stuyvesant Charter School.

"What? And let the thugs take over? Screw that! If we're going to leave Manhattan, what the hell have we been doing for the past month? We shouldn't go anywhere. We'll expand our numbers and we'll find more food. We just need to tough it out," said Almir, a former taxi driver who used to live in Washington Heights.

"That's bullshit! We're only a few hundred people. There is no food grown here. How are we supposed to survive? Eat the rats? We need to go to New Jersey or Westchester. Somewhere we can plant things. Maybe at some point we can come back here, but not now. We need to go away," said Jharna, an Indian lady who used to work at a kiosk in Times Square.

"If you all want to leave so badly, why don't you just pack your shit and go!" Almir replied.

David and I sat next to each other—we were spectators as the two sides went back and forth. Five were on the side of leaving Manhattan, led by Alicia; and five were on the side of staying, led by Almir. But as passionately as they argued, their fuss didn't matter worth a damn. No one in the room was a decision maker for the militia. It was just a lively form of entertainment to pass the time until we went to sleep.

"She brings up a good point," David said to me in private. "What are we going to do when we run out of food?"

"Find some more. What the hell else are we going to do?" I said.

It was a concern for all of us, though. Long gone were the networks of trucks, planes, ships, and trains that brought supplies into town. The grocery stores were looted, the warehouses were pilfered, and the survivors were either robbing each other or scavenging apartments for whatever they could find.

"Do you think we're going to make it here? Once the weather turns?" David said.

"I don't know," I said. "I hope so. Manhattan doesn't have an infinite supply of stuff, but most people are gone already. At some point, we'll find groups who are willing to cooperate. It's in everyone's best interest. What's the point of going around killing each other? What good is that going to do?"

"I hope you're right."

"I hope I'm right, too."

Suddenly, there was a plink, then darkness.

Everything stopped—the conversation, the microwave, my breathing.

I couldn't see a thing, but I could feel the unease. Then voices of concern rose from the other rooms as people began to panic.

"Oh, shit...not good. Not good," said David.

I heard Alicia say, "See, this is why we can't stay in Manhattan. What the hell are we supposed to do without power? Huh? We're fighting for a lost cause."

"Shut the hell up!" barked Almir. "No one has time for your goddamn cut and run noise right now!"

"Who in the fuck are you telling to shut up?!"

The room erupted into argument, and I couldn't make out a single word. People were clacking away like stressed birds in a coop.

This gaggle went on for thirty seconds before I became annoyed. Carefully, I stood up and headed for the window. I could barely make the rectangular opening out, and I had to feel my way toward it, using my hands as probes and taking deliberate steps.

When I reached the window, I gazed out, and could see the stars and the moon above.

It was beautiful. I had never seen such clarity in the New York night sky. The moon was full, and I could make out the Big Dipper, Orion, and Cassiopeia constellations. It was bright. So bright, I could see the rooftops of Harlem below.

There was a loud knock at our door. It grabbed my attention, everyone's attention. Then someone abruptly entered our room.

"Is everything alright in here?!"

It was Wesley, one of Wu's top lieutenants. His booming voice echoed into absolute hush.

"Yes. Everyone is fine, sir," Almir answered, in a meek voice.

"Ok. Everyone sit tight. We're going to find lights. I'll be back soon."

Then he was gone, as suddenly as he entered.

No one had anticipated the power going out so soon. SkyCharge, our energy system, went down a few days after Awareness Day, but as a safety net, automated generators on the ground had kicked in. The generators were supposed to last five months to give people time to get the primary system up and running. Whatever plans we had as a militia, it was dependent upon having that power. Perhaps someone had tampered with it. Perhaps there was no one to maintain it. Regardless, the Tri-State area and who knows where else was now thrust back into the dark ages. Literally.

***

It didn't take long for the _worse_ to begin. That same night, as we were trying to get some sleep and worry about our troubles in the morning, David tapped me on the shoulder with urgency.

"Marty! Marty! Wake up! You need to see this!" he whispered.

I had fallen asleep not too long ago, and wasn't happy to be bothered.

"What! What the hell do you wan..."

I fell silent once I realized I could see. The room was awash in a dull, orange light, flooding through the window like an invading spirit. Confused, I pushed the covers off, stood, and followed David to the window. We had to take careful steps to avoid those sleeping on the mats at our feet.

After half a minute, we reached the window together and we both gazed out.

"Oh my God," I gasped.

Harlem was on fire below us. The rooftop gardens, a signature of the neighborhood, burned like torches; and the fire was leaping from building to building with the wind. Plumes of dark smoke highlighted with orange edges escaped upward and blocked out the night sky. There was a low but broad rumbling noise, along with occasional crackles and pops, which traveled all the way to our window. The blaze was vast, engulfing the grid of blocks as far as the eye could see. Even Julie's old building, four or five kilometers on other side of the island, was on fire.

"What the fuck are they doing down there?!" said David. His voice was excited. "Why are they burning the place?"

More people stirred out of their sleep, and in no time, the window was crowded. We had to jostle for position, but eventually we settled into an order to take turns looking. And just as David and I, the rest of our roommates were in awe of what they were seeing.

***

At daybreak, every able-bodied person was gathered in the courtyard, around three hundred in total. You could see the frustration on people's faces. You could see the fear as well. The air had the smell the smoke and cinder from the burning of Harlem, and the fire still raged into the day. Our complex was safe from the blaze because we were on top of Morningside Hill, but the Last Standers were no less anxious.

The crowd had been gathered for half an hour before our leader appeared. He emerged from the apartment building, wearing a navy blue, button-down shirt, with jeans that were faded and tight to his legs. He walked swiftly and had a stern look on his almost perfectly round face—the look of a man who meant business in everything he did. He was flanked by seven of his lieutenants. And he had a loudspeaker in his left hand.

A meter-tall box was to serve as a makeshift platform. Once Eric Wu was there, he was helped on top of it. We all formed a semi-circle in front of him.

Once we were settled, he began.

"Morning, Last Standers."

Wu paused to gauge our mood, and the mood was shitty. Grunts of disapproval and sneers echoed throughout. One man, a heavyset White guy to my left, spit a big loogie on the ground. Then he said, "That's my fucking morning for you right there." Nope. The crowd wasn't happy at all.

"I know you are frustrated," Wu continued. "I'm frustrated as well. My wife and child are in that apartment building behind me, they are bedridden on cots, and they don't have long. So I understand your anger, because it's my anger. I understand your fear, because it's my fear. I didn't ask for this. None of us asked for this. But _this_ is the hand we are all dealt. Getting upset and panicking will do us no good. SO HOLD YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!"

People cowered at the sudden force of his voice. Even the guy who had spit backed up a step or two. After giving us all a menacing stare, Wu went on.

"Ok. So here's what we're going to do. We're going to go downtown and set up our permanent base. Our scouts have found a building in Chelsea. It's nice and spacious. We will set up an infirmary and have a consistent place to operate from. Enough with all of this moving around.

"Now, as far as power, we are working on a plan. We were blindsided by this. It's a bit complex. So I'm asking for you to have a little patience. We will have to use generators, surplus batteries, candles, anything we can find. And that'll have to do for the time being.

"Considering what we're going through, we've done an excellent job so far. These are impossible circumstances. Unimaginable hardships. And we're persevering. You should all be proud. Let's continue to do what we have to, and things will turn for..."

"I say we get the hell out of Manhattan while we can! This place is nothing but a death trap without power!" yelled some skinny woman right behind me.

"That's right," said Alicia, who was on the opposite side of the semi-circle. "If we go to the mainland, we will stand a better chance. There's nothing for us here."

Almir, who was a few paces to my right, didn't stand for this. His eyes went wide and he shouted, "I say we let the ones who want leave, go! Kick them out of the militia!"

"What? And leave us to die, you selfish asshole?!" Alicia said.

Argument fragmented the gathering, and it was virulent. Almir and Alicia closed in and screamed at each other face to face. Other rivals chose that moment to have it in as well. The bickering soon turned into personal insults. The insults turned into shoving. And within one minute, Eric Wu was watching us all with disgust. His militia was ready to tear itself apart.

Someone threw a punch, and that really did it. Now, we were an all-out Mêlée. David and I were caught in the middle. I was doing what I could to keep some Scandinavian man from beating the shit out of this Spanish kid, while David was breaking up a fight between two ladies. Yes, it was a lovely start to the day. Then we heard a shot.

POW!!!

It was loud and powerful. I could feel the sound as it bounced off the buildings and reverberated across the courtyard. Everyone paused, mid move. Collectively, we searched for and found the shooter, Eric Wu. Smoke was rising from the barrel of his Dunbar pistol.

"NOW EVERYONE CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"

He had everyone's sobered attention. And there was a very dangerous look to him. As if he was going to snap, and fire upon us at random.

"I've had it with the crying and whining about leaving Manhattan. We're not going anywhere. We're not going _any-fucking-where_! I didn't form this group to leave New York. This is the _Last Standers_. If you want to go, feel free to grab a weapon and leave. None of you are forced to stay here. None of you are prisoners. So grab your stuff, God speed to you, and leave the real New Yorkers to stay!"

A few people let out a cheer.

"Now as I said, we're preparing to head to Chelsea, our new home." His stance had softened, if only a little. "I know. It's not good. People are still dying. _My_ loved ones are still dying. It's dangerous. Our food is running low, our vehicles will soon run out of charge, and we won't be as mobile as we used to be. I know—things are stacked against us. But make no mistake about it. We will find resources to survive, we will continue to rescue more people, and we will rebuild this city. If this isn't your cause, then you're in the wrong group. Now let's move out. We have a base to build!"

We were thoroughly pacified. I have to give the man his due. He was a formidable leader.

Satisfied, Wu jumped to the ground from the box and returned to the building. The fighters apologized to each other and tried to explain their actions. Well, most fighters.

Alicia, Jharna, and a few others complained bitterly. They retreated to the building, thoroughly humiliated. And on the other side, Almir and his group were elated. They were practically floating. The case had been settled once and for all in their favor, by the main man himself. And that was the end of it.

***

Our caravan headed south down Broadway at a very slow pace, and we had eight vehicles in total. A deserted East American tank was in our front. Armed men were riding on the top, and they were looking out for any signs of trouble. There were four NYPD Humvees, two on each side, which flanked our outer edges. Wu, his lieutenants, and a few of the patrollers rode in those vehicles. In the middle, there were two buses from NYC Transit. The first bus carried non-combat personnel such as David and I, the children, and their care providers. The second bus carried the terminally ill. The seats were removed and the ill were laid flat. And the vehicle at our rear was the flatbed truck we had used to carry the bodies. There were more armed men riding in the payload now. They sat in a square with their backs to each other. Their guns were pointed toward the buildings. They were guarding against snipers.

I couldn't help comparing the Broadway I used to know to the Broadway I saw that day. The Broadway I used to know was a bustling place. There were retail stores and restaurants, and people were on the sidewalks either dining outside or walking with bags in hand. There were buses, and yellow taxis, and handsome cars, and bicyclists, all humming along at a flow. And there were pleasant pedestrian islands where people relaxed and watched the traffic pass.

Julie and I used to frequent a coffee shop on 84th Street. She used to read paperback books, usually dealing with art; and I had my e-reader, usually on the _New York E,_ or a book dealing with History. The last book I read in that café was: _Empire's End: The Last Days of the United States of America_ by Javier Vasquez. Julie always ordered a blackberry smoothie, even if it was zero degrees outside. And I ordered a coffee, black with two sugars. When we were done, we used to walk down to Columbus Circle. From there, we took a taxi either to her place or to some place downtown.

That was the Broadway I used to know. The Broadway I saw that day, however, was very different.

The glass storefronts gaped, smashed and ransacked. Equipment and furniture from the restaurants spilled onto the sidewalks, as if they had been upchucked from a huge, dark mouth. The pedestrian islands were filled with refuse, and toilet tissue strung down from the tree branches like a sick Halloween prank. And there were stalled and abandoned vehicles to the side of the road. When we encountered them, our caravan stopped. A couple of our men had to scan them for improvised explosives before we continued.

There were no people in sight, but to my left, between one of the flanking vehicles, I happened to see a pit bull emerge from the 96th Street subway station. The dog had a severed human hand in its mouth, no doubt from some abandoned cadaver.

Moments later, we passed the coffee shop on 84th Street. And as expected, it was destroyed. Someone had set it on fire—and now it was only a blackened hull.

Standing Out

**My last day in New York City was Monday,** September 3, 2068. We had been at our base for over a week by that point, and the base itself was nice. It was a luxury apartment building at the corner of 18th Street and Tenth Avenue. The building had only six levels; there were a couple of open spaces on the first floor—one space was used as a nursery for the children, and the other was used as an infirmary for the sick. We were assigned only a few people to an apartment, in the comfortable digs of the former residents. It was also a major relief to know where we were going to sleep every night. But other than those perks, things were miserable.

Our food was either running low or spoiling, our vehicles had ran out of charge, our population had dipped below two hundred, and we were losing our resolve. Over thirty of our members, including Alicia and Jharna, had defected. The seeds of their discontent had grown into revolt, and they had decided to take Wu up on his offer: _Leave the real New Yorkers to stay_.

Speaking of our leader, both his wife and only child had died on the 1st of September, and that had put him over the edge. Wu didn't grieve or become withdrawn. Instead, he yelled at _everyone_ , over _everything_. No one wanted to approach him.

And as for the city, well, my beloved city was an impossible mess by that point. Fires were everywhere. They weren't as severe as Harlem, but they were plentiful enough, and they gave the city a hazy tint. Broken glass littered the streets and crunched under our feet wherever we went. There was a putrid smell to the air as it sweltered with backed up sewage, trash, and death. And some areas were reduced to swamp—the subway system had flooded. The city was a wasteland. Beautiful, majestic, powerful Manhattan had been brought to her knees. And I had the displeasure of seeing it all unfold.

***

It rained that morning. A heavy downpour had begun before sunrise, and it continued into the new day. For breakfast, we were having tough, burnt chicken that hurt our jaws to chew, a paltry portion of oatmeal that was as dry and as tasteless as flour, and glassfuls of rationed rainwater to wash it all down.

Our dining room, an enclosed patio of someone's penthouse triplex, was dimly lit by a solar torch above the door and the gray sky from outside. The rainfall pelted against the glass roof reinforcing our somber mood.

David and I sat next to each other. There were five of us at the rectangular table in total. After breakfast, a group of us was to go hunting. (We no longer concerned ourselves with burying the dead other than our own.) Our scouts had told us wild animals were already roaming throughout the city, and that there was game to be had in Washington Square Park. Whether we believed it or not, we were certainly going to find out. Our options were slim.

"I only went hunting one time in my life," I confessed to David.

He looked at me as if I told him I was a forty year-old virgin.

"What?" he said. "How could you go hunting once and never do it again? Hunting is so much fun!" He picked up his fork. "My father and I used to go to Mt. Rainier Park in my country. I killed an eight hundred pound grizzly bear when I was fifteen years old.

"He was charging right for me, and that big bastard was pissed!" David's face lit up. "I nearly _pissed_ on myself. My father was yelling about thirty meters away. He was yelling, 'Oh God' this and 'Oh God' that, and 'don't let him take my boy!'....The rifle trembled in my hand...I have no idea how I was able to steady it. But I did, and I squeezed the trigger. And big boy was less than ten meters away when he fell! I haven't had a thrill like that since." David chuckled to himself as he finished.

"I killed a deer in Jersey once," I began. "I was twelve years old and my father had dragged me along. He felt I wasn't tough enough as a kid. I always avoided fights and was never into sports. Manhood logic, I suppose...Well, eventually, we found a deer. I aimed. And the creature was looking _right at me_ when I pulled the trigger.

"And as we dragged the deer to our truck, three fawns were watching us in the distance. They were standing behind some shrubs. They were watching as we dragged their mother away.

"I was disgusted. Absolutely disgusted. I told my father I hated him. I didn't talk to him for a week."

"Did you eat the deer?" David asked.

"Hell no!" I said. "But she did get mounted on the wall in my father's study."

David pointed his fork at me. It had meat on it.

"Well, my friend," he said. "In the world we live in now, we have no other choice. We're damn near facing extinction as a specie _s. Extinction_. The animals are probably rooting for us to go. If we disappear, that's one fewer problem they'll have to deal with. They don't give a fuck about us. So why should we give a fuck about them?"

David chewed his food, feeling as if he had made a great point. I didn't bother to give a rebuttal. Instead, I toyed with my god-awful oatmeal. The others at the table were talking about something—I have no recollection of what it was. The rain continued its pelting outside. It rumbled against the roof in loud and innumerous taps.

A commotion downstairs interrupted us.

The talking at the table ceased, and we all looked at each other. We abandoned the breakfast, and hurried into the hallway to see what was going on.

On the floor below us, opposite the foot of the staircase, were a dozen people. They were crowded around a solar-powered radio. We hurried down the stairs to join them.

"What is it?" David asked.

Victor, an Argentinean man with a heavy accent, turned to us and said, "They know who did it! They know who caused the virus. It was some nerds from York Academy!"

