The buildings and streetlamps were dark, the densely packed neighborhood set aglow by hundreds of car fires and the streams of conflagration dispensed from the authorities’ flamethrowers. Plague-infested corpses riddled the streets. Plague-riddled victims staggered along sidewalks and lay sprawled on curbs — their mouths and nostrils blotched in blood as if they had just finished cannibalizing the neighborhood. The surreal scene swept south down Broadway, as if taken straight out of a 1970s horror movie.
Homeland Security, dressed in storm-trooper black, their faces concealed behind gas masks, advanced in formation down the vehicle-littered avenue, herding the angry mob back inside their apartment dwellings. Sensing an ambush, a cop ignited a cluster of bodies with his flaming stream of propane and natural gas, chasing off a black woman and her two young children who had been hiding behind the remains of the deceased. The shrieking mother dragged her screaming kids down the sidewalk, all three engulfed in the blaze, the infested flesh dripping from their bones.
Shots were fired from the surrounding buildings’ darkened recesses. Two officers went down; their comrades returned fire.
“Pull back!”
Dragging their wounded, they moved toward the safety of their fleet of Hummers.
A Hispanic woman, hysterical over the death of her infant, tossed her lifeless child from a third-story window. The fragile corpse struck one of the retreating storm troopers, who freaked out—
— his reaction compelling dozens of enraged, grief-stricken parents to hurl the infected remains of their dead offspring from their balconies and windows, pinning down the militia in the middle of Broadway’s southbound lanes.
The change in tactics energized the revolt. Within minutes, hundreds of locals were streaming out of their apartment buildings, armed with baseball bats and knives, handguns and assault weapons. A final outburst of flames, and the battle was over, the masses victorious, their burning rage quelled, but only for the moment.
Reclaiming the streets, the multitudes scattered, unleashing their wrath upon local businesses, smashing windows as they looted their own neighborhood.
Virgil pulled Shep from the scene, leading him around rows of abandoned cars, the campus of Columbia University in the distance. “The breakdown of social order… it’s always followed by chaos. We’re bearing witness to a test of faith, Patrick. It appears as if Satan has won.”
The Reaper hovered a thousand feet above Broadway, its scarlet eyes focused on the street below—
— its remote operator, thirty miles away, scanning faces in the crowd on his monitor. Each head shot was sent to a physiognomic range finder, which created a two-dimensional facial map using eighteen plotted points. The reciprocal points were then compared to a three-dimensional morphology of the targeted subject’s face, already loaded into the computer.
The optical scanner zoomed in on the old man and his younger companion as they moved quickly south down Broadway. The younger man’s image was acquired, pixelized, refocused, and plotted.
match confirmed: target acquired.
“Major, we found him! Subject is heading south on Broadway, approaching West 125th Street.”
Rosemarie Leipply leaned over the drone pilot’s shoulder, confirming the match. “Well done. Lock onto the subject, then alert Captain Zwawa’s people on Governor’s Island. Be sure they’re receiving the live feed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The MH-60G Pave Hawk reverberated on its landing struts, the combat helicopter’s rotors violating the cold December night. The nine members of the Army Ranger extraction team were already seated in back, waiting impatiently for the last recruit to climb aboard.
David Kantor willed his exhausted body to carry him and the forty pounds of equipment strapped to his back across the lawn to the waiting airship. As he approached the open side door, two Rangers reached down and dragged him on board, practically tossing him onto the far bench.
Major Steve Downey leaned in next to him, powering on the headset built into David’s mask. “You Kantor?”
David nodded.
The Ranger offered a gloved handshake, shouting to be heard. “Major Downey, welcome aboard. I understand you’re familiar with our target.”
David grabbed on to the bench as the helicopter lurched into the air. “We served a tour together in Iraq.”
“That it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Downey pulled his mask and hood off, revealing spiked hair, a goatee, and harsh hazel eyes. “Your record shows you crossed paths on at least three tours. Your personnel records indicate you invited him to your oldest daughter’s wedding, though he never showed. Don’t screw with me, Kantor. There are lives at stake… the president’s life, the UN delegates, and just maybe every person fortunate enough not to be in Manhattan. My mission is simple — get the vaccine. Whether your pal survives the night is up to him… and you. Am I being clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Once we land in Morningside Heights, we’ll divide the squad into two awaiting military vehicles. I want you seated next to me.”
“Yes, sir. Wait… did you say Morningside Heights? I was told we’d be landing in the Battery.”
“One of our drones spotted Shepherd in the vicinity of Columbia University, that’s our new destination. The wife’s strictly backup at this time. Is that a problem, Captain?”
David closed his eyes behind the tinted mask. “No, sir.”
There were thousands of them. Some had traveled miles on foot, others lived in the surrounding neighborhoods. Their government had abandoned them, the medical industry had no answers, and so they sought help from a higher power, pushing their infected loved ones in wheelbarrows and shopping carts. They pounded the sealed arched doors and shouted into the night, their pleas for last rites and salvation falling upon deaf ears… just as they had in Europe 666 years ago.
Inside the cathedral, the Reverend Canon Jeffrey Hoch moved through the massive hall, his face cloaked behind a red silk scarf. Several thousand people were scattered throughout the chapel, many asleep in the pews.
They had started arriving just before noon, senior citizens at first, as if they could sense the threatening storm. By two o’clock, hundreds were pouring in — angry families and frustrated tourists caught in the chaos, everyone seeking a warm place to wait out the hours, preferably one with a clean restroom.
The rush began an hour before dusk, when anger and confusion turned to desperation, desperation to fear. A mandatory curfew meant several hundred thousand people would be channeled into school gymnasiums, missions, and Madison Square Garden, the latter igniting memories of Hurricane Katrina and the chaos of the Superdome — only this time the desperate, destitute, and poor would be sharing space with the infected. As the multitudes began lining up along Amsterdam Avenue to be screened, Bishop Janet Saunders had ordered the clergymen inside, the cathedral sealed.
The Reverend Hoch paused to light a prayer candle, joined by Mike McDowell, the dean of the religious school. “Reverend, this isn’t right. How can we keep the public from sanctuary? How can we continue to deny the dying their last rites.”
“I am no longer in charge. You must speak with Bishop Saunders.”
“John the Divine is a multidenominational cathedral. I don’t recognize the bishop’s authority.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. McDowell, I do.”
The pounding on the three-ton bronze doors continued unabated, the sound dispersed throughout the cavernous 601-foot-long nave. McDowell headed down the center aisle for the apse, where Janet D. Saunders, the second woman elected primate in the Anglican Communion, was leading a small group of worshippers in prayer.