Hours earlier, the ferry docks adjacent to Pier A had been a beehive of activity. Tens of thousands had converged upon the waterfront park, mostly visitors, desperate to secure passage off the island. Kayaks were sold for $5,000 in cash, paddleboats exchanged for the keys to Jaguars and Mercedes Benzes. By sundown, any vessel that could float had been purchased, overloaded with civilians, and launched into the Hudson—
— each one intercepted within minutes and sunk by the Coast Guard, the surviving passengers forced to swim back to shore in frigid, limb-paralyzing water.
Few survived. The lucky ones had drowned.
The gate to Pier A’s chain-link fence swung open and closed with each gust of wind, the Arctic blasts coming off the harbor rattling the scaffolding. There were lights on in the structure — a half dozen bare bulbs connected to a portable generator.
Beneath the lights, resting on its trailer, sat the 1982 Bayliner 285 °Contessa Sedan Bridge Cuddy Cruiser. The boat was ten feet long, its fiberglass hull trimmed in blue and cream. Large enough to hold eight passengers comfortably, the cruiser featured a galley equipped with an alcohol-and-electric stove and a head that housed a sink, shower, and Porta Potti. The aft berth slept three.
The cruiser was hooked up to a winch, perched over a retractable section of deck that allowed access to the water beneath the northwest section of the pier.
Heath Shelby had purchased the boat for $6,000 from one of the pier’s managing partners. The engine seemed sound, but the hull was leaking from a collision that had occurred years earlier. The repairs had been improperly completed, making the vessel less than seaworthy. As part of the deal, the owner agreed to keep the vessel inside Pier A while its new owner completed the necessary repairs.
Heath Shelby lay on the dust-covered wood floor, his Santa Claus outfit serving as a blanket. He was burning with fever. Every few minutes, he coughed up a quarter-sized glob of bloodstained bile. A kiwi-sized tumor grew ripe beneath his left armpit.
Alone and terrified, Heath was more frightened of exposing his wife and son to plague. And so he had isolated himself here with the boat, praying he would survive the night.
His cell phone rang again. Through feverish eyes, he gazed at the caller ID, making sure it was not his wife. “Speak.”
“Heath, is that you?”
“Paolo?”
“I just spoke with my sister, she’s worried sick.”
Heath sat up, delirious. “Jennie’s sick?”
“No, I said she’s worried sick. She says you won’t answer your phone.”
“Bad day at work.”
“Bad day? Heath, Manhattan’s been infected by plague; we have to get our families off the island.”
Heath lay back down, fighting the urge to vomit. “How?”
“The boat we were working on for Collin. It can take us across the river. Did you fix the leak?”
“Yeah… no, I don’t know. Paolo, I’m in the boathouse… I’m really sick. I don’t want anyone else exposed to this thing. It’s ripping my insides apart.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. Just stay away. Tell my family to do the same.”
“Heath, the plague is spreading everywhere, by dawn no one will be safe. Your family hasn’t been infected yet, they can still be saved. Get the boat ready to motor across the Hudson. Francesca and I will meet Jenni and Collin in Battery Park as soon as we can. I’ll make sure we get them to safety. When we get to Jersey, we’ll find a way to help you.”
“Too late for me. Take the boat, I’ll finish the repairs and leave. Just do me one favor, Paolo. Tell Jenni I love her. Tell Collin his daddy is very proud of him.”
“I… will. Hello? Heath, are you still there?”
Dropping the cell phone, Heath Shelby crawled to the nearest trash can and retched.
Rising high above the northwestern shore of Governor’s Island was the circular red sandstone fortification known as Castle William. Built in 1807 to protect New York City, the structure was two hundred feet in diameter, its walls forty feet high and eight feet thick.
Leigh Nelson followed Captain Zwawa past a large garden in the center of the castle. Entering the tower, they ascended a winding stairwell, emerging on a terrace overlooking New York Harbor. Battery Park and the Manhattan skyline loom a scant half mile across the waterway.
“Captain, please… I need to call my husband. I need to let him know I’m okay.”
Jay Zwawa ignored her, his attention focused on the magnificent view of the Financial District, the skyline aglow with lights. “I’m a bit of a history buff. Did you know that, prior to the attacks of 9/11, the worst violence ever experienced in New York happened right here? It was July of 1863, during the Civil War. Rebel agents from the Confederacy incited riots that left two thousand dead and another eight thousand New Yorkers wounded. Governor’s Island was attacked, but the militia drove the insurgents back.”
“Captain… my phone call?”
“When we get the vaccine.”
“I’m cooperating. You asked me to cooperate, and I have. What happens if your men can’t find Shep?”
“Then your call isn’t going to matter.”
An aide joined them on the terrace. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. All cell-phone signals are now being jammed. We’re ready to black out the island.”
“Do it.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide disappeared down the stairwell.
Leigh Nelson looked aghast. “You’re shutting down power?”
“Our objective is to contain three million people. By shutting off the power we darken the city, giving our thermal sensors a better view from above. We also want to encourage the populace to remain indoors.”
“You’re inducing more panic.”
“Doctor, we passed panic five hours ago.”
As they watched, the southern tip of Manhattan seemed to evaporate into the night. The rolling blackout continued through Battery Park and the Financial District… Chinatown and the Lower East Side… Tribeca, Little Italy, and SoHo. Continuing north, the wave of darkness worked its way through midtown and Central Park, blanketing the Upper East and West Side until the entire island of Manhattan — save for the glow of light from the vehicular traffic — was suffocated in velvety black.
The sound rose from the emptiness as one, reaching across land and sea like screams from a distant roller coaster–
— the sound of millions of condemned souls, crying out in the darkness for help.
Through the darkness they descended, Patrick and Virgil, one man inoculated against plague yet debilitated by the emptiness in his heart, his older companion debilitated by age yet inoculated by a selfless sense of purpose. The two men held hands to keep from falling down a concrete stairwell illuminated only by the gunman’s flashlight. Each unseen step brought them closer to dankness and disease, each breath rendered putrid by the stench of sewage that rose to greet them from below, the scratching sounds of rodent claws over cement setting their flesh to tingle.
Three levels became six, eight a dozen, until the stairwell finally ended, depositing them at the opening of an eight-foot-high concrete tunnel, the passage a foot deep in partially frozen mud and sewage. Footprints revealed the hundreds who had come before them.
The gunman barked orders for them to continue moving. Calf deep in filth, they negotiated the trail, the armed man driving them forward into the darkness.