We barely understood him, but the expression on his face was as serious as death. We got as close as we could to listen:

"...We all knew Dr. Lin was weird. We all knew he was extreme. But for him to take it this far...unbelievable. In case you missed it, here it is again. It wasn't enough for him to protest. It wasn't enough for him to write books. He had to go and construct a virus in his lab at York Academy. And he's still there, folks! He's still there with a team of cronies. They are still protecting him after all that he has done!

"I could understand that he wasn't a fan of smoking. It's annoying. Ok, that's a fact. But what this guy did...why...it's incomprehensible! And he had the nerve to think that his 'solution' wouldn't get out of hand?

"This guy dined with our President in Hartford. This guy received funding from Congress. Millions of dollars in funding from Congress. Yes, that's right, folks; your tax dollars were used to destroy you! And he's still there. I don't know what he's doing, but he's still there and you can see for yourselves..."

The man kept rambling on and on about Dr. Lin—a Biogenetics professor at York Academy—and how he destroyed the human race. And instantly, I dismissed this guy on the radio as a crazy. How he was able to find a signal and what was his beef with this professor, I had no idea, but for sure, I wasn't buying his ridiculous tale. I was ready to grab my gear for the hunt.

But as sure as I was that this man on the radio was a lying nut, others were certain he was telling the truth. The greatest _who done it_ in history had a suspect, and that suspect was in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side. It was a rumor. It was an _outlandish_ rumor. But that rumor was all that it took.

The word spread fast. Everyone was told of the academy; and blinding, I emphasize, blinding fury overtook the Last Standers. The caretakers for the sick couldn't concentrate. The dying had newfound energy. Hunting for food was no longer the priority. Protection was no longer the priority. Surviving was no longer the priority. Revenge was the only thing that was to rule this day.

For the remaining infected who were still marching toward their demise, for the immune mothers who had to see their children die, for the surviving sons and daughters who had to bury their parents, for the fathers who had to see the only ones they had worked and lived for perish, this was an opportunity for redemption. No one could stop the deaths. No one could bring back their loved ones. But that damn academy was going to fall, and there was to be no mercy shown to those inside.

***

Around 11am, we all were summoned to 18th Street. Everyone who could stand on his or her own feet was there—over a hundred and eighty men, women, and adolescent children. The crowd was unrecognizable. The fury was intense. I had never seen anything like it. Depression had turned into anger. Dignity had turned into anger. Hopelessness and hope, one in the same, had turned into anger. And this crowd was ready. They were ready to march as one monstrous creature, bent on total destruction.

Wu emerged from the building alone this time. His lieutenants were already in the crowd, including the newly promoted Almir. Wu quickly made way to a car that was parked on the street, an abandoned, silver colored two-seater that had been in the same spot since we arrived.

Wu climbed on top of the car with the loudspeaker in his hand, and we all gathered closer. The crowd rumbled in angry anticipation. Once we were close enough, Wu raised his right hand to silence us. The crowd hushed as if someone had pressed a mute button.

"As you all know by now, we have a name and an institution that might have caused our hardships."

Wu paused and looked us over. Someone behind me yelled, "Let's kill em, Wu!" This was followed by a raucous cheer. Wu continued.

"Well, we sent some scouts ahead to this York Academy, and they have returned with news. I was told that there _are_ scientists still there. They _are_ preparing a doomsday device. They _are_ protected by soldiers. And these soldiers have killed _scores_ of people in their defense."

Wu paused again. There were gasps of astonishment followed by howls of outrage. It was one thing to hear a man on the radio; it was another thing entirely to have it confirmed by our leader.

"Well, I'm not afraid of any soldiers. I'm not afraid to die today if it comes to that. We-have-to-fight! We're going to that academy, people. We're going to that academy and we're-going- to- _stop-them_! We're going to stop them before they destroy us _any more_!"

The crowd was rabid with agreement.

"Alright!" Wu concluded. "Weapons will be distributed in the back. We need everyone who is able. Let's move out!"

And with that, the mob was established. If Wu would have come at any other angle, such as keep calm and stay the course, he would have lost his militia, right then and there. However, he did lose me, right then and there. I was disgusted. Disgusted by what I was seeing. It was the dark side of human nature. Blind hatred. Not driven by logic or reasoning, but driven by raw emotion.

It's hard to explain the vigor of my opposition that day. Fate I suppose. But I wanted no part of this—not one bit. It didn't seem right to me. I lost my family and way of life just like the people around me, but still, I couldn't help but think things through. First, why would scientists stay holed inside a building in a dying city; second, possibly neglect their families at such a time of need; and third, fight and kill over some device when the virus has already done its damage? It didn't make any sense. My militia, what was left of it, was going to march into a disaster. And I had to do something.

"Stop!" I yelled. "Stop! You're all making a mistake!"

No one listened. The crowd was on its way, and half were already gone. David tried to stop me. "Marty! Marty! Get your ass back here!" But I wasn't having it. I rushed toward Wu. He was stepping down from the car and barking orders to his lieutenants when I approached him.

"Sir, you're making a mistake," I said. "Innocent people are going to die for nothing, sir!"

Wu turned to me as I continued my plea. "Sir, whatever is going on at the academy, I _highly_ doubt that it has _anything_ to do with the pandemic. That guy on the radio, he was probably some nut who has a grudge. Sir, please! Don't risk everyone's life over a rumor."

I had no idea where I was finding the courage to say this.

Wu raised his hand to silence me. He took three quiet steps to close in on where I was standing, and then we stood face to face. He and I were the same height, and he had to have doubled me in age. But he had a husky build, and he was very imposing up close.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"My name is Martin. Martin Jacob, sir."

"Well, Martin," a very brief smile curled and vanished on the left side of his thin lips, "can you do me a favor, young man?" I raised an eyebrow, eager to hear what he had to say.

"Can you _shut the fuck up_ and let the _leader_ make the decisions?!"

Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that.

Before I could form an expression of surprise, I was yoked by my T-shirt. And Wu had the grip of a gorilla! He was staring into my face. His small nose was flared, his thick eyebrows formed a canyon, and his slightly brown teeth were clenched. He was the _absolute_ look of insanity.

"Listen to me, you piece of shit! You don't come to me doubting my orders! If I say we're going to that school to burn it down, then we're going to that school to burn it down, and we'll ask questions later!"

He let me go. And as I stumbled, he sucker punched me in the left jaw!

I fell to the ground as if I were thrown. A few people were still around to see this, including David. Some felt I had it coming and laughed at me, others gasped in surprise, watching with pity. Wu motioned for one of his lieutenants to hand him the loudspeaker. I looked at the man in complete bewilderment. My jaw was throbbing with pain. Once the loudspeaker was in Wu's hand, he used it.

"Everyone, could you come here for a moment. I need you all to come back for one moment." he said. "I want you all to meet my friend, Martin. Martin Jacob."

The crowd doubled back. They appeared from the side of the building, dozens at a time, curious as to what their leader could possibly want—especially regarding some guy named Martin Jacob. I was on the ground still, taking in the scene, and feeling like a circus animal on display. Once Wu was satisfied with his audience, he lifted his loudspeaker and began.

" _Mar-tin_ says we should leave the scientists at the academy alone."

I was booed. They fucking booed me! I could feel the contempt, the utter disgust from over a hundred people. I wanted to disappear. Wu quieted the crowd after a while.

"If we had listened to cowards like him, we never would've formed a militia to begin with!"

I was hurt. _Devastated_. This man, a man who I respected, had called me a coward. In front of everyone. My heart was racing.

"Martin doesn't understand the pain we're all suffering! Martin doesn't understand that when those who are responsible for the death of billions, when _they_ are right in _your_ backyard, you have to do something about it!" The crowd cheered him on. "Now, I don't know Martin's background. I don't know if he lost his family, or if he even cares that they are gone. But regardless of his story, I cannot have a man in this militia...a man who _refuses_ to understand the importance of what we have to do. I cannot have a man by my side that's not willing to bring justice... _justice_ to the destroyers of _so many_ lives!" The crowd was electric at this point. "Now, what we're going to do after this day is over...we'll worry about that when we get there. But today, we're going to march!" Loud cheers. "Today, we're going to go to that academy and we're going to tear it down!" He was showered with whistles and hoots. "They might have taken our loved ones. They might have taken our way of life. But our deliverance-will-be-at-hand! And they will have _hell_ to pay! Let's go! Come on! Come on!"

And with that, Wu led his fired up crowd to the back of the building. He didn't even bother to look to his embarrassed subject. The crowd had left me as well. Only David remained. He stuck around until it was just the two of us. And only then did he approach the new pariah.

He helped me to my feet.

"Marty. What in the hell were you thinking?" he said.

"That's the right word," I hissed. "Thinking. I'm the only one who's doing it! They are going to get themselves killed, David. Please, don't join them. They are making a huge mistake. They are going to follow that lunatic, and he's going to lead them directly to the gates of Hell!"

***

We went around the corner to High Line Park _,_ a cross between a pedestrian walkway and a botanical garden. It was converted from an ancient El train track that used to operate well over a century ago. The plants were unkempt. There were stalls of sedge and clusters of dwarf conifers growing at all angles, and the colorful orchards and park bulbs were sagging from their stems. The benches and rails were of white-painted aluminum. And the pedestrian path was paved with a dark concrete, which was soft to the step. During better times, this was certainly a decent place to hang out and catch a view of the neighborhood.

We walked north until we had a clear sight of the militia, adjacent to 19th Street.

People were in line. They were receiving weapons and ammo. And from the looks of them, most had never held a gun in their lives.

This one fellow held the gun out from him, and it shook erratically in his hands. One of the lieutenants saw this, and wisely, he forced the man's aim to the ground. Then the lieutenant ordered the excited man to go. Others were pretend-shooting and aiming at nothing in particular. And a small fight broke out over the last clip-belt.

As David and I watched this from our perch, he tried to convince me to beg for forgiveness. To rejoin the militia. The same militia I was kicked out of in embarrassing fashion.

"Come on, Marty. I know, it's fucked up. What Eric Wu did was fucked up. But what are you going to do? Where are you going to go? You're going to get yourself killed if you go out there. I know it and _you_ know it."

I was rubbing my jaw. There must have been fire in my eyes.

"He doesn't want me in his stinking militia, and I don't want to be in it. I'd rather die out there on my own than die at the command of that asshole! You saw what he did and you see what he's doing. You can see for yourself. He's not thinking clearly. None of them are thinking clearly. If you had any damn sense, you'd join _me_. If you go with them, you're as good as dead!"

"If we go out _there_ we're as good as dead, Marty! You have seen the bodies just as I. This militia is all that we have. It's all that any of us have!"

My friend was damn near in tears. The thought of leaving the militia was unbearable for him. As we stood there, we both knew. This was the last time we were going to see each other. He was going his way, and I was going mine.

I moved my lips to say something, but nothing came out. David rotated his strap bag to his chest and reached inside.

"I want you to have these," he said. "You're going to need them. And I don't want to hear anything about it."

David pulled out a folded hunting knife and a classic 9mm, and handed me both. The handle of the knife was black with a red triangular pattern in the middle. The gun was the color of charcoal and it reflected the light of the sun. They both were beautiful.

"I found the gun on one of the bodies in Alphabet City, and the knife, it was a gift from my father. He gave it to me for my twelfth birthday...If you're going to be an idiot, you'll make out better if you're an armed idiot."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. I was also impressed he had snatched such a gun without any of us knowing.

"I'll never forget you, David."

"You better not."

We embraced. It was a little awkward with the weapons in my hands, but that was ok.

"I have to go," he said.

And with that, David ran away, like a cop responding to a scene. In a matter of seconds, he disappeared from my sight as he went down the stairs. I could only hear the _clank clank clank_ of metal dimming towards the street.

Moments later, he reappeared. He walked briskly down 19th Street to join his militia. The militia that was _all that he had_.

I watched them all for at least ten minutes. I could tell that only a few people were to remain behind the youngest of the children, a few of the care providers, a couple of guards, and the dying who were too weak to move.

Once I was ready, I put the knife in my left pocket. Then I checked the 9mm to make sure it was on safety. It was. So I tucked the gun into the right side underneath my belt.

My nerves were a little jumpy, but I was resolute with what I had to do. It was time to make my escape from New York.

York Academy

**It was true.** There were scientists at York Academy, the young and prestigious university on the Upper East Side. And of all the places on campus where they could have been, the scientists were trapped in the Biogenetics building. It was true that they were working on a very dangerous device. It was also true that people were trying to stop them, and that these people were dying in their attempt. All of that _was_ true. But the truth didn't tell the whole story.

The scientists were not Bio geneticists. They were not trying to destroy the world with some doomsday device. And they certainly were not responsible for the virus. Instead, the scientists were Physicists—seven men, three women—and they were some of the most gifted minds that the world had to offer. They were the surviving members of a _Dream Team_ staff. And unfortunately for them, their fate was tied to their secret project.

They were led by Dr. Albert Peacock, a British national who was tenured at Oxford University. Dr. Peacock was a skinny man, with bushy eyebrows, a balding head, and a nose that was parrot-beaked in shape. He spoke with an over-the-top, airy voice, and he had a strange, bird-like posture. He was also a narcoleptic who fell asleep at random. But those quirks aside, he was a brilliant scientist. And he was sought after by many.

Though he was a heavily demanded person, Dr. Peacock asserted that he would have stayed at Oxford University. He stated that he never would have left his job there, and he certainly wouldn't have crossed the ocean to come to New York, if it wasn't for the opportunity granted to him by the East American Government and the York Academy Board. The opportunity to work on his landmark project: The Space Exploration and Empowerment Device.

The name was unimpressive, but the device itself was going to be an absolute game changer. It was only the size of a meter-by-meter cube, not much bigger than a microwave, but within that size, there was going to be enough self-generating energy to power a spacecraft for up to a thousand years. To put that in perspective, the device could have powered every single thing on Planet Earth, at maximum usage, for more than twenty million years. In other words, it was an artificial sun.

When it came to space exploration, significant progress had been made by the 2060's. Man was on the verge—some speculated that we already had—of mastering suspended animation. The light barrier was within a few years of being broken. And tantalizing targets, such as Earth-like planets and moons, had been discovered within the range of twenty light years or so. The pieces were coming together. We were on the verge of an exciting new age.

The only thing missing was the power source. Moving a ship through space at such speeds, operating once the ship reaches a destination, and having a shot in hell of returning home required energy. Ungodly energy. And that was where S.E.E.D. came in. It was going to be the _Holy Grail_. The final piece that made it all possible.

With funding not an issue, Dr. Peacock was able to recruit a staff of renowned scientists from all over the world. The recruiting kit included expense free living, dual citizenship, permanent tax-free status within the country, an initial contract that ranged from EAD500,000 to EAD750,000, a generous pension, and lucrative consulting fees for future projects.

That was a huge sum of money. To give you an idea, my salary as a teacher would have been EAD130 a week for teaching at a private school. David said he averaged EAD100 a day working on Wall Street. I would have been considered middle-class. David was considered filthy rich.

The package was solid, but there was one major drawback. The scientists' families could not relocate to New York. Not until the project was complete.

That didn't go well with a few of the recruits, but ultimately, it didn't stop a single one of them, either.

The project was to only last for a year and a half. The scientists would be granted a leave of absence a few days every two months. And the recruits felt that the time apart was a small sacrifice. Especially considering that they and their families would be set for life once it was all complete.

So with the advantages outweighing the disadvantages, the staff was assembled.

All parties had a stake in the success of this project. For Peacock and his colleagues, there were the obvious riches, world fame, and the chance to go down in the History books. For York Academy, it was the opportunity to solidify the University's place as the world's finest institution of Science. And for the East American Government, it was the power move that would have sent it from novice nation and descendant of a failed superpower, to undisputed top nation on the planet. The reward was high indeed.

But the risk was even higher. The main risk was S.E.E.D. was extremely dangerous. If handled the wrong way, a device containing that much energy could destroy the planet. _Easily_ destroy the planet. So naturally, the project couldn't be revealed to outsiders.

The scientists were set up on the 6th and 7th floor of the Biogenetics building at York Avenue and 68th Street, as opposed to the Physics building, which was a block over to the west. This was done to douse suspicion of the project's true nature.

The scientists kept to themselves. They were given codes to enter their workplace, and once they were inside, they were shut off from the rest of the campus and the rest of the world. Lunch, materials, and whatever else they needed were brought to them through a chute. They only emerged when it was time to leave for their apartments.

Also, to maintain secrecy, they weren't allowed to discuss anything with friends, old colleagues, their national governments, or even their families when they went home during recess. Most likely, they were tapped and observed by East American Intelligence who made sure they complied.

***

The scientists had made significant progress by late July, 2068. The project was beyond the halfway mark, and it was all downhill from there. The rest of their lives as wealthy men and women, and as heroes of science were within sight. They couldn't have been happier. They were only nine months away from changing mankind forever. But as we all know by now, the virus beat them to it.

