“Bishop Saunders, may I have a word with you in private?”
The sixty-seven-year-old Kansas native looked up. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of my flock.”
“With all due respect, Bishop, the majority of your flock are locked outside the cathedral, and they’re terrified. St. John’s can take them in; we can provide them with sanctuary.”
“The Almighty has unleashed His plague upon this city, Mr. McDowell. Everyone outside these walls has been exposed. Open the doors now, and you’ll condemn the few whom Jesus has chosen to survive the night.”
Heads nodded in agreement.
McDowell felt his face flush. “And if we are being punished by the Almighty, is this not a prime example of our wickedness? Of our corruption? If we simply allowed those in need to seek refuge in our basement away from the uninfected, would this not convince God that we are worthy of being saved?”
The worshippers looked to the bishop for rebuttal.
“I considered this, Mr. McDowell. As the hour grew late, I consulted the Bible for answers. The first time God decided to strike down the wicked, he instructed Noah to build an ark, a vessel of salvation similar in size to the dwelling in which we now find ourselves. Noah warned the people, but they refused to listen. Once the rains began, no one else was allowed inside the ark, for the Angel of Death had come. The ark is now closed, Mr. McDowell. The Angel of Death shall not enter these premises.”
Thirty-seven worshippers breathed a sigh of relief, a few actually applauding.
The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors reached them seconds before the spotlight isolated them from the darkness.
Patrick and Virgil looked up, the Army chopper hovering overhead, preparing to land.
“We need to find cover… better yet, a crowd.”
“This way.” Virgil led him down West 113th Street past rows of candlelit apartments, the spotlight staying on them like an angel’s halo. They emerged on Amsterdam Avenue, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine looming across the street, the grounds a refugee camp for tens of thousands. They quickly melted into the crowd, ducking low as they gradually made their way around the Peace Fountain—
— the spotlight losing them as they cut across a snow-covered expanse of lawn, emerging on Cathedral Parkway.
The night swirled. Patrick’s vision blurred. He looked up—
— shocked to see a black winged demon hovering eighty feet overhead, its unblinking scarlet eyes staring at him, as if looking through the void into his soul.
Virgil grabbed him by the arm, tugging him hard. The two men cut through an alleyway sandwiched between apartment buildings, only to find the passage blocked by stacks of human corpses. Retracing their steps, they zigzagged around abandoned vehicles.
The Pavehawk’s searchlight picked them up again as they hurried down Amsterdam Avenue. Virgil bent over, out of breath. “Go on… without me.”
“No.” Shep looked around, desperate to find a place to hide—
— as a flock of winged demons dropped from the sky overhead. Time slowed to a crawl, each double cadence of his beating heart magnified in his ears, the night creatures descending from above, attempting to swoop him up in their talons—
The searchlight swiveled as the chopper battled a forty-mile-an-hour gust of wind, the airship’s heavenly blue light illuminating a storefront sign: minos pizzeria.
Every business on Amsterdam Avenue had been vandalized, every window broken, every store left in shambles except for Minos Pizzeria. As the light refocused on Shep, he could see sixty to eighty homeless people standing guard outside the premises — and not one looter dared cross their gauntlet.
Shep helped Virgil to the storefront, the ragged men and women blocking their way. “Please, we need a place to hide.”
A stocky Italian man with salt-and-pepper hair and an unruly goatee and glasses pulled out a large bowie knife. “Walk away or die.”
Shep saw the dog tags hanging around the man’s unshaven neck. “Patrick Shepherd, Sergeant, United States Marines, LIMA Company, Third Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment.”
“Paul Spatola, 101st Airborne.”
“Who are you guarding, Spatola?”
“The owners of the pizzeria. They’re good people.”
“I can save them.” Shep opened the polished wooden box, showing him the vials. “Plague vaccine. The government wants it to disappear. We need sanctuary — fast.”
Spatola looked around, his eyes drawn to the helicopter’s searchlight. Rangers were rappelling down to the street. “Come with me.” He led them through the crowd of homeless, then banged on the rolled-up aluminum security gate covering the front glass doors.
The door opened a crack. The man inside remained hidden in the shadows, his voice muffled behind a painter’s mask. “What’s wrong?”
“This vet and his grandfather need to get off the streets. He says he has a vaccine for the sickness.”
“A vaccine?”
Shep pushed in closer. “The military’s right behind us. Help us, and we’ll help you.”
A woman’s voice called out from inside the restaurant. “Paolo, don’t!”
A flashlight passed over Patrick’s face, the small box in his hand, then on Virgil. “Should I trust you?”
The old man nodded. “Only if you and your wife wish to survive this night.”
On Amsterdam Avenue, heavily armed Rangers moved through the crowd, searching faces. “Inside, quickly.” Unlocking the grating along its base, Paolo rolled the gate up high enough to allow the two strangers to enter.
Paul Spatola quickly slammed the security fencing back down so it locked, then passed the word, “No one gets through.”
The pizzeria was empty. An aroma of Italian meat coming from the dark recesses of the kitchen set Shep’s stomach to gurgle. He headed for the food—
— Paolo stopped him. “I need to check your skin for infection.”
They lifted their shirts and lowered their pants, Paolo’s light scanning their necks and armpits, legs and groins. Shep jumped as a cat nuzzled his left calf muscle from behind.
“You seem clean. Come with me.” They followed the Italian past checkerboard-clothed tables back through the kitchen. Spread out on a row of aluminum tables were half-sliced salamis and bricks of cheese, loaves of bread and a tray stacked with already prepared sandwiches. “Take what you want; the homeless get the rest. Everything’s spoiling anyway.”
Shep grabbed a sandwich, consuming it in three bites. “Virgil, take something.”
“I’ve eaten, and we don’t have much time. The soldiers will—”
The aluminum door of the walk-in refrigerator swung open, revealing a pregnant Italian woman with jet-black hair. In her hand was a shotgun.
“It’s okay, Francesca. They’re clean.”
“No one’s clean. This plague will kill us all.”
They heard men arguing outside. Shots were fired.
“Quickly, inside the cooler!” Paolo hurried Shep and Virgil inside the walk-in refrigerator, slamming the door closed behind them.
They huddled in the stifling darkness alive with meowing cats and the rotting stench of spoiling perishables. A dull circle of light from the woman’s dying flashlight settled on her husband, who had pushed aside crates of lettuce and was kneeling by the exposed wet patch of wood floor. In his hand was a thin piece of bent wire. Feeding it through a knothole, he fished until he found a loop of rope. Standing, he pulled hard, dragging open a trapdoor set on hinges. The flickering light from an oil lamp below illuminated a ladder leading down to what appeared to be a basement.