***

Dr. Peacock and his staff were informed of the virus on July 22nd, almost a full week before the public. They were told that it was going to be serious. They were told that their families would be provided shelter. And they were told to shut down the project so that they all could be relocated. This was no doubt the benefit of working for the government at such a high level.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple. S.E.E.D. couldn't be shut down by simply turning off a switch or by pulling a plug. The device was a composite collection of radioactive strings. The strings were extremely sensitive. They were pieced together in crosshatched patterns like straws in a basket. And they were compressed to kingdom come. As a result, the device could only be moved when it was completely assembled or completely disassembled. It would have been a huge risk to remove the device any other way—a risk that could've blasted a hole in the Earth the size of Australia. No matter how deep a hole the VIP's were dug in, it wasn't going to be good.

So that left two options: Stay and complete the device, which would take another nine months; or hurry to disassemble, which would take about forty days.

That night the scientists gathered in a conference room, and they had a rigorous debate. There were high emotions, there were near fights, and a few of the scientists swayed back and forth with their choice, but after a few hours of this, they came to a unanimous decision. They all decided to stay and disassemble. They selflessly chose to abstain from being with their families, rather than risk being the sole reason no one on the planet survived if something went wrong. Many wouldn't have chosen their choice. They deserve so much credit.

The government gave the scientists all the resources they would need. The York Academy campus was evacuated for classified reasons on July 23rd. And working under the cover of night, thousands of Army contractors swooped in and retrofitted the Biogenetics building.

The building was fashioned into a makeshift fortress. State-of-the-art weapons and weapons stations sprung up in strategic locations. The entrances and exits of the building were sealed. As insurance, the connection, which bridged the Biogenetics building with the former New York-Presbyterian Hospital, was rigged with explosives. Two Army hovercopters were placed on the roof as the only way in and out. And ten special-op soldiers were assigned to provide security.

By Awareness Day, everything was ready and the plan was in place. The scientists were to neutralize the threat, and once that was done, they were to be relocated with their families.

But there were obstacles.

The most significant obstacle: eleven out of fifteen scientists were infected, including Dr. Peacock. The other significant obstacle: the special-op soldiers weren't so loyal to the cause.

The first factor was East American command had made the unfathomable mistake of keeping the soldiers in the vague. The soldiers were told that their mission was important, they were told that it was a matter of national security, and they were told that the assignment was only to last forty days; but that was the extent of their knowledge.

The second factor was communication was lost on July 30th. Neither the soldiers nor the scientists could reach command or anyone else from the outside world. All were isolated in the building.

And finally, the third factor was the soldiers' natural concern for their loved ones. The soldiers were pre-selected because they were immune, but this didn't exempt the other members of their families. Anxiety and uncertainty superseded loyalty and duty. Especially to a country that, in all likelihood, no longer existed.

Dr. Peacock and his staff weren't entirely sure how it all went down, but on the morning of August 2nd, three of the special-op soldiers were found murdered, while the other seven had escaped in the two hovercopters.

From that point on, the scientists were alone. They were trapped in the building, they were tied to their mission, and they had to fend for themselves.

There was no longer a government to hold Dr. Peacock accountable, so he started a log. He was able to record into a video camera, fashion microphones for all of his staff, and upload everything to a satellite-based networking site called SciDOC-SJ. Miraculously, the site was still functioning, though in automated state.

Peacock told everything he knew. It was an epic confessional. What I am writing is based off his recordings. Tragically, this information didn't reach anyone until well after September 3, 2068.

***

Fortunately for the scientists, the supplies, the weapons, and the provisions were left untouched by the fleeing soldiers. So the staff didn't have that as a concern. They continued their work in isolation, and tried to keep their morale as high as possible. But when the cancer turned active, the infected former smokers were taken out. They were taken out as if they were checked off a list.

There were five infected former smokers in total; and they all had quit cold turkey once they learned of their status. They went through withdrawal, and for the first few days it was rough. They had terrible mood swings, ferocious appetites, and unpredictable sleeping patterns. But ultimately, they all pulled through. They did it as an attempt to buy more time. A fleeting effort for survival. The only problem was, it didn't work. It didn't work at all.

On August 8th, there was the first death: Dr. Jocelyn Peters, dead at 37. Dr. Peters had been a chain smoker since her teens. It was said that she went through two packs a day. She died less than twenty-four hours after her first cough.

Next was Dr. Michael Yosef, dead at 56. He was a notorious cigar aficionado. He died a day after Dr. Peters.

A couple of days later, it was Dr. Edgar Novitski, dead at 42. He took a bathroom break and he never returned. He was found after an hour—soiled, and crumpled in front of the toilet.

And on August 15th, two of the scientists were found dead together, naked and in a sexual position. This was Dr. Marilyn Cruz, at age 39, and Dr. Aaron Williams, at age 44. It was reported to be quite the shock to see Dr. Williams' naked ass, tucked in between Dr. Cruz's post rigor mortised legs. It was debated whether they had died of the cancer, or whether they had grabbed a poison and committed romantic suicide. There was no way to know for sure. Physicists didn't do autopsies.

After each death, there was a routine. The body (in the case of the lovers, bodies) was wrapped in a plastic tarp. It was respectfully carried to the freezer unit on the 17th Level. Kind words were shared. There was a tear-filled moment of silence for those inclined to cry. And then it was back to work. It was unproductive to mope for the lost, and there was no time to wallow in self-pity.

As August, sickness, and each death encroached, ten hour shifts became twelve-hour shifts, then sixteen-hour shifts, and toward the end, eighteen hour shifts. The four immune scientists became exhausted trying to make up for the productivity of the others. And all the while, Dr. Peacock led his staff and recorded their plight, as best as he could with his deteriorating health.

Despite the hardships, it was a manageable situation. The discipline was there. The staff was still motivated to save the world. Hydro-caffeine provided artificial energy. And the scientists were only slightly behind the forty-day schedule. Everything would have been fine (other than the fact the infected were still dying), and they would have finished the job without incident—if only the power held out.

The government provided an independent power source for the building, so loss of power wasn't a problem as far as operations were concerned. The backup generators kicked in once when SkyCharge went down, and again when the ground system gave. Things carried on for the scientists without much pause. The problem was the Biogenetics building _had_ power, while the other buildings _did not_. The rest of the city was in darkness, fire, and chaos; but this mysterious building at the corner of York Avenue and 68th Street, it still had lights. The _Biogenetics building_ still had lights. The building glowed into the night, and it stood out in glaring contrast for anyone to see. This attracted attention.

***

Every couple of hours, the scientists took tours to see what was going on outside. They did this for security, but also to get a much needed break from their task. And from August 27th on, the scientists began seeing crowds.

At first, they were small groups of curious people who had gathered on York Avenue. They stood across the street and watched, as if they were waiting for something to happen. The observers couldn't see a scientist or anything else from their vantage point through the tinted windows, but the scientists could see them.

The scientists weren't happy with the new attention, but ultimately they shrugged it off. The small crowds were harmless enough. And after half an hour to a couple of hours, they lost interest and they dispersed. Every now and then one of the more determined groups did try to pry their way inside, but once they realized the building was sealed, they gave up and wandered off as well.

On September 1st, however, a crowd had finally decided to make a more aggressive move. A group of misfits had brought a fire truck with them this time. They parked it on the sidewalk along York Avenue, and they were positioning a ladder to reach the fourth level—the first level that wasn't sealed off. This was spotted by Dr. Marisol Canas. Her tour of the building was almost over, and she was on her way back to the chamber when she happened to see them.

Immediately, Dr. Canas ran to inform the others. She was out of breath when she made it to her colleagues. At the doorway, she hunched over and coughed for thirty seconds without pause. Her colleagues were afraid she was going to drop dead right where she stood.

Eventually, she coughed up the words, 'Ladder! Fire Truck! Outside! Now!'

There was a quick panic. Dr. Peacock yelled, 'Protect everything! Protect everything at all costs!" His voice was weak but his urgency was steel-strong.

Dr. Philippe Bertrand and Dr. Steven Jones hurried out of the chamber and raced up the stairs to the 10th level. They ran as fast and their legs could take them. Once they were there, Dr. Bertrand entered the room at the southwest corner and Dr. Jones entered the room at the northwest corner. There were bubble shaped gunning stations in each room. The stations were large enough to fit a man in a leather seat. Sleek computer screens were on the interior walls. And menacing barrels protruded from the front.

Without hesitation, and almost simultaneously, the two entered their gunning stations. They flipped on the power by pressing red buttons at their left sides. And both said, 'Project and target.'

With jarring speed, the two corners of the building blasted apart at the 10th level. Bits and pieces of glass, aluminum, and steel rained to the stunned crowd below. The stations jutted out, and the hydraulics were loud and clear through the two scientists' microphones. The computerized voices announced in unison: _Hostiles located thirty-six meters below. Target Acquired._

Then Dr. Bertrand commanded, 'Computer, amplify voice projection to the hostiles.'

There was a ping.

'You are all in danger! I repeat. You are all in danger! You should leave this facility now. This is your one and only warning. We will fire if you do not comply!'

Dr. Bertrand was shot at. Bullets thumped loudly against his protective shield like beats against a drum. Dr. Bertrand yelled in surprise, and without a doubt, he knew he had his answer.

'Computer, destroy target.'

And with that, a surge of power bolted from Dr. Bertrand's barrel. It was like a lightning strike streaking the short distance. It struck the fire truck below, and the fire truck blasted apart into shrapnel and balls of fire. The force of the explosion shook the building itself.

Dr. Bertrand said, 'Whoa!' He was taken aback by what he had just done.

The surviving hostiles ran for their lives as Dr. Jones fired warning shots to chase them away. After a mere ten seconds, all that remained were smoldering debris, and a burning hulk of metal that used to be the bottom of the fire truck. And the building had a new, gaping hole that would have to be protected at all times.

The battle was won but now it was war. There was no turning back. The word spread fast that something was definitely up at the Biogenetics building of York Academy. And it didn't take much for people to imagine that whoever was inside a building with that name, they had to have had something to do with the virus.

Around Noon

**It was a lonely yet thrilling walk along Hudson River Park** as I tried to find a way to leave Manhattan. Excitement, anxiety, and ultra-awareness accompanied me every step I took into the unknown. This was by far the most impulsive thing I had ever done—at least to that point. I had no water, no food, no e-reader, no plan, and if I allowed myself to think reasonably, which I didn't, no prayer. I was just a pissed off, determined young man, who took a huge leap—or more truthfully, received a huge shove—forward, and who refused to look back. I thought to myself: _Sure, I could be killed out here today. But for now, this is living life to its fullest._

Adjacent to Canal Street, I ran into my opportunity. There was a small, fiber-carbon canoe, cream colored and smooth. It butted against the pier as a rubber duck would bump against the edge of a tub. And without missing a beat, I ran toward it, afraid that the current would carry it away.

Once I was close enough to see inside, I paused with surprise.

There was a man inside. He was Caucasian, middle-aged, and definitely dead. His lifeless eyes were staring upward to the partly cloudy sky. His mouth was a jagged, purple line. He was in a simple, blue plaid shirt with ripped, muddy jeans, and he had on soaked cowboy boots. Clutched in his hands were a small portrait—no doubt of this family—and a twenty by twenty centimeter New York City flag. By my judgment, he couldn't have been dead for more than thirty minutes. The cancer took the poor bastard's life, just before he had reached his destination.

After the initial shock, I looked around to see if anyone else was in the vicinity. Convinced that no one was close, I climbed over the rail and eased into the canoe, which was almost two meters below. The canoe nearly took water with the added weight, but after I stood perfectly still, it stabilized.

Fortunately there was rope inside. Moving slowly, I tied a loop to the rail. I connected the rope to a metallic ring at the canoe's stern. And once the craft was secure, I removed the picture and flag from the dead man's grip, and placed both on the pier above.

Next, I began the difficult task of removing the body. And this guy was heavy. It was hard to keep balance. The little canoe _did_ fill with water as we tilted one way or the other, and we nearly fell into the Hudson twice. But after ten minutes of intense struggle, my benefactor was on land at his final destination.

Feeling victorious, I dragged the body to a pedestrian bench about a meter and a half away. When we reached it, I laid the body flat and placed his arms over his chest. It was certainly a figment of my imagination, but I could swear he had the slightest of a smile that wasn't there before. Next, I retrieved the portrait and flag and placed both how I had found them. And for the final touch, I used my index finger and thumb to close the man's eyelids.

I stood back and admired my work for a moment. Then I said, "Whoever you are and wherever you came from, I have no idea. But you have made it to New York. I am happy to have brought you to land. Thank you for the canoe, and wherever you are in spirit, may you be in happiness and peace."

As I entered the canoe, nostalgia overtook me in a wave. This was it. I was leaving my home. The only place I had ever wanted to call home.

I untied the rope, and immediately, the canoe began drifting away. The paddle was lying in the bottom, thank God, so I picked it up and started rowing toward New Jersey. It took a few moments to get the rhythm of what I was doing, but once I had it, it was natural.

I wasn't the only one on the river. Farther up, around midtown or so, there were other boats. There were hundreds of them, and they were heading towards Manhattan. As I watched, my jaw dropped, and a flash of stiff nervousness shuddered down my spine. But after several minutes, it was clear: their sole intent was reaching New York.

Still, I rowed faster, and leaned at an angle to make myself smaller.

***

12:00pm Transcript of Station 37, Transmission B

There is a monotonous hum of a hovercopter's engine. It is not too loud, but it is noticeable. There is also the sound of a man fumbling with his microphone, verifying that it is on. The popping sound is loud as he taps his thumb against the surface. The clarity is sharp as he blows a soft breath. Satisfied with his result, the man speaks.

Terrence Green:

Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is Terrence Green, coming to you live from above Manhattan. Before I begin, my staff and I would like to thank you for taking the time to listen to our broadcast. We have all faced some difficult days, and there are many more difficult days ahead. But for us to know that you're listening, especially at these trying moments, well, it makes our effort worth the while.

What brings us to Manhattan today is a confrontation at York Academy. It has been brought to our attention that scientists, soldiers, or a combination of the two, are holed up inside one of the buildings at the University, or what remains of it. We were told that whoever they are, they are defending something inside. The vast majority of people on the ground believe that this 'something' is the source of the pandemic. The pandemic that has devastated mankind. And the people on the ground are determined to stop them.

From our position above, I can see thousands of people converging on the location. They are coming in from all directions. Many are on foot, there are a few who are lucky enough to travel in cars or trucks or motorcycles, and there are even people crossing the East River by boat.

At the site of contention, farther to my north, I can see plumes of smoke, rising from the ongoing battle. Before we make our way there, we will check in with Jessie McCarthy, our correspondent on the ground.

Terrence turns a switch. This is followed by a high-pitched tone. At first the tone is loud; then gradually, it is replaced by crowd noise.

Standing out in the foreground of this crowd noise are two men. It's an interview. One man is asking questions, and the other man is answering in a soft and inaudible voice. The interviewer is entering information into a tablet. The surface chirps with every touch.

Terrence Green:

Jessie! You're live. Are you there? Hello? Hello?

Jessie McCarthy:

Oh shit! Hey! Hi! Hello...Yes, this is Jessie McCarthy, coming to you live, from 59th Street in Manhattan.

Terrence Green:

Good afternoon, Jessie. Could you tell us what's going on down there?

Jessie McCarthy:

Things are about to get intense, Terrence! I am in the middle of an interview with Jayden. Jayden is from Bridgeport, just as we are. He's here because of the broadcast earlier this morning; it was on Station 24, Transmission B. The broadcast purported that there is a Dr. Lin inside one of the buildings; that he is the mastermind behind the pandemic that has decimated our species; and that he is working on something to finish off the rest of us. After hearing this news, Jayden, along with thirty others from his group, have come here to stop him.

Jayden's story is very common among the people out here today. People have come from New Jersey, upstate New York, Long Island, other parts of Connecticut, and of course, the other five boroughs of the city.

As of this moment, I have not been able to confirm anything regarding this Dr. Lin, but as you can see, the fighting is real. And from what I have gathered, it has been going on for a day or two by now.

At my current location, under the Ed Koch Bridge, a few individuals have set up a registry. They are keeping a record of the participants and of their efforts for this day. There is no clear leader as of yet, but rather a consensus of different leaders. These leaders come from many gangs and many militias.

Some of these gangs and militias, from what I have heard, are sworn enemies who would fight one another under other circumstances. But today, they are cooperating for the common cause. The common cause of taking out the threat.

I was able to obtain a list of names. Names of the groups who will be fighting today.

One moment, let me pull it up...ok, I got it right here.

_We have the Wall Street Battlers; The Last Jews of Williamsburg, The Elizabeth Ghosts, Riker's Island Finest, The Last Standers of Manhattan, The New Astoria Peoples, Chinatown Village, Soundview Crew, The Fordham Mourners, The Mountaineers of Riverdale, Bayside, The Staten Islanders, The Mount Vernon Redeemers, and the list goes on, Terrence. These are the groups we know of so far, but there are many more already here and on their way. This fight is going to be_ epic _before it is all said and done!_

A Walk through Jersey

**Other than spotting the boats farther up river** , my trip to Jersey was uneventful. The water sparkled with bright sunlight; a few puffy white clouds moved swiftly overhead across the rich blue sky; the only noise was the gentle swaying of the Hudson and the strokes of my paddle; and the Statue of Liberty was standing, tall, green, and pronounced—and oblivious to the devastated world around her.

But looking to the waterfront of Jersey City, I was able to see how things had changed. The aura was eerie and quiet. The windows of the hotels, office suites, condos, and riverside cafes were broken, revealing nothing but darkness inside. The entire waterfront was devoid of human activity. The only signs of life were the pigeons and the seagulls. They were flying, perching, and no doubt, shitting wherever they pleased.

I landed the canoe along a bed of barrier rocks—right in front of Liberty State Park. And inside the canoe, there really wasn't much I could bring along with me. The only thing remaining was a small strap bag. Inside the bag were three packs of Taiwanese cookies, a wad of useless East American cash, and a half-drunken bottle of water. The strap bag and cookies came with me. Everything else was left behind.

After climbing the handrail and landing securely on the other side, I took in the scene before me.

The entire park was a mass gravesite. It was similar to where we buried our dead in the city, but this was on a much larger scale. There were row upon row of brown dirt mounds, which stretched across my line of sight. There must have been thousands buried, maybe even hundreds of thousands, or even a million depending on how they were stacked. I wish I were exaggerating. To see such a thing in person and to know what it represented was such a surreal experience.

I walked through the death-field toward the western edge of the park, hearing only the rustle of wind rattling the few thin trees and bushes. The air had a powerful, acrid smell. It was thick and sweltering. I could almost feel worms crawling all over me, tingling across my skin. I held the bottom of my shirt to my nose and took short, efficient breaths. For the most part, my eyes were half-closed. With so many deceased bodies in one location, the odor was expected, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

I didn't have the gun out, but my left hand was very close to it in the event I would need it.

***

Communipaw Avenue was the main street through a bustling Islamic community. In its time, the one-way strip was home to shops, open-air markets, prayer centers, cultural museums, and some of the finest Arabic restaurants of the East Coast. The wide sidewalks used to teem with locals and tourists alike.

The shops sold a variety of goods, such as handcrafted jewelry and art, and tailor-made garments and shoes. The open-air markets sold items such as imported prayer rugs, imported produce, and freshly slaughtered meat that hung from hooks, skinned and sliced down the middle. The prayer centers were modern glass and stainless steel structures. Prayers used to blast from the loudspeakers and resonate throughout the entire district. The museums featured art from all over the Islamic world, from centuries-old paintings to modern glass and chrome sculptures. And my favorite places, the restaurants, were absurdly expensive at almost EAD10 a plate, but the food and the service was worthy of royalty.

Communipaw Avenue was also known for its famous Shisha houses: places where people (mostly men) would come to enjoy coffee, tea, kabobs, and small dishes of curry. They would smoke wet tobacco from silver colored hookahs, and discuss business, the _Qur'an_ , or the local politics of the day.

After a few blocks, the main business district gave way to beautiful apartment buildings. They were a perfect blend of old world design and modern amenities. The clay sidings were painted in soft colors, from canary yellow to powder blue. The balconies—constructed of synthetic marble—had wide archways that gave each unit a sense of personal luxury. The windows were stained in rich colors, giving each building a unique pattern. The patterns were like quilts—ten-level-tall quilts.

Communipaw Avenue was a great and exotic place to visit, completely different from life in the city, and yet only a train stop away. When my father and I wanted to spend time together, just the two of us, this was where we used to hang out. The environment was festive. The people were friendly. And there was never a shortage of activities or interesting things to discover.

But on September 3, 2068, it was a completely different story.

Communipaw Avenue was the scene of a great battle. It must have happened earlier that day or the night before. And the aftermath was complete devastation.

The open-air market stands were smashed to pieces, the gold colored tents were ripped to shreds, and the shreds were either lying in ruin or smoldering from spent fire. There were a few burnt cars as well. They were totaled, as if someone had taken a huge hammer and had beaten the shit out of them. The street lights above were broken and bent, like giant, snapped toothpicks. The goods were looted long ago, the storefronts were broken into and burnt, the prayer house and museums were deserted, and everything was riddled with sporadic bullet holes.

Glass and bullet shells littered the wide sidewalks and pavement. There were dead corpses strewn throughout, like discarded piles of clothes. I stopped counting at ten. They were men; dressed in khaki pants, stained white t-shirts, and black shemaghs. They were lying in their own thick blood, with prolific flies gleefully hovering around them. Putrid garbage bags punctuated the scene. Some were ripped open spilling their contents, and some were intact. It was hard to tell which smelled worse: the garbage or the dead.

Eventually, I made it to the apartment buildings, and I could hear the occasional murmur of misery inside. From my judgment, someone was either dying, or mourning for someone who had just died. I couldn't see them. They were inside their units, and for that, I was grateful. I kept walking with my hand on the gun. My pace was slow. I stopped every few seconds to look around. The misery, the danger, the hopelessness; it was all so stifling.

At the intersection of Grand Street, there was a storefront at the foot of one of the apartment buildings. The glass was cracked, but I could tell that it was a shop that used to sell nuts and spices. Movement inside caught my eye and I eventually made out a woman. It was dark; I had to squint to see her. She was kneeling in front of a counter, and she was holding her dead infant. I could tell that she was dying herself, from the last stages of the cancer. She stared ahead at nothing, and rocked her limp child back and forth.

I continued on my way, trying to shake the image.

I kept going until I reached John F. Kennedy Boulevard. There was an old man in the middle of a sidewalk. He had a bald head, a gray beard that dominated his face, and he was shirtless, revealing a skinny frame with visible ribcages. He had to have been in his eighties, easy.

The old man was on his knees. He was hymning a prayer in Arabic, zoned out, and oblivious to anyone and anything around him. He hymned his prayer with a soulful beauty, as if he could make all the wrong around him right with his song. I stood and watched. I was lost in fascination.

***

Three minutes later, my concentration was broken. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted three teenage Muslims. They were standing next to each other a block and a half down Communipaw Avenue. They were yelling something to each other in Farsi, and they were looking right at me.

Sensing trouble, I forgot all about the praying man and continued west.

The teenagers followed.

I hurried my pace. And in turn, they hurried theirs.

My breathing increased, panic trembled through me, and I told myself to stay calm in vain.

I looked back toward them. And they were growing more emboldened with every step.

By the time I reached West Side Avenue, they started running after me. I took off as well. And now we were in a sprint, an all-out chase.

Geez, this is nice. Didn't even make it through Jersey City.

The blocks were long, but I raced pass one after the other. I had to leap over garbage, and swerve around abandoned baby strollers and other shit dumped on the sidewalk. The young thugs behind me were yelling in excitement. They were younger and more determined, and they were slowly but surely closing in. I was losing stamina. The Lincoln Highway Bridge was dead ahead, but I wasn't going to make it, and even if I did, they would have followed. Something had to give. And it did.

At Marcy Avenue, I turned a sharp left around the corner of a building.

I stood my ground. I was breathing heavily, damn near ready to pass out. Then I pulled out the 9mm.

Seconds later, my pursuers rounded the corner, still yelling. They had knives drawn, and they were thrilled in their pursuit of a victim.

That was until they found themselves facing the barrel of the victim's gun.

All three stopped in their tracks. They put their hands in the air and looked back and forth between each other, the barrel of my gun, and my exhausted and angry face. Realizing they were in deep shit, one of them spoke in heavily accented English.

"Take it easy, brother...We mean you no harm."

"Who in the hell do you take me for," I said. "Drop the goddamn knives or I'm going to drop you!"

They did as I told them.

"Ok, brother? Are we ok now?"

Now that I had an up-close look at them, the teenagers were much younger than I had thought. They couldn't have been older than sixteen. They were immune, they were scared, and they didn't want to die at my hands. I was scared too, but I'd have been damned if I was about to show it—especially to them.

"Please," said the second teenager, "We are hungry. We have not eaten in three days...Please, brother! Please!"

Their desperation increased as the seconds went by. I could tell that they were not thugs by nature. They were just survivors, trying to survive however they could. My anger and exhaustion gave way to calm and sympathy.

"Where are your people? Who are you with? Are there more of you?" I said.

The third teenager replied, "We have no people. Everyone is either dead or gone. Our family is dead."

"So why are you still here? Why didn't you leave with the others?" I asked.

"Because the _others_ took everything," replied the third teenager. "They took everything and they slaughtered what remained of our family. We only survived because we were hidden. We were immune, and our family didn't want us to die like them. Not when we could have lived. We only came out when everyone was gone...when it was safe."

The teen was serious. He looked right into my eyes. His face was as bitter as it was sincere.

"Which way did they head?" I asked.

"To the north," said the second teenager. He was trembling. "Please brother...we don't want to die."

I sighed. Then I reached into the strap bag, pulled out a pack of the Taiwanese cookies, and tossed it to them.

The teens were like starved seals in a zoo, clamoring for fish during feeding. They yelled happily as they ripped the bag open. They barely avoided spilling the whole thing. Even if they did, I believe they would have eaten right off the ground. Feverishly, they devoured away. It really was the first thing they had eaten in days.

"Listen to me as I tell you this," I said in a severe tone. "If you cross my path and try to rob me again, I will shoot you. If you try to rob anyone, they have a gun and you only have your little fucking knives, they will shoot you. Today is your lucky day...you little _bastards!_ Pick those things up and get the hell out of here. Go back where you came!"

I motioned to the east with my gun.

Grateful, and slightly less starved, the teens picked up their knives. They put them away. And in a single file, they hurried back down Communipaw Avenue.

I watched until they were at least a kilometer away. I was relieved, excited, and still somewhat sympathetic, all at once.

***

The New York area had some fine bridges. The Brooklyn Bridge, The Verrazano, Manhattan, RFK, Williamsburg, George Washington; all were elegant, all were iconic, and all were great places to take a stroll across. But that wasn't the case for the Lincoln Highway Bridge.

The bridge was basically an elevated highway. It was painted black, with two rectangular, dull designed towers, and rusty, worn looking spans. It was at least seven kilometers long, from Communipaw Avenue in Jersey City, to Ferry Street in Newark. And the pavement was grated with crosshatched metal grooves, which felt awkward with each step.

There was no side path for pedestrians, but I didn't need one. The stream of cars, cargo trucks, buses, and taxis that used to hum through had long disappeared. All that remained of the highway's previous purpose were the few vehicles that had ran out of charge while crossing one way or the other. When I passed these cars and trucks, I peeked inside. And naturally, they were stripped and picked over of anything useful.

The Lincoln Highway Bridge did have one advantage, though. There was a spectacular panoramic view of the metro area.

Behind me and to the northeast was New York. Tia Tower, formerly known as World Trade Center 1, was the tallest building of lower Manhattan. Farther north, 15 Penn Plaza and the Empire State Building barely peaked over the towers of Hudson Yards District.

Directly behind me spread the western side of Jersey City's condos, hotels, and office buildings. They loomed large over the neighborhood I had just left. The electronic signs at the top of the buildings used to illuminate company logos and advertisements for kilometers on end. Now, they were void and black—symbolic of the empty real estate inside.

Directly ahead of me and slightly to the north was Newark, one of the great satellite cities of the world. The neighborhoods were calm and low-lying from my distant view. And Newark's downtown consisted of modern office buildings—most of them built within the last twenty years. The lustrous glass sidings of the buildings were multicolored, and each tower was impressive with its own unique geometric top: from triangular, to rectangular, to oval. The array of buildings was led by the Blue Talvari, a five-hundred-meter-tall monstrosity that often pierced into the clouds above. Easily, it was the tallest office tower in the country.

To my right and along the bay was Harrison Valley, a strip of land nestled between Newark and Hoboken. The land was dominated by a vast industrial complex. At this complex, workers used to manufacture furniture, process recycled wood, package dairy products, and build synthetic stone.

And right beyond the factories was the regional SkyCharge hub, a cluster of buildings surrounding a sixteen-hundred meter antenna. The antenna, at more than three times the height of the Blue Talvari _,_ was easily the tallest structure in the Western Hemisphere.

SkyCharge was the marvel of the 21st Century. Humongous satellites in space used to capture and convert solar energy. This energy was then beamed to the hubs below. From the antennas of the hubs, this energy relayed to the receptors of subscribers. And as long as the subscribers' accounts were in good standing, they would receive an unlimited supply of electricity for their homes, cars, businesses, and personal appliances.

Too big and too important to be a private company, SkyCharge was co-owned and operated by over one hundred nations. Each country appointed members to management and upkeep, and the revenue was divided according to usage. It was an excellent source of income for the participating countries—a tax without being a tax. But now, like the factories to its south, and the other places of business the world over, the hub and system was dormant and without purpose.

Something else grabbed my attention as I walked across that bridge. Below in the bay, I could see bodies floating. There were about twenty in total. They were like bloated mannequins as they bobbed along and spun with the current of murky brown water. Whether the bodies were of jumpers, or whether the bodies were dumped after death, I couldn't say for sure.

The Battlefield

**2:00pm Transcript of Dr. Albert Peacock via** _SciDOC-SJ_

Dr. Albert Peacock is in front of the camera. He is hunched over. He is sweating. His face is a pale gray. His eyes are surrounded by dark circles. His lips are a purplish blue. And his breathing is labored. In the background, two others are in hazmat suits. From their shape, it is easy to see that they are both female. They are on opposite sides of a metallic cylinder; the cylinder's height is at least two levels. On one side of the cylinder, a lady is removing a bundle of wires with tongs. The wires are glowing. The lady is very deliberate. On the opposite side, the other lady is observing something on a monitor. This goes on for eight seconds. Then Dr. Peacock looks startled. He looks into the lenses of the camera. In a low and raspy voice, he speaks.

Dr. Peacock:

This is Dr. Albert Peacock. It is now 2pm, September third, the year twenty sixty-eight. My colleagues and I are running out of time. Our building is under siege. And we have learned through radio coverage on Station 37 Transmission B that we are being held accountable for the cancer that has ravaged the human population.

I said it before and I will say it again, my team and I are not affiliated with nor have any knowledge of a Dr. Lin, or the potential devastation that he may have brought about. We have tried and failed to relay this message.

All attempts to assure cooperation and understanding from the crowd have been fruitless. They do not believe a word. And we cannot reach the remaining media due to the still-intact government protocols on our communication equipment.

For the past two days now, we have withstood countless attacks from gunfire, explosives, and whatever other means the hostiles can devise. The determination of our attackers only seems to grow stronger. According to the computers on our gunning stations, the number of hostiles has increased to the tens of thousands, with more coming by the hour. Our defense system has kept interior damage to a minimum, but I, along with Dr. Jayla Dawar and Dr. Susan Gates, cannot leave the S.E.E.D. chamber for fear that a random bullet would strike us dead.

The S.E.E.D. chamber is being defended by our brave colleagues. Those colleagues are Dr. Philippe Bertrand at the southwest station, Dr. Steven Jones at the southeast station, Dr. Nigel Nevins at the northwest station, and Dr. Cameron Leshay at the northeast station. Our mobile gunners are Dr. Mark Gunter, Dr. Isam Farziah, and Dr. Marisol Canas.

My entire staff is over exhausted. No one has slept since the fire truck incident of September first, and we are running low on our supply of hydro-caffeine, the substance that has allowed us to remain on our feet.

Our mission is to hold off the crowd until we can clear the S.E.E.D. device to safe levels. We are less than a day away from accomplishing this. If the procedure is interrupted prematurely, New York City, and potentially an area much larger will be destroyed.

Though my colleagues and I are being held responsible for the pandemic, we have not been spared from its wrath. Other than Dr. Gates, Dr. Dawar, Dr. Bertrand, and Dr. Jones, we are all in the final stages of the cancer. It does not seem likely that any of us will make it out of here alive, but it is my hope that...

Dr. Peacock is interrupted by a loud alarm. A red warning light floods the chamber. The colleagues behind Peacock pause from their work. Peacock is exhausted, and looks almost relieved to have the break from his report. A computerized voice announces, _Intruder Alert. Intruder Alert. Break in is imminent. Intruder Alert..._.

Dr. Leshay:

Dr. Peacock, we have a major problem! The hostiles are moving through the connection. They are about to break into the building!

Dr. Peacock:

How many, Dr. Leshay?

Dr. Leshay:

Over three hundred! We don't have much time. We're going to have to detonate. If they get through that barrier, then it's all over!

Dr. Peacock:

Dr. Farziah, we need you to detonate now.

Dr. Farziah:

I'm on it, Dr. Peacock!

***

2:02pm Transcript of Station 37, Transmission B

Terrence Green:

This is Terrence Green, coming to you live from above the battle at York Academy. There is still an occasional shot or two being fired, but the heavy exchange of earlier has subsided. The fighters on the ground aren't making much progress at all. Every attempt to invade the building has been turned back by the defenders. The defenders have advanced weaponry, far superior to anything they've faced from the fighters below. But that hasn't slowed the determination of the people. Many are still pouring in, taking the place of those who have been slain. I estimate that there are at least sixty-thousand people out here so far. We have Jessie McCarthy on the ground to give us an update...Jessie, are you there?

The sound of the crowd suddenly dominates. There are many people talking. It is hard to make out anything. After a few seconds, Jessie McCarthy's voice rises above.

Jessie McCarthy:

Hello? Hello? Terrence! Can you hear me? My God, it's loud here!

Terrence Green:

Yes, Jessie. I can hear you. We all can hear you. You're live. Can you tell us what's going on?

Jessie McCarthy:

We have a muddle, Terrence! The defenders in the building are firing on anyone who comes close. As soon as brave men and women storm the building, they are cut down! The militias and gangs are trying to coordinate their efforts, but they're using domestic class weapons against, what I have to guess is war grade artillery. We're not sure if those inside were given the weapons by the government or whether the weapons were stolen. However they got them, the weapons are more effective...by far!

Every ten minutes, someone inside one of the weapon globes repeats a message. The message states that the hostiles inside are Physicists; that they have no affiliation with Dr. Lin or the virus, that they are disassembling a dangerous bomb, and that the fighters are making a huge mistake!

Terrence Green:

Well, if that's true, they made the bigger mistake of choosing a Biogenetics building as their place to disassemble such a thing. Is the message reaching the crowd, Jessie? That this may be a case of mistaken identity, and that there may be merit to the bomb threat?

Jessie McCarthy:

The crowd is not having it, Terrence...Virtually everyone I've talked to has told me...

There is an explosion. It is thunderous. Jessie's microphone trembles and whistles for a moment. People scream. Jessie screams. In the distance, a structure is crumbling. The sound is that of a demolition. People are running.

Jessie McCarthy:

Oh my God! Oh my God!

Jessie repeats this over and over as he runs with the crowd. Terrence is yelling frantically to reestablish contact with his correspondent. This goes on for at least one minute.

Terrence Green:

Jessie! Jessie! Are you there, Jessie?! Are you all right?! Please! Say something! Jessie!

Jessie McCarthy:

Yeah....yeah....I'm fine, Terrence! Oh my God, oh my God! Yeah. I'm here...Oh shit! All right...The occupiers have detonated the connection to their building. That's five levels...blown to smithereens! There is dust and debris everywhere! There must have been people inside. They must have been trying to find a way into the building...they're all dead. They didn't stand a chance!

Terrence Green:

You have to get to a safer location, Jessie! What if they detonate the entire campus?

Jessie McCarthy:

Many people are getting that very idea, Terrence. I can see people pouring out of the adjacent buildings as we speak. There are a few inside, still firing from a broken window, but most are heading towards Rockefeller University Hall...Jesus Christ! You should see this! Fighters are bleeding, fighters are missing limbs...it's an absolute mess out here!

***

4:35pm Transcript of Station 37 Transmission B

There are many voices in the background, and occasionally, there is gunfire as well. There are commands being shouted, there are people screaming in pain from injury, there are sounds of movement as people go back and forth. In the foreground of this, Jessie McCarthy is thanking a man for granting him a quick interview. The man says it is his honor. Next, Jessie tells the man how to place the microphone on his shirt collar. This takes a few seconds. When the man has his microphone in place, the interview begins.

Jessie McCarthy:

This is Jessie McCarthy, coming to you live from the battlegrounds of York Academy. I have one of the leaders of this fight with me today. He was gracious enough to grant me an interview. He is Eric Wu, and he is a part of the...

Eric Wu:

The Last Standers. I am the leader of the Last Standers. We are based in Chelsea.

Jessie McCarthy:

Yes, of course. The Last Standers...Now Mr. Wu, could you give our listeners an idea of what has been going on from your perspective today? Could you give us an insight as to how you and your coalition can actually take the building and win?

Eric Wu:

_Well, as you know, Jessie, their weapons are superior. We've lost plenty of men out here today. Men I have known for years from my days in the NYPD. And it is heartbreaking. It is hard. But the one thing on our side is numbers. There are more of us, and_ they _cannot last forever. If we stay the course, eventually we_ will _take those fuckers out!_

They have killed good people out here today, Jessie. Good people who I refuse to let die in vain. Those fuckers inside have committed genocide against the human race, and our fight is a righteous fight. A fight for justice. A fight for survival.

Jessie McCarthy:

_Well sir, the umm..._ fuckers _claim that they aren't responsible for the pandemic. They say they are Physicists, and..._

Eric Wu:

_Look Jessie. If you are responsible for the death of billions, people have you surrounded, and those people are willing to give their lives to bring you to justice, wouldn't you deny having anything to do with the pandemic yourself? Of course, they're responsible! Why do they have power when no one else does? Why do they have the advanced weaponry to defend themselves? How do you explain a Biomedics building having war-grade material for God's sake?_ Wake up, Jessie!

Jessie McCarthy:

But Mr. Wu, what if they are telling the truth? Wouldn't you agree that what they are saying could be plausible? What if they are really diffusing a deadly bomb? What if you and your coalition succeed in taking the building, and by accident, you all detonate this bomb. Is it worth the death of so many if you and your coalition are wrong?

Eric Wu:

_Look! You want to know what's wrong?! It's wrong that billions of people are dead, all over the world! It's wrong that brave men and women had to die out here today, at the hands of those_ monsters _!_

_You see that on the other side of the courtyard? I want you to look, Jessie. You see that? Over there are seventy-six of my men alone._ Dead! _We are dealing with evil here, Jessie. And I will not rest until this evil is defeated. This interview is over!_

There is a loud pop as Eric Wu throws his microphone to the ground. He storms off, muttering to himself. Jessie McCarthy calls after him.

Jessie McCarthy:

But Mr. Wu! Wait! Wait! We have so much more to discuss...Mr. Wu...ah, fuck it.

***

**4:52pm Transcript of Dr. Albert Peacock via** _SciDOC-SJ_

Dr. Peacock, Dr. Dawar, and Dr. Gates are busy at work. They are standing near the decompression vault, which resembles an oven surrounded by monitors. The ladies are still in their hazmat suits. Dr. Peacock does not bother to take such precautions. Dr. Dawar and Dr. Gates are side by side. Both are spinning something that resembles a steering wheel. Dr. Peacock is standing behind them, monitoring their results. He is barking orders in a weak and raspy voice. There is also the sound of wheezing from the scientists outside the chamber. A few of them are coughing severely. One of the scientists injects a hydro-caffeine shot into his neck.

Dr. Jones:

Come on...come on...I know you're up to something...

Dr. Nevins:

I know what you mean, Steve. It's too quiet...they haven't fired a shot in ten minutes...what the hell are they planning?

Dr. Peacock:

I don't know what they are planning, but you guys are doing and excellent job. Just keep up....

Dr. Peacock breaks into a severe coughing fit midsentence. His legs give way and he falls to the floor. Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar stop what they are doing and run to their leader to help.

Dr. Gates:

Albert! You need to rest, Albert. Just stay over there and record. Jayla and I can handle this...ok? Please, just sit down...

Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar help their leader to his feet. Slowly, all three stagger to the seat in front of the camera. Dr. Peacock is breathing in short and painful pants. His eyes are rolling in the back of his head as he tries to gain focus.

Dr. Leshay:

Ladies, please...We need you to get back to work. We're not that far behind Dr. Peacock...Once we go, they will enter...

Dr. Bertrand:

We need a radio check.

Dr. Gunter:

I'm here.

Dr. Farziah:

I'm here.

Dr. Jones:

I'm good.

Dr. Nevins:

Yeah.

There is a pause. Someone is not responding.

Dr. Bertrand:

Marisol? Dr. Canas! Are you there? Oh no...computer, report the vitals of microphone seven.

The computerized voice responds: _There are no vital signs for microphone seven._ The other scientists react. Grief and angry screams ring out. Dr. Bertrand slams his fist against the shield of his weapons station.

Dr. Farziah:

Fools! We are all fools! We are sitting here in this building; and for what? So that those assholes out there may live, while we waste away. This is bullshit. This is all bullshit! I will never see my family again...they could be alive, they could be dead...I will never know. I stayed away from them, only to die like a roach inside a wall!

Dr. Bertrand:

Isam...you have to stay calm, man. We only have each other...we have to hold ourselves together. Not everyone out there deserves to die. We have to do this.

Dr. Farziah:

I'm just so tired...I am tired, man...And I want to go home. I just want this to be...

There is an explosion at the base of the building. The alarm goes off. It resonates throughout the chamber. The weapons of the gunning stations kick into action. Rapid fire is spewed to the ground below. The only discernible noise is explosion and gunfire. Eventually, a scientist yells above the chaos.

Dr. Nevins:

What the hell is going over there?!

Dr. Jones:

They're firing from all directions! We can't hold back everything! They're...they're targeting one area with missiles and are scattering our defenses!

The computerized voice announces throughout the chamber and in each gunning station: _Warning. The building is breached. Warning. The building is breached..._.A flurry of crowd noise reaches the microphones of the gunners. Excited screams and gunfire travel from the courtyard below.

Dr. Leshay:

Oh my God...they are charging...thousands.

Dr. Bertrand:

The staircases...the staircases... Mark! We need you to collapse the staircases...hurry!

Dr. Jones:

Yeah! Move your ass, Mark! I can't kill them all...hurry!

Dr. Gunter is running. He is breathing heavily as he makes his way to the south staircase. The gunfire continues from the gunning stations of Dr. Jones and Dr. Leshay. Dr. Farziah is firing an automatic weapon on the crowd below as well. It takes Dr. Gunter thirty seconds to reach his destination. He forces the door open and grunts as he positions something onto his shoulder. This is followed by a _shoomp_ noise, and then there is a loud explosion. Dr. Gunter coughs profusely and tries to capture his breath.

Dr. Gunter:

Oh...oh...ok...that's one!

Dr. Leshay:

They're inside! They're inside! Not a time to rest, Mark! Move it, man!

Dr. Gunter:

I'm on it...I'm on it...

Dr. Gunter runs to the north staircase. Dr. Dawar and Dr. Gates shriek in terror as both pause to listen to what's going on. Dr. Peacock is asleep. His head has fallen onto the table; his snores are a scratching wheeze. Dr. Jones yells excitedly as he cuts down as many of the chargers as he can.

After twenty seconds, Dr. Gunter reaches his second destination. He kicks in the door. He is greeted by the sounds of an angry mob below. He is shot at on sight. Bullets bounce off the rails of the staircase. Unfazed, Dr. Gunter positions his weapon, the _shoomp_ noise follows, and there is another powerful explosion. Dr. Gunter coughs and retreats from the staircase. There are murmurs and screams of agony through the debris below.

Dr. Gunter:

The staircases are secure!

A Tale of Two Cities

**Once** **off the bridge,** I was in Ironbound, the southeastern section of Newark. Before the pandemic, Ironbound had a population of over three hundred thousand, and most of the residents in this part of town were of Brazilian and Portuguese descent. It was one of the many large ethnic communities throughout the city, and like the other sections of Newark, it was home, almost exclusively, to the middle and upper class. Mostly, this was due to the Municipal Explosion, the event when thirty-four states and thousands of municipal bodies across the United States declared bankruptcy.

Earlier in the century, well before I was born, the states, counties, cities and towns across the old Union were overburdened. They had to deal year after year after year with impossible operating expenses: never-ending lawsuits, an unfeasible health care system, crushing legacy obligations, overwhelming debt from banks and bondholders, exhausted taxpayers, and an ineffectual federal government. As a result, the only way out for the municipalities and the states, the only path available to a clean fiscal slate, was to declare insolvency and to restructure. Instead of conducting such an action a few government bodies at a time, they had all decided to go under simultaneously. And the results swept across the entire nation.

Laws passed that went against everything the great Republic had stood for. Suddenly, public unions were dissolved and outlawed, and their members were split into millions of private contractors. Bondholders and pensioners were left out in the cold. They were given measly settlements, and were told to either take it or leave it. Ironclad caps were placed on the amounts paid in litigation. Government property, public schools, and public universities were converted into private or charter institutions. And social programs for the poor, elderly, and disadvantaged were eliminated.

For many, this was a disaster unlike any that had come before. But for others, this was just the opportunity that was desperately needed. This event had stemmed from a period of low growth. The economy was flat. The Federal Reserve had used every money-manipulating trick in the book. The global economy had rendered America obsolete, overpriced and inflexible. And there was simply nothing for the investors to rally around. But as the public sector caved in under its own weight, the private sector had found an angle: to rebuild American cities—better, stronger, more efficient, and more competitive than ever before.

The prevailing opinion was the big cities were rotten, crime-infested shells of what they used to be anyhow, and an overhaul was long overdue. For cities like New York, Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore and a host of others, this was a golden chance at renewal.

Following a model that was successful in African and European cities, the middle class and wealthy—those who paid the most in taxes, as well as those who contributed the most to property value—were encouraged to move within the city limits.

Long tired of dealing with commuting, outrageous property taxes, flood-prone areas, and the less exciting suburban life, people relocated in droves.

As the new population poured in, so did the investment money. It was gentrification on steroids. Entire neighborhoods were taken over, razed to the ground, and rebuilt from scratch. Places such as East New York, the South Bronx, and Harlem of NYC and places such as Fairmont, Roseville, and Clinton Hill of Newark were completely remade. As a result, the cities had a higher tax base, relatively less crime, and a more efficient social system.

But the other side of the equation was the poor had to pour out. Housing authorities were handed over to private developers, affordable housing vouchers and building stipulations suddenly went extinct, and the rent was priced out of range for those who could hang on, on their own. The end result was the poor were only allowed to _work_ in the great cities, and then they had to return to the surrounding towns they called home.

Of course, all of this didn't happen without a fight or without consequences.

It was called "The War on the Working Class."

The trial lawyers, advocacy groups, churches and unions howled to the moon. There were rapid-fire lawsuits. Local politicians were crucified at the polls. There were ripples of strikes and large demonstrations from coast to coast. There were even a few severe riots. And this did irreparable damage to the American image across the world.

But the power players behind all this were prepared.

Lawsuits were tossed due to the Municipal Reconstruction Act _,_ constitutional amendments, and a rubber-stamp Supreme Court. Politicians were offered lucrative careers as consultants, and as members of the boards of various companies once their _sacrifice_ was made, thus coining the famous term, "RD-Pol" (Revolving Door Politician). Advocacy groups, unions and churches were targeted with a ruthless public relations campaign that vilified most as "the ones who are holding America back." The demonstrations and riots were dealt with swiftly at the hands of the National Guard and Army. Five hundred were killed in the Newark riots alone. And in regard to the rest of the world's opinion...well, the powers that be didn't give a _rat's ass_ about the rest of the world's opinion. America was being reinvented, the money was rolling in, and that was all that mattered. If it pissed some people off, then so be it.

The end result of all this, however, was that the United States became unrecognizable, from the inside out.

But by September 3, 2068, none of this mattered. The story of Newark was the same as New York and countless other cities. The government tried to maintain order. Order lasted a few days. Rioting, looting, and violent crime took over. People banded together to combat the violence and bury the dead. And it all went to hell once the power gave and the supplies ran out.

The townhouses, glass apartment complexes, business districts, and tree-lined public areas at the foot of the bridge were in ruins. I wandered through it all, and felt very much like the last person alive on Earth. There was no one around. If there were people anywhere near, they were doing an excellent job of not being seen by me.

***

It was the heart of the afternoon, and I was hungry and thirsty. While walking through Ironbound, I thought of the dead man's bottle of water, and how I had left it behind.

Goddamnit...what was I thinking?

It wasn't the hottest day—September is typically pleasant in the New York area—but it _was_ hot enough to sap all the nourishment from the poor excuse of a breakfast I had had that morning. _Something had to be done_ , I concluded. _And better sooner than later._

I exited Ferry Street and walked south down Adams Street. Each and every house in the neighborhood had been broken into. There was no telling how many people had passed through in the same state of hunger and thirst I was in. There was no telling how many people had seen the same houses I had seen, and were fortunate enough to see them first. The windows of the brick townhouses were broken. The front doors were kicked in. Houses with yards had appliances and other possessions too heavy to carry abandoned in front.

I continued my search from one street to the next, looking for that first break.

On the western side of Independence Park, I found it.

The wood-shingled houses along New York Avenue were intact. In other words, not blatantly broken into. The homes were certainly worth a shot.

My method for breaking into the homes was simple, and borrowed from what I had just seen. First, I knocked. Then I waited. And if there was no answer, I kicked down the damn door.

I was anxious with each invasion. If someone was inside and this person had a gun—well, I likely would have received a bullet to the chest. But given the circumstances, it was the best option available.

The first two houses were emptied of food by the fleeing owners. In both homes, the cabinets were cleaned out, and the remaining items in the refrigerators were decomposed and musty.

However, it wasn't a complete bust. There were a few things to be had. In the first house, I found a lighter, a compass, a very old Rand McNally road map of the United States, and pair of binoculars. In the second house, I found toothpaste, an unopened pack of tube socks, a deck of playing cards, a can opener, and a nice leather book bag.

And three was the charm.

I kicked in the door, stumbled in, and was met with the smell of decay. Overwhelming decay. It nearly knocked me on my ass. Immediately, I rushed back outside to catch some fresh air. The smell of death is a potent odor in itself, but pent-up death, to an unsuspecting person—now _that_ is some powerful shit!

For a moment I weighed the decision to go in or keep it moving, but hunger and cottonmouth swayed my choice toward the former. I took the toothpaste from the leather book bag and lined both of my nostrils (a trick I had learned from the militia). Then I went back inside.

The resident or residents of the house had died upstairs. Naturally, that part of the house was off limits. But downstairs, there was a wealth of nourishing food. All for the taking.

In the cabinets, there were cans of vegetables, corned beef, sardines, tuna and soup. There were packages of noodles, pasta, crackers, cookies and chips. There were bags of sugar, coffee beans, powdered milk and oatmeal. And on the floor under the kitchen counter, I found a dozen bottles of pure, virgin water.

In addition to the blessed food and water, there was soap, a roll of toilet tissue, sterling silverware, a tiny solar radio, and many other things that I needed. _Thank you, dead people upstairs! Thank you, thank you, thank you!_

I ditched the pair of socks, found two additional bags throughout the house, and stuffed all four bags to capacity. It was a heavy load, but it was a heavy load of _hell yes!_

Once I was satisfied, I went to the backyard of the house. There was a small plastic table at the right corner of the patio, with matching chairs stacked to the side. I took a chair, sat down, and quickly drank a couple of bottles of water. I also popped a Chunky beef soup _,_ and I ate directly from the can.

***

Once my hunger and thirst were taken care of, I left the house and neighborhood, and continued south on Frelinghuysen Avenue, a desolate road flanked by abandoned auto repair shops.

Trash and dog shit littered the street. The pavement was hot from the bright sun overhead. And I was nervous. I had the four bags full of food and supplies. To a desperate person I would have made a very tempting target. I kept my hand close to my gun at all times.

Eventually, I was adjacent to the Elizabeth/Newark commuter bus depot. Before the pandemic, hundreds upon hundreds of little buses used to park here when the operators' shifts had ended. Every day the operators used to board their buses with an assistant. Then the two used to pick up passengers in Elizabeth, NJ, and take them according to whatever route they were assigned.

A few sad and broken down buses were still in the lot.

Newark Airport was on the opposite side. And the place was barren. It was a concrete desert, a gray and flat landscape that probably hadn't seen a plane in well over a month. There was a network of highways and monorails, a tower, and an oval-shaped terminal port; and all were quiet and uninhabited in the distance.

There were advertisements along the way to Elizabeth, NJ, and they were posted to either side of the road on large, old-fashioned billboards. Most of the billboards in East America were electronic, and had ceased functioning. The billboards along this walk, however, were a pleasant and welcome distraction. Some were downright entertaining.

One sign had pictures of a smiling Black nanny, a Hispanic commuter bus driver, and a White sanitation worker. The message underneath said:

Rooms and Apartments for Rent!

Starting at only EAD30

Call Marquis Realty @ 973-555-0001

In the next advertisement, there was a group of teenagers. They were leaving a school, smiling, looking as if they were the best of friends. The message underneath said:

Budda Boy Smokes, enjoy the in-crowd

Get a pack for the low price of EAD.75

EAD2.40 per carton @ your local retailer

I laughed out loud when I saw the next advertisement. The sign displayed a group of middle-aged White males. They were sitting together at a dark table in a very dark room. They had the goofiest expressions on their faces. The message underneath said:

J.J.'s Piff Palace

If you can smoke it, we got it!

Three locations in Downtown Elizabeth

Call 973-555-0002 to reserve your table

In another advertisement, there was a quartet of scantily dressed women. One was Black, one was Asian, one was White, and the other was Latina. And each woman was in a _come-hither_ pose. The message underneath said:

Come and fulfill your fantasies at Ma Susie's

Susie has your gal or guy, guaranteed!

1085 Lafayette Street

Call 973-555-OHHH anytime baby

We'll be waiting for you

Group rates are available

There were countless other advertisements as well. All were either tailored to the poor residents of Elizabeth, NJ, or the patrons who had visited the town to seek their pleasure.

When it came to the Municipal Explosion, cities such as Newark and New York made out like bandits, but in order for them to be successful, other cities and towns had to become victims. Elizabeth, NJ was one of those towns.

As the middle and upper class moved into the two big cities, other municipalities were designated as zones for the lower class and disadvantaged. The property owners of those towns were bought out in wholesale settlements. The neighborhoods were either taken over, or were razed to the ground and replaced with vast Federal Housing Projects. The government's message to the poor was, "You need somewhere to live. You are no longer welcome in the inner city. And these are the locations we are providing."

So people moved in, because they were priced out and discriminated against everywhere else.

The towns had many nicknames—Fed-villes, Trap-towns, Uncle Sam's Pens, The Outhouses, and PJ'opolises, to name a few. But the most common reference for such a place was Satellite Slums _._

The New York area had five: Yonkers/Mt. Vernon (North District), Great Neck/Port Washington (East District), The Hempsteads, Paramus, NJ, and Elizabeth, NJ. All in all, there were fifteen million people living in concentrated pockets. It was reminiscent of the housing projects of the twentieth century. Only this time, it wasn't the city's or the state's problem. It was exclusively the problem of the Federal Government.

The Feds built, managed and maintained the housing. They subsidized public transportation such as the commuter buses. And they also took care of policing, education and social services. But of course, the Federal Government proved that it was inept.

Crime was rampant. Fraud was widespread. The education was horrible. The homes fell apart. The projects were shoddy within a decade of being built. And unemployment averaged over 25 percent. To sum up, the slums were shitholes, and Elizabeth, NJ was one of the most notorious. The city had a population of close to 1.4 million, all living within an area that used to fit 130,000.

The majority of the employed citizens, those who could find employment, worked in either the two major cities or the surrounding suburbs. They worked at menial and minimum wage jobs, or in the case of immigrant guest workers, below minimum wage jobs. The commuter buses were always packed. However, the upside was transportation was dirt cheap, and it ran twenty-four hours.

When the United States dissolved in 2040, the East American Government took over. And under the East Americans, things became a little more liberal.

To tackle unemployment and the lack of economic activity within the slums, the East Americans legalized drugs and prostitution within certain city limits. Elizabeth, NJ became our Vice Zone _._ It was similar to how Indian reservations were allowed to have casinos.

The move was effective. Damn effective.

Patrons from the region and all over the world swarmed to the red-light districts, smoke shops, and accompanying hotels and restaurants. Elizabeth, NJ was more popular than Atlantic City or the Aqueduct in Queens, NY, and it wasn't even close.

My roommates used to drag me to the smoke shops on many occasions. They absolutely _loved_ that town. I used to hear of epic whore binges from fellow students at NYU. Often, they bragged in class that they were able to have a woman of every race, all in one night. It was no wonder Elizabeth, NJ had the nickname, Rock City. It was definitely the place to go and get your rocks off.

***

Frelinghuysen Avenue turned into Newark Avenue, Newark Avenue turned into North Broad Street, and North Broad Street led me directly into the heart of the city. I was driven by curiosity and momentum, as opposed to common sense and concern for my safety. If I had made that walk a thousand times over, I never would have been so careless. But for some reason, that day, I wanted to see what had become of this place.

The double-tenant homes were dilapidated. Shingles were missing from the roofs, the sidings had lost a considerable amount of paint, and gray, weathered planks of wood were exposed underneath. The one-level storefronts, which used to house convenience shops, liquor stores, fried chicken spots, Chinese restaurants and churches, among other things, were covered in grime and emptied out by looters. And the crumbling apartment towers of the projects, which I saw from as far out as Ironbound, were especially dismal up close.

The towers were at least thirty levels tall, and built of refurbished brick and glass from buildings that were demolished during gentrification. The windows were ridiculously small. The towers resembled huge, patched-together prisons. Some of the towers had suffered through fire. I knew this because large swaths of brick were blackened on the outside, and many of the small windows were broken, revealing dark oblivion inside.

One of the signatures of Elizabeth, NJ was the graffiti. It was everywhere. On the homes, on the stores, on the schools, on the sidewalks, and on the street signs, the markings of spray paint were without exhaust. The markings indicated the confines of gang territory. There were the WALNUT POSSE, the HUSTLIN SCOTZ, the FAIRMOUNT KILLAZ, the _439 BOYZ_ and many, many more.

In this town, gang authority held more weight than law enforcement. Law enforcement was corrupt, and made up of men and women who were illiterate and who made piss-poor wages. On the contrary, the gangs were organized, and were competently run. For a fee, they protected their subjects and interests with brute force.

But on September 3, 2068, there were no gangsters, there were no subjects, and there were no corrupt, underpaid police. There were no visitors from out of town, there were no whores, and there were no poor people who were trying to get by. Other than myself, there wasn't a human being in sight. Not throughout my entire walk to the city center.

And downtown, the smoke shops, strip clubs, cat houses, restaurants, and other places of business, pleasure, and vice were destroyed. The smoke shops had gone up in smoke. The strip clubs were stripped of everything useful. The cat houses were now only occupied by stray, feral cats. The restaurants and other places were equally assaulted. For all intents and purposes, the city of Elizabeth was dead.

***

I continued through all of this until I reached Elizabeth Square, a public area nestled between the old Union County Courthouse and City Hall. In its time, the Square was the city's most attractive feature. The park was large, with a huge metallic fountain at one end, and an elevated platform at the other. The concrete ground was populated with dark green benches, northern palm trees that were spaced far apart, and slits for mulch and small flowers, such as daisies, lilies and tulips. Concerts, block parties, political rallies, and other events used to be held at this park. But by my arrival, things were an absolute mess.

There had been a great fight between the government and the people. Two military hovercopters were right in the middle of the park. Both crafts were shot down, burnt, and riddled with small bullet holes. But whoever was inside had killed scores of people before it was all said and done. There were craters where missiles had detonated. The palm trees were knocked over from automatic gunfire. The concrete was stained with brown and black blood. The blood had dried, been remoistened by the rain earlier that day, and had dried again. And there were shriveled, minute pieces of human beings. There were bone fragments, noses, ears and fingers, and other bits. They littered the area, like leaves on a fall day. The smell wasn't as bad as the mass grave or the house where I had found my food, but it was still putrid enough to alter my breathing to shallow inhales. If I had to guess, this battle had taken place a few weeks prior.

I wandered through the middle of this mess for close to five minutes. Then I heard something.

I wasn't alone. Someone was in the square with me. And it was such a fucked up feeling!

I drew my gun and looked around wildly. Whoever was out there, they could see me and I couldn't see them. The walk to and through Elizabeth had lulled me. Suddenly, the bleak and ghoulish surroundings were perfect for an ambush. I thought to myself, _My dumb ass has walked right into a trap!_

"I know someone is out there!" I said. I was probing with my gun for any movement. "Just show yourself and no one has to get hurt!"

Tough words for someone in my position, but I figured it was worth a try.

This bout of anxiety went on for close to a minute. Me, pointing my gun and acting as if I was in control; whoever, poised and quiet, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Mentally, I was preparing myself to die. To die shooting.

I will not drop my gun, I will not drop my gun....

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man.

He was standing behind one of the downed hovercopters. He was calm. He looked at me as if he had been standing there the whole time. He was an old Black man—had to have been at least seventy. He was a few inches shorter than me. He had a small, bald head. He had on a white tank top, loose fitting jeans, and what looked like winter boots. His arms, neck and chest were covered in faded, warped tattoos. His eyes were pale from glaucoma. From his ashen face and obstructed breathing, I could tell he was in the latter stages of cancer. He had nothing in his hands, but dangling from his mouth was an unlit cigarette.

My gun was trained directly between his gray, listless eyes. I was visibly shaken.

"You got a light?" the man asked.

He asked the question as if we were two people at a bus stop. His voice was raspy, but he was completely unruffled.

Perplexed by the question, I stuttered, "Excuse me?"

The old man sighed.

"Look. If you going to kill me, then go ahead. Knock yourself out. I really don't give a shit. I'm dead already. But if you ain't, do you have anything that'll light this cigarette? I haven't had one of these things in twelve years, and it makes no sense to be shy about it now. So I'm asking you, boy, can you help me out?"

In a meek voice, I asked, "Is this an ambush?"

"No, this ain't no fucking ambush!" I jumped at the old man's sudden loss of patience. "If this was an ambush you'd be dead already! Now do you have that light or don't you have that light? I don't have much time, boy!"

Feeling like an idiot, I lowered the gun from his head and reached into my pocket. I found the lighter I retrieved from Ironbound and tossed it to him.

The old man caught the lighter with his left hand and eagerly fired up his cigarette.

He tossed the lighter back to me and pulled a long, satisfying drag.

Before he could exhale, he coughed uncontrollably. He hunched over as smoke made an ungraceful escape from his nose and mouth. Tears ran down his cheeks, and left an incredible contrast against his gray skin. He laughed at himself.

"That's some strong shit they make these days...well...made."

"What happened here?" I said. "What happened to them?"

I pointed to the downed hovercopters.

"They fucked up.... That's what happened to them. They flew over the wrong bunch of mad-ass peoples. My man Bucktooth Charlie shot them bitches right out the sky with an air missile. Where he found that muthafucka, I don't know, but he shot 'em and they crashed right where you see them.

"We was about to put a whoppin' on they ass, then them muthafuckas start cuttin' loose with all that shit they had...muthafuckas was exploding like they was bombs...on some straight dynamite shit...that shit was crazy, man! They had to have chopped about a hundred folks...like they was grass...I'm tellin' ya, I never seen anything like it.

"Finally, we got a hold of a couple of 'em, though. We dragged them out, and we fucked them up! I mean we _fucked-them-up!_ Then we hung 'em...They still swingin' over there in Scott Park.

"Fuckin' government. Treat us like we animals...let us die from some fuckin' plague that them muthafuckas probably caused. Then they got the nerve to fly over us like they the shit...hell nah!

"After that, muthafuckas broke out. Some headed north, others headed west and south. Then when that power shit went out, more people left.... Only a few of us still stayed."

He paused, somewhat exhausted. He took another pull from his cigarette. Then he gave me a suspicious look.

"By the way, who the fuck is you? And what you doin' here?"

"I'm passing through," I said.

"Well, it is mighty lucky you passed through when you did—'cause you'd be a dead muthafucka you came through here any other time. Fuck is wrong with you, boy? Walkin' up in here like you Billy the Baddest Ass...shit...you just missed a whole gang of muthafuckas from earlier this mornin'. Said they was goin' to New York to fuck up some soldiers and eggheads...I told 'em they could have that shit. I'm too tired...I stayed here."

While he was talking, he reached into his back pocket and took out another cigarette. He used the old one to light the new one.

"My gang went to fight the scientists in New York, too," I said.

The old man was intrigued as he exhaled his smoke.

"Won't you say it....Where the hell you from, boy? What's your set?"

"Last Standers. We were a militia in Manhattan."

This brought a smirk to the old man's face.

"Hmm...I don't know who the fuck they is....What you doin' out here by yourself?"

"They kicked me out," I said, with sudden self-righteousness. "I don't know who's in that building in New York. I don't know how they got there or what they're doing there, but they had nothing to do with the virus. I know they didn't. They just couldn't have. I told the leader how I felt, and I was kicked out."

"Well, shit...you went against the pack. These is fucked up times, boy. You got to go with your clique even if you think it's some fucked up shit. You'd still be around your peoples.

"I'ma tell you the straight. You been lucky today. You lucky right now. But your ass had better find some more peoples, or you 'bout to get caught out there."

"Thanks for the advice," I said. "I will be on the lookout for some more _peoples..._ and I hope to find them soon."

The old man started coughing again, and this time it was more severe. I watched as he hacked away. I was helpless and caught by surprise. After a while, the old man doubled over and collapsed to the ground. The cigarette fell from his lips and dark, purplish blood oozed from his nostrils and mouth.

The old man was perfectly still on the ground, as if he was dead already. I stood there watching him, thinking, _Damn, did this really just happen?_

Then suddenly, he stirred to life again. Slowly, he lifted off the ground and rose to his knees, and with great effort, wiped his face with his arm. After adjusting to seeing this, I snapped to and walked over to him. I put a hand to his back, grabbed his clean arm, and helped him to his feet. His legs were as wobbly as a newborn calf at first step. He leaned heavily on my right shoulder.

We made it to a bench. Then I reached into one of the bags, took out one of my bottles of water, and offered it to him. He took it and tried opening the top, but didn't have the strength, so I opened it for him. He held it with both hands as if it weighed several kilograms. Once he had balance he drunk appreciatively.

When he had had enough, he handed it back to me. I put the top back on and placed it down in between us. He paused to rest for a few seconds. His breathing was strained.

"What's your name, boy?" He sounded terrible. His voice was fighting through a gauntlet of phlegm and blood inside his throat.

"Martin. My name is Martin Jacob, sir."

"I'm Tory. They call me Old Toots."

He offered his hand. I shook it tentatively.

"Look here, Martin. I'm telling you the straight...You need to head west, because there ain't shit happening in these cities....Not anymore."

He paused for a moment. Every sentence was hard work for poor Tory.

"I had seven kids, eleven grand-babies, and three grand-grand-babies.... And I had to see damn near every one of them in Elizabeth die. One by one...sixteen members of my flesh and blood, Martin.... I got one daughter and two grand-babies that didn't catch this shit.... They left for Pennsylvania...and I pray to Jesus that they make it.

"If you want a future, Martin, get you some peoples and head west.... It's too late for an old-head like me. But you...you got to live, Martin.... Do what you got to do to live.... Walking through these cities by yourself ain't where it's happenin'."

Tory became silent. He only concentrated on breathing. He really _had_ to concentrate to do so. He didn't have much longer. I have seen so many deaths since that Saturday in late July, 2068. I have seen many people take their last breaths. And it never gets easier. It just never does.

"Do you need help getting somewhere?" I said.

He just sat there, panting, like a mortally wounded dog. His body was shaking ever so slightly. His will to hold on was collapsing. He looked to the cluster of project towers where he must have lived.

"No," he said. He paused for a few seconds. "I'm right where I want to be...but before you go, can you do me a favor?"

"Yes?" I asked.

In slow motion, Tory reached into his back pocket. It took everything he had to tilt his body so he could reach into it. He retrieved a cigarette, and then put it to his mouth. It trembled in the grasp of his lips. He fixed his gaze back to the towers with tear-filled, hazy eyes.

"Can you give me a light?"

End of Transcript

**7:40pm Transcript of Dr. Albert Peacock via** _SciDOC-SJ_

Dr. Peacock is in front of the camera. He is in the middle of yet another coughing fit. The dark veins of his neck and temples are visible through his skin. Each breath he takes is a painful and loud wheeze. Many of his colleagues sound just as bad. The two ladies in the background are working at the decompression chamber. After fifteen seconds, Dr. Peacock has enough strength to speak.

Dr. Peacock:

This is Dr. Albert Peacock....The time is now 7:40pm, September third, the year twenty sixty-eight. This will be my last entry....The cancer has come to the final stages with me. I am certain that I am within my last hour....Dr. Gates will record our story at the end of this session and going forward.

My two fellow colleagues are preparing to remove the final string cluster for decompression. The process should take another ten hours by their labor...and then our task shall be done...My colleagues on the outside have fought valiantly...It is my hope that they are able to hold off for the time necessary...Though they are deprived of...

Dr. Peacock pauses. Then he abruptly starts coughing again. As he coughs, he spits up a dark, thick trail of blood. It oozes down the left side of his mouth. He rests for a moment. Other colleagues are coughing as well, though not as severe as Dr. Peacock.

Dr. Jones:

My God...ten hours is a long time.

Dr. Nevins:

Ten hours? I'll be lucky if I last another ten minutes...

Dr. Leshay:

We made it this far....We might as well see it through.

Dr. Farziah:

But we will not see it through...We will not make it out of here alive. Those bastards out there have been trying to kill us all this time...They cannot even comprehend that we have been trying to...save them. They have no idea what we have done to save them!

The coughing is steady throughout the colleagues. Dr. Peacock is leaning to his right side with barely enough stamina to sit upright. Someone is injecting a hydro-caffeine shot. The ladies are still at work in the background.

Dr. Peacock:

I would like to thank you...thank you all. You have sacrificed so much. We have been through so much...I do not regret dying with such a fine family as this...I love you all...I really do.

Dr. Bertrand:

Ah, come on, Albert! Hold it together. We still have ten hours. We shouldn't be saying our goodbyes just yet. Who knows...we may be able to walk out of here. It's slim, but it can happen.

Dr. Jones:

_What the hell are you talking about, Phil? You still have hope of making it out of here, after all of_ this _? Man...I don't want to hear it._

Dr. Bertrand:

It's not impossible, Steve! Maybe, just maybe...we can sneak out of here. They haven't seen our faces. Not up close. Maybe somehow, we can blend in with the crowd.

Dr. Farziah:

This is bullshit! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! We are surrounded! How the hell...do we get out of here when we have killed so many?! We have killed thousands of them out there...They want nothing more than to get their hands on us...They will string us up by our necks and burn us alive!

Dr Nevins:

Damn, Isam...

Dr. Gunter:

Isam is right...It's better to die shooting than to get caught up in some silly scheme...I'm not going out there.

Dr. Jones:

I'll tell you what I think of the matter. Just let me sleep on it.

Four of the scientists laugh. It hurts for the ones who are cancerous. They cough and wince, and their laughter ends shortly after it begins. There is a faint noise from the crowd below. They are singing an indeterminable song in unison.

Dr. Leshay:

What are they up to now?

Dr. Nevins:

At least they've stopped shooting...

Dr. Jones:

After all this time, they should get the point. How many of those people have we killed already? I can't believe this...we were supposed to improve lives, not take them. I hope God can forgive us for what we have done.

Dr. Peacock suddenly opens his eyes. He is animated in his response to Dr. Jones's comment.

Dr. Peacock:

_We are doing God's work! If the world blew up because some misguided person...took a bat to our device, then what would your_ God _say to that? Hmm? This plague has killed billions, but it has not killed us all...Though greatly reduced, humanity will remain. And even though we had put everything at risk, we have been given a chance to make that wrong a right before we go....For that, I am grateful....We should all be grateful..._

Dr. Peacock starts coughing again. After a few seconds, he falls to the floor out of the camera's view. He is making a gurgling noise. His colleagues are silent with horror. Dr. Gates breaks from her work and rushes to his side. The gurgling stops. After a few seconds, we hear sobs from Dr. Gates.

Dr. Gates:

He's dead.

A round of anguished sighs passes through the colleagues. After half a minute, Dr. Gates returns to the decompression chamber. No one says a word. There is only the occasional cough, the sounds of Dr. Dawar punching commands on the monitor, and the faint noise from the crowd below. This lasts for another minute. Then Dr. Bertrand speaks.

Dr. Bertrand:

What's that?

Dr. Gunter:

What do you see?

Dr. Bertrand:

It's a...it's another hovercopter. I don't believe it's with the news. Computer, magnify and identify the craft in sector six dash eighty degrees.

The computerized voice immediately responds: _Government Aircraft. Warrior Class. F67 Dragon. Designed for urban combat_.

Dr. Bertrand:

Someone is still out there...they've come back for us... They've come to save us!

Dr. Gunter and Dr. Leshay yelp for joy with Dr. Bertrand. Dr. Farziah whispers prayers of thanks. Dr. Nevins murmurs thank you over and over. The two scientists in the chamber continue their work unaffected. Only Dr. Jones remains silent. After a moment, he speaks.

Dr. Jones:

We can't be too certain of that. Contact them, Phil.

Dr. Bertrand:

Are you kidding me? Someone has come back for us! What else could it be? Computer, contact the F67.

The F67 is now close. It is hovering in one place, less than forty meters from the building. The engines of the craft are loud through Dr. Bertrand's microphone.

Dr. Jones:

What on Earth is he doing?

There is a ping.

Dr. Bertrand:

This is Dr. Philippe Bertrand, participating scientist of the East American project, S.E.E.D. With whom am I speaking?

There is silence on the other line.

Dr. Nevins:

I don't like this....I don't like this at all.

Dr. Bertrand:

I repeat. This is Dr. Philippe Bertrand. My colleagues and I are of the East American project, S.E.E.D. With whom am I speaking? Are you friend or are you foe?

There are anxious murmurs as well as coughing throughout the colleagues. Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar pause from their work in anticipation of the stranger's response. The only noise from the F67 is the blaring of its engines. After ten seconds, a male voice replies.

Pilot:

Foe

Dr. Bertrand:

Oh my...

Before Dr. Bertrand could finish his phrase, there is a loud screech. Defensive fire kick in from Dr. Bertrand's gunning station. Then, a loud explosion.

Dr. Jones:

Oh shit! We're under attack! Everybody fire at will! Fire at will! All-out blitz! All-out blitz!

There is non-stop weapon fire, both defensive and offensive. The chamber is flooded with red light. A loud alarm rings throughout. Dr. Bertrand's gunning station crashes to the ground. The crowd below roars with excitement. They are closing in on the building.

Dr. Jones:

Mark! We need you up top, Mark! We'll fight them off as long as we can. You have to take that thing out!

There are screams of panic from Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar. They are no longer concerned with their work. Their helmets are removed, they are standing next to each other, and both are listening intently.

Dr. Farziah is running to the northwest corner of the building to assist Dr. Nevins, who's facing the F67 on his own. As the weapons screech, Dr. Nevins is saying his last prayers. Dr. Gunter is running. He is breathing heavily as he makes his way up the staircase.

Dr. Nevins lets out a scream, but it is cut short. Three loud explosions strike the building, and Dr. Nevins's microphone crudely goes silent. The camera in the chamber shakes from the force of the explosions. Dr. Nevin's gunning station, along with a chunk of the building's corner, falls to York Avenue and the crowd below.

The noise of the F67's engines grows louder in Dr. Jones's microphone. Dr. Jones is yelling excitedly, beckoning the hostile craft to come closer. Defensive and offensive weapons begin to explode on contact. Dr. Farziah reverses course and heads to the southeast corner to help Dr. Jones. The F67's engines blare as the craft shifts for protection while firing. Dr. Gunter is still racing up the stairs.

Dr. Jones:

Come on, you son of a bitch! Yeah...yeah you motherfuc...

Another loud explosion strikes below Dr. Jones's station. There is a creak of metal. The gunning station has been blown ajar from its axis. Undaunted, Dr. Jones continues to yell and fire away at the craft as it moves and fires above him. Then the final support beam gives way. Dr. Jones's station falls and crashes to the ground below.

Dr. Farziah is firing his weapon and yelling. Dr. Leshay takes a shot when he has an angle. Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar have not moved from where they are standing. Dr. Gunter is kicking through a door on the roof level. He coughs for several seconds, and then he speaks.

Dr. Gunter:

I'm...I'm up top...which way?

Dr. Leshay:

To the east! To the east!

There is sharp, rapid gunfire from the F67. Dr. Farziah yells in agony as bullets rip through his torso and stomach. His weapon hits the floor with a loud clank. He follows it to the floor, already dead.

Dr. Leshay:

Where the hell are you, Mark? I'm all that's left!

The F67 backs away from the building. It has stopped firing. Dr. Leshay stops as well.

Dr. Leshay:

What the hell is he doing now? Wait a minute...what's that? Computer, identify the performance of the enemy craft.

The computerized voice responds: _The F67 is launching a H61-OP54 missile. Aim is projected for levels 6 and 7. Calculation is total destruction. Calculation is total destruction..._ Dr. Gunter is steadying his portable rocket launcher. Dr. Leshay frantically fires every weapon his station has.

Dr. Leshay:

Any day, Mark! You heard it like I heard it! He's going to take us out!

Dr. Gunter:

I'm firing now!

There are three _shoomps_ as the missiles drop below. Two miss their target and explode on the ground. The third missile strikes the F67's right wing.

Dr. Gunter:

I got him! I got him!

The four surviving scientists yell in elation. The craft makes an awful hissing noise as it spins out of control toward the courtyard. People are scrambling out of its way below. Then there is one last screech from the craft.

Dr. Leshay:

Oh no...

Dr. Gunter:

It's over.

Dr. Gates and Dr. Dawar:

AHHHH!

One large explosion is followed by a ripple of smaller explosions. Everything is shaking in the camera's view. There is dust everywhere, and parts of the ceiling are falling to the floor. Dr. Gunter loses his balance as the building tilts. He screams while falling a hundred meters to his death. Dr. Leshay cries out a defiant yell until his microphone cuts off. In the S.E.E.D. chamber, there is a banging at the door outside. Intruders are in the hallway, desperately, madly trying get inside. Dr. Dawar is crying on Dr. Gates's shoulder. Dr. Gates is saying her goodbyes into the camera. The floors are collapsing above them, one by one. The destruction is growing louder the closer it comes.

Dr. Gates:

Anthony and Tiffany, just know that mommy loves you so...

-End of Transcript-

***

7:40pm Transcript of Station 37, Transmission B

Terrence Green is in the middle of a discussion with his pilot, Ben Sanders. Their hovercopter is low on fuel. Ben argues that they should head to the fueling station at Bridgeport, Connecticut—immediately. Terrence, however, is not ready. While the two go back and forth, the battle below is in a lull.

Terrence Green:

Ok, Benny. Ok! Let me have one last eyewitness account with Jessie and then we can leave. I promise. Can you give me five minutes?

Ben's voice is barely audible due to his distance from Terrence's microphone.

Ben Sanders:

Go ahead, Terrence. But if you take more than five minutes, we're not making it back to Bridgeport. We'll have to go to Rahway, and who knows what we'll find there. Five minutes!

Terrence Green:

Thanks, Benny. You're the best!

Well, as you may have just heard, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to have to go away shortly. Here's a brief update. From what I can tell, there has been a pause in the fighting below, and there's still a sizable crowd in the area. There are thousands at the Rockefeller University campus. There are just as many along York Avenue as far south as 60th Street and as far north as 74th Street. And there's another huge mass along 68th Street, as far back as Madison Avenue. The crowd has been reduced to mere spectators, it seems. The fighters have made no progress. Everyone is waiting around for the next move.

So far, there have been thousands of casualties, all from the unsuccessful coalition. And the damage to everything is incredible. The courtyard and surrounding streets and pavement have been reduced to pebbles and dust. Makeshift barriers and places of protection have been destroyed. Human remains are scattered everywhere. It's amazing that any of the adjacent buildings are still standing. The weapon's globes have shredded through sidings of brick, metal, and glass as if they were cardboard and plastic. I can see clean through the Main Medical Building at the center of the complex. That building is little more than skeletal concrete and steel now.

The occupied building is nowhere near as damaged, though I doubt that there is a single window intact. The four gunners are still inside their globes, untouched. Every now and then, I'll catch a glimpse of an individual gunner. Naturally, they stay out of sight to avoid sniper fire. I have tried to contact those inside, but haven't been successful as of yet.

Jessie McCarthy is on the ground within the crowd at the Rockefeller University campus. We'll try to reach him now.

Terrence turns a switch. And after a few seconds, Jessie's voice is heard. He is having a conversation with one of the spectators. In the background, hundreds of people are singing an indistinct song in unison.

Terrence Green:

Jessie, this is Terrence. Do you hear me? Jessie, are you there?

Jessie breaks his conversation once he recognizes Terrence's voice.

Jessie McCarthy:

Hello. Yes, I'm here, Terrence.

Terrence Green:

Hello, Jessie. We're running out of fuel. We're going to have to leave. Are you going to be all right with the crowd?

Jessie McCarthy:

Yeah, Terrence...I'll be just fine. We seem to have a ceasefire. I haven't heard a single shot in over twenty minutes.

Terrence Green:

Quickly, are there any new developments, Jessie?

Jessie McCarthy:

Not really....In the social room on the Rockefeller Campus, there is a debate among the surviving leaders. They are discussing how to carry the fight forward. Some want to fight into the night; others want to retreat and try again at daybreak tomorrow.

Not long ago, I returned from Rockefeller Hall, one of the many triages set up in the neighborhood. There were hundreds of people lying on the floor, on top of mats of clothing or whatever else they could find. Some are dying of injuries, some are dying of the cancer, and some are dying of both. The shortage of able physicians is obvious, but volunteers are doing what they can. Many of the volunteers are dying themselves.

Despite it all, the mood of the crowd is calm and determined. As you can hear, many people are chanting songs to keep their spirits up. It's an indescribable feeling to be in the midst of all this, Terrence!

My friend, Akbar Zaheed, and I were just discussing his plans for nightfall. They are more or less the same as virtually everyone out here. He is determined to stay until someone can figure out a way to get at the occupiers. He and his group of three hundred arrived from Jersey City earlier this morning. He says that they will not leave until justice is served, and...

Ben Sanders:

Terrence! Look! We have something...toward downtown.

Terrence Green:

What in the...Jessie. Hold up Jessie. Hold up! We have something in the sky. It's coming from the midtown area. It's not a news copter...no...it's a government aircraft. Yeah...it's definitely a government aircraft, and it is heading in this direction! Sorry, Bennie, we cannot leave. Not yet!

Jessie McCarthy:

What's it doing, Terrence? Is it for the crowd or is it for them?

Terrence Green:

I don't know...The craft has closed in. It's in front of the occupied building's southwest corner. It's just hovering there...Bennie, see if you can get us a better angle.

Jessie McCarthy:

Ok...ok, I see it now. Oh...is that an F67?

Terrence, Jessie, and Ben gasp as the F67 suddenly opens fire. In reaction, the crowd cries in surprise, then roars with approval as deafening screeches and explosions reverberate throughout.

Terrence Green:

Oh! The F67 just took down one of the stations! It has crashed to the street below! It's taking on the occupiers!

Abruptly, Jessie is swept forward in a turbulent river of people. He is desperate in his attempt to negotiate the stampeding crowd. There are countless yells of excitement and insurmountable energy as the spectators have sensed the change in momentum. Jessie is too preoccupied with survival to report anything.

Terrence Green:

Oh my God! There's complete chaos on the ground! The crowd is now closing in on the building! They're dragging out the lifeless body of the gunner inside. The F67 is fighting the gunning station at the northwest corner! They are exchanging fire! The craft is moving around...damn, look at that thing move! Oh...Oh! It just took out the northwest gunner!

Jessie is still fighting for his life as he runs with the crowd and tries to maneuver sideways to safety. The engines of the F67 roar. The craft is moving to the other side of the building. People are feverish. There is yelling in different languages, gunshots blast into the air. The exchange of weapon fire between the building and the craft resumes. Jessie continues to scream.

Jessie McCarthy:

Excuse me! Excuse me! Goddamnit! Excuse me!

Terrence Green:

The fight has shifted entirely to the south side of the building into the courtyard! The gunners cannot penetrate the craft's defensive weaponry. Oh...Oh! It just struck below the third globe! It's dangling...and the gunner is still firing away! Look! People are climbing into the building! They are lifting themselves with rope at all sides, there are hundreds of them! They're taking the building! They're taking the building! It's a mob to end all mobs! Oh! The third globe just fell! Jessie! Are you seeing this, Jessie? Jessie, are you alright?

Jessie McCarthy:

Fuck this shit...I'm out of here!

Jessie's microphone pops as it hits the ground. He is running away from the charging crowd, away from the fight, away from everything.

Terrence Green:

Jessie! Damnit, Jessie! Ok...ok, fine. Ok, ladies and gentlemen, that leaves me to report to...

Ben Sanders:

What is it doing? It's not firing on the last globe.

Terrence Green:

I think...I think it's aiming for something...oh, look! Look! There's a guy on the roof!

The final globe fires every weapon it has at the F67. In response, the F67 fires its defensive weapons. The man on the roof launches three missiles of his own. The first two explode on the ground, killing scores of people below. The third missile strikes the target.

Terrence Green:

The F67's been hit! The F67's been hit! It's swirling out of control...it's going to crash!

There is a high-pitched screech as the F67 launches one last missile. Next, the craft hits the ground and explodes.

At the same time, the missile detonates inside the occupied building, setting off its own fantastic series of explosives. The first blast is pronounced, the others are less severe.

Terrence Green:

Oh man...It's going to fall...Bennie, get us out of here!

The building creaks and moans as the top levels start to tilt. The levels destroyed in the detonation are giving way. The entire structure is collapsing to the ground in a cloud of dust. The crowd is terrified. There are screams of panic and hopelessness as thousands of people reverse course to run for their lives in vain.

Terrence Green:

Go Bennie! Go! Go...

-End of Transcript-

The Witness

**I was walking along South Avenue in Garwood, NJ.** The sun was setting, the long and eventful day was coming to a swift end, and there were storefronts to both sides of the dusty, two-way road. A couple of fast food restaurants, a couple of banks, a grocery store, a PCD shop, and a SkyCharge payment center were all dark inside and rummaged through as I passed them. However, there was a funeral home on Oak Street, and _it_ remained untouched. I was confident no one was inside, but I kid you not, the place looked as if it was open for business. As if you could walk right in, sit at a desk, and arrange a funeral. It was one of the new wonders of this strange and dark world.

I felt exhaustion in my bones, but my mind was active with thought. I had to make a lot of decisions, decisions that were no longer made for me, and I had to make them soon. Where am I going to sleep; when will I run into people again; how will I know to trust them; how will I find transportation; and where in the hell am I going in the first place were among the questions I pondered.

I thought of David and the militia. I wondered how they were faring in that _damn fool's_ battle of theirs. I wondered how many of them were dead already. I also thought of the insanity of everything—everything that had occurred that day. When I woke up that morning, exile, and wandering through Jersey alone wasn't how I envisioned the day going.

And even as momentum and wounded pride carried me west, I imagined my return to New York City. Maybe within a few weeks, maybe within a few months, or maybe many years down the line, I was certain I was going to go back. How different things would be, who knows. But whatever the changes, I knew I would find a way to fit in.

Maybe I would see David there after all. He would tell me how and when the Last Standers deposed that crazy bastard, Wu. And we would reminisce about the wild times we shared, and tell each other the stories of our adventures since my departure. The prospect of this reunion warmed me. It was a blanket of reassurance as I moved forward into the unknown.

I was unprepared for what happened next.

While crossing Center Street, I noticed the pavement in front of me. It reflected light, but the light came from the east behind me, not the west to my front.

Perplexed, I turned around.

"Oh..." was all that I could say.

In the direction of New York, a brilliant, orange-red light expanded over the distance. It was as bright as any rising or setting sun. I shielded my eyes but stood my ground.

Then I heard the distant sound of an eruption. It roared like a volcano as it crackled and spewed its contents skyward.

The eruption was followed by a shockwave.

Buildings vibrated in a swift and invisible stream. As soon as I recognized it for what it was, it was on me.

The energy was immense. It vibrated through my body, threw me to the ground as if I were weightless, and cracked the very pavement under my feet!

The surrounding buildings shook to their cores. Glass that had not shattered before shattered then. And unfixed objects crashed to the ground with violent force!

I curled in a fetal position and screamed. I screamed in anticipation of being swept up, burned, and torn apart as if I were made of straw or wood. I didn't want to die this way. It was going to be violent, my flesh and blood body caught in this violence. And goddamnit, I screamed!

But I didn't die.

After a while, the whistling noise and whipping wind stopped, and things calmed down.

Surprised to be among the living, I uncurled, stood up, and felt around my body. I felt my arms, my legs, my crotch, my neck, and my face to make sure all was intact. My movements were slow. I felt as if I had suffered a beating in ice-cold weather.

I only found a few nicks and bruises. Convinced that I was whole, I looked back towards the east.

The project towers of Elizabeth, which were about ten kilometers behind me, were now a jagged and crumbled mess of half destroyed buildings. A testament to shady construction.

The orange-red light had evolved into a pink-reddish cloud, with one tall and determined beam serving as its root. The beam fueled the cloud as it spread out in the shape of a mushroom. The cloud had a ceiling of a couple of thousand meters. And inside it, there were random flashes of pink, neon lightening.

In all its strangeness, and potential danger, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I was awestruck by this beauty. Trapped by it, like a mouse stuck to a glue pad. My instincts told me to run as it was slowly but steadily approaching. But that instinct was overruled by my desire to go nowhere. By my desire to witness.

The cloud carried the sound of a thousand tornadoes with violent thunder and turmoil within. It looked as if it was going to expand forever. It looked as if it was going to swallow the planet whole. I looked at this spectacle not with the interest of a grown man, but with the interest of a child. After a time I didn't bother to keep track of, maybe a minute or two, the tower of light at the cloud's root subsided, as if some unseen hand had flipped a switch.

My trance was broken when I heard the sound of rumbling. I looked from the sky to my front, and noticed that hundreds if not thousands of animals were stampeding in my direction! There were rats, cats, dogs, and possums. There were raccoons, deer, skunks, and even a goat. All were running as fast as they could in a tumble down South Avenue. At the same time, I noticed a mass of fleeing birds overhead. They were a dark and screeching cloud. They were vast. They were millions. And they were urgent in their flight to the west.

I fumbled for my gun as the animals on the ground approached. I was clumsy and unraveled and certain that I was about to be trampled. But once they reached me, the animals rushed right around me. They moved with precision as they skirted past my dancing legs. I screamed like a fool, but the animals paid me no mind. They were running from the approaching cloud. To them I was inconsequential, an obstacle such as a tree or stump.

Where the hell the animals came from, I will never know. But I knew terrified animals in such numbers couldn't be wrong. I turned around and I ran. I ran with the various creatures as fast as my legs could take me. Away from the direction of New York, and away from the encroaching and beautiful storm.

***

I made it as far as Westfield, NJ, the next town over, before my body gave in. I collapsed in a random yard off West Broad Street. The artificial-turfed lawn was cool beneath me. I was out of breath, my lungs burning, and my throat raw. I just lay there, waiting. Whatever the cloud was, if it wanted me, it had me.

It was night by this time, but the sky was anything but dark. The humongous cloud was radiant. It didn't drift with the wind, nor did it fall to the ground in a heap. It was stationary. It was dense. And it slowly spilled contents to the earth below. It spilled in the form of a rain or hail, pink in hue, and with occasional sparks of brilliant light. The cloud didn't reach overhead, but it was uncomfortably close. It was perhaps as close as Elizabeth, NJ, not even twenty kilometers away.

After I regained some of my strength, and determined that death wasn't imminent, my focus turned to finding shelter for the night. The home of the lawn I had collapsed on appeared to be a good candidate. It was a two level home, rectangular in shape and with aluminum and glass siding. The home had long and elegant, carbon painted columns that stretched from the roof to the porch deck. The roof had two busted solar panels—one on each side. Both were about 15X5 meters, and looked as if they hadn't been used in years. A large triangular antenna sat in between them. This was evidence that the home was self-sufficient at one point, and then converted to the SkyCharge network.

***

I entered the house through a back window. Once inside, my gun was drawn and my lighter was in hand to guide me through. The first place I went to was the kitchen. The kitchen was orderly and untouched by intruders. Sleek appliances populated the counters, and there were jars filled with sugar, cookies, candy and flour. The cabinets were made of layered glass. The pattern was inverted wood. And everything smelled of faint, stale pine.

As I searched, I only found a few cans of soup under the sink. There was no water or drink of any kind to be had. I took the cans and added them to my provisions, then I went to explore upstairs.

There were four bedrooms on the second floor. One room was for a small child, a girl who couldn't have been older than five. She had a wealth of dolls, toys, and easy-readers stacked in every corner. The second room was for a teenager, a boy who was into sports. He had posters of athletes on all four walls, and a holographic video game console that sat at the end of his bed. The third room was rather bland looking; it must have been reserved for guests. The walls were white, the furniture was tan colored and cheap, and there was a solid brown quilt on the queen-sized bed. The master bedroom, by contrast, was large enough to fit the other three rooms combined. It was well furnished with a king sized bed, drawers, two nightstands, a desk, and a communications panel. The carpet was thick and colored ruby red. The room had its own bathroom, its own cabinet, even a non-working refrigerator. And I found a battery-powered light in the spacious closet.

The master bedroom was my room for the night.

Now that I had a place to sleep, my first order of business was turning on the small radio. I was desperate to find out what happened. But any news concerning New York was non-existent. The only stations available were from other parts of the world, and most were in foreign languages. From what I could tell, the contents of the stations were in four categories: reports of devastation, self-righteous promotion, conspiracy theories, and religious zealots.

With the world falling apart, it was amazing that anyone had access to radio in the first place. The lucky few who did were able to find satellite transmitters, hack into an unguarded system, and create their own mediums to broadcast worldwide. Among them were journalists and journalist wannabes. They didn't broadcast for profit. There were no companies left to pay. Instead, they did it to be heard. The positive side was keeping a dark and different world informed; and the negative side was on demonstration that day.

The radio search was fruitless. I left the radio on the nightstand, took the light, and entered the bathroom. Inside, I took a sponge bath using water from the toilet's back tank. It was the most sanitary option I had. The faucets had long stopped dispensing usable water.

After the sponge bath, it was time for dinner. I had a can of New England clam chowder and a can of sweet corn. I had made a goofy attempt to heat the cans by placing them above a stainless steel bowl with a cloth on fire inside. The experiment was a disaster. The cloth burned out quickly and left an awful smoke, and the cans were difficult to steady. I went ahead and ate the meal cold, and washed it down with a bottle of water.

After dinner, it was time to get some sleep. In the bed I could hear the storm outside. It raged into the night with violent bursts of thunder and occasional explosions. It was as if someone was microwaving a gigantic bag of popcorn. This is what it must have been to sleep in a war bombarded city, I imagined. Having to block out the noise—and having to ignore the fear.

As the night went on, I thought of the poor souls from my militia. If they were near that explosion, they had no chance. No chance at all. If David was among them, he was as good as gone, too.

It was also starting to sink in. The event that morning, as hurtful and as traumatic as it was, had saved my very life. I would have been right in the middle of it all if I had stayed. But the relief of self-preservation, and proof that my intuition was correct were bittersweet.

What happened to the poor kids at the Last Stander's orphanage? Did they find proper shelter in time? What was the damage inflicted upon my hometown? What will remain and what will be gone? And furthermore, what in the hell is that pink substance falling from the cloud? What effects will it have? I pondered those questions and many more until sleep overcame me.

***

I woke from a hard and dreamless sleep that next morning. I opened my eyes, and found myself lying in the same spot as before. I didn't even toss or turn.

It took me a minute to remember where I was and how had I got there. I reached for the light and turned it on. The bedspread I had used to block out the window had left the room as dark as nightfall.

I checked the time. It was 11am according to the gold watch I had found in a side drawer. My PCD had expired long ago without a way to recharge it. It was disorienting not knowing the time of day. The watch was now mine.

Once I was up, I was ready to leave. I went to the bathroom, squeezed a sliver of toothpaste in my mouth, and gargled with a bit of bottled water. I used the non-working toilet. Then I dressed and left.

***

Outside was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud, natural or unnatural, in the sky. Besides the lack of people and lack of cars, it was an ideal day in an ideal neighborhood. Birds were chirping in the trees above, squirrels were running across the front yards, the wind was calm and the temperature was perfectly mild, and the homes along the street were intact. I felt at ease as I made my way to West Front Street.

At West Front Street, however, this moment of serenity came to an abrupt end.

I saw human bodies. Dozens of human bodies. They were felled in the middle of the road. And from their position, I could tell they had died while fleeing from the previous night's cloud. They had succumbed to contamination.

I went as close as I dared to survey. Before me was the corpse of a Hispanic woman. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties. Her eyes were open with a look of absolute struggle. Her skin was as pale as vanilla. And she was stiff. The body had an unreal quality to it, as if she were a wax figure. This look was universal among each body. There were even a few dead children, huddled next to an adult—all with their lives methodically drained.

From what I could tell, the people were from Elizabeth, NJ. There were injuries on some of them, most likely from the projects damaged in the explosion. And after seeing this, I was confused.

The previous day, I had seen no evidence of others throughout my walk in that defunct city. I only ran across Tory. Apparently, this group did an excellent job of hiding from me, but had no such luck fleeing the toxic downpour.

I left the doomed where they lay, and turned my attention to getting a better view of what they had fled. I saw commuter rail tracks behind a cluster of retail buildings. Quickly, I made my way to them.

I stumbled onto the tracks, and as suspected, the clearing gave a view all the way to Elizabeth, NJ. With my binoculars in hand, I looked and magnified.

My view was the same jagged shape of the Elizabeth skyline, half-collapsed buildings and all. But there was one key difference: everything was pitch-black.

"What the hell?" I said in a whisper.

I was desperate for a higher vantage point. Looking around, I spotted an intact hotel up the road to my west. It was a white building with blue, tinted windows. It was at least thirty levels high, and it was still standing. Perfect.

Not the least bit concerned for my safety, or running into anyone, I jogged to the hotel. I jogged as if it was a matter of life or death. I jogged as if reaching that hotel was my only purpose for existing. There was no feeling of exhaustion. There was no feeling of any kind. Just a desperate want. A desperate want to see what I could.

At the hotel, I entered through a broken glass door. The lobby was trashed and it was dark, but not entirely dark. I quickly found the stairwell. I burst through the red door and began to climb. Level after level I climbed with no pause. Heavy breathing and hard footstep accompanied me with every set. For ten minutes, I moved like this. For ten minutes, I was as determined as a machine.

Once on the roof, I walked to the ledge facing east, and there was a panoramic view.

Extending about ten to twelve kilometers from where I was standing, there was greenery and life; and beyond, almost to a perfect line, there was nothing but blackened and lifeless devastation.

It was the metro area. The vast outstretch of low-lying neighborhoods, Jersey City, Newark, a mangled Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty, the bridges, the parks, the Hudson River, the SkyCharge antenna—the everything. It was all pitch-black. It was as if someone had painted it all with a huge spay can. It was akin to one giant burned forest, stretching as far as the eye could see. From the bodies on the road and the scene before me, it was obvious. Anything on the other side had no chance.

My eyes began to water.

During the entire sequence of events since July 28th, I had not shed one tear. Not during the phone call with my parents or brother; not when I left my parents' house for the last time; not when I witnessed the first killing before me; not when I saw Julie dead in her living room; nor when I was cast into exile that morning had I shed one, single, solitary tear. Everything was so sudden. Everything was so absurd. My emotions were simply buried. It was as if there was a hidden instinct. An instinct that held everything in check within me. But taking in the view before me, that instinct had finally failed. Like a dam that was at first cracked and then broken, I was overcome with an outpouring of grief and loss. It all became undone. It all burst from me. Everything. On the roof of that hotel, I cried more passionately than I ever had before.

To Be Continued

Books II & III

The Days and Months We Were First Born- The Post-New York Edition

Is now Available

Find a link to purchase at the beginning of this story, or visit:

www.christopherhunterfiction.com
Christopher Hunter was 29 years old at the time of his first publication. He currently resides in New York, NY, and he plans to publish more titles in the months and years to follow.

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