Their arrival at the southeastern end of the reservoir had presented the journey’s next hurdle, for the fence separating the jogging track from the southern retaining wall offered no exit point or weak link. Paolo continued paddling, following the stone barrier as it circled to the west. Francesca’s light finally revealed a break along the wall — a small boat ramp — the incline partially blocked by a large flatbed truck.
Climbing out first, Paolo dragged the bow of the raft up the cement ramp, then helped his pregnant wife out of the boat.
The truck’s rusted metal flatbed was tilted at a thirty-degree angle to the reservoir, stained in frozen blood. Francesca wrapped her scarf across her face. “They must have used the truck to collect the dead, dumping them right into the water. Why would they do such a thing?”
Paolo peered inside the window of the empty cab. “The more important question is, why did they stop?”
“The plague must have spread so fast, they couldn’t dispose of the dead quickly enough.” Shep searched the night sky. “We need to keep moving, before another drone tracks us down.”
They continued on, following a snow-covered bridle path, the bonfires glowing somewhere up ahead.
David Kantor made his way south along Central Park West. Gun drawn, he moved in the shadow of stalled vehicles. Cloaked in darkness, he was surrounded by death. It was slumped in the cars and sprawled on the sidewalk, rained from apartment windows to mangle awnings and decorate snow-covered lawns. Every fifteen seconds, he paused to make sure he was not being followed. The paranoia allowed him to stretch his hips and lower back, already aching from hauling his life-support equipment. I’ll never make it to Gavi’s school like this. I need to find another way.
He rested again. His stifling face mask collected a pool of sweat. Pulling open the rubber chin piece, he emptied the excess, his eyes locked in on the bizarre buildings on his right. The Rose Center for Earth and Space cast a diamond-shaped void against the lunar-lit heavens. The Museum of Natural History blotted the night like a medieval castle, its drawbridge guarded by the bronze statue of President Theodore Roosevelt on horseback.
The sight of the Rough Rider brought with it a memory of his youngest daughter’s first visit to the facility. Gavi was only seven. Oren had come along, too, David’s son insisting they skip the train and drive into the city so the boy could listen to the Yankees game on their way home. The day germinated in David’s mind.
Checking the periphery in his night scope, he jogged up the museum steps to the sealed main doors, arguing internally whether he was wasting valuable time.
The doors were locked. He looked around again, determined he was alone, and shot out one of the plate-glass doors with his sidearm.
The museum was dark inside, save for the fading glow coming from an emergency light. David moved quickly through the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall, the deserted entry unnerving. Diverting past the Rose Gallery space exhibit, he searched for a visitor sign he knew was posted somewhere in the dark corridor up ahead.
“There.” He followed the arrow to the parking garage, praying for a small miracle.
The spots reserved for motorcycles were located just past the handicapped row. His heart raced as the beam from his light revealed a Honda scooter and a Harley-Davidson, both vehicles still chained to their posts. He contemplated hot-wiring the scooter, but worried that the vehicle’s engine would draw the attention of the military.
Then he saw the ten-speed bicycle.
The bridle path ran past Summit Rock, the highest elevation in Central Park, before descending into a forest valley. Ahead was Winterdale Arch, a twelve-foot-high sandstone-and-granite underpass buttressed on either side by a retaining wall that extended east and west through the park. Illuminating the underpass were a dozen steel trash barrels, their contents set ablaze.
Beyond the fires, guarding the entrance of the granite tunnel, were a dozen men and women. Self-appointed gatekeepers. Heavily armed. Each wearing a fluorescent orange and yellow vest removed from the back of a deceased construction worker.
A procession of people milled about outside the guarded portal — families, lost souls, streetwalkers, displaced businesspeople, and the indigent — all waiting to be allowed to pass through the Winterdale Arch.
Paolo turned to Virgil. “This is the only way through, unless you want to risk the main roads again. What should we do?”
“Patrick?”
Shep continued watching the night sky, anticipating another aerial assault. “We’re safer in a crowd. Let’s see if they’ll allow us through.”
They approached the last person in line, a big man in his mid-fifties. Despite the frigid temperatures, he was wearing a ski vest over a tee shirt, his bare arms covered in tattoos of the United States Marine Corps. The words: Death Before Dishonor were emblazoned across his upper right biceps. He was holding a woman wrapped in a blanket. From her stiffness and body position, Shep could tell she had cerebral palsy.
“Excuse me—”
“Welcome, brothers, welcome sister. Have you come to witness the glory of God?”
“What glory is there in so much suffering and death?” Shep asked.
“The glory comes from the Second Coming. Isn’t that why you are here?”
Paolo pushed in, his eyes wide with excitement. “Then this really is it? The Rapture?”
“Yes, my friend. The twenty-four elders have assembled. The Virgin Mother herself is said to be inside the park walls, preparing to grant immortality to the chosen among us.”
Paolo crossed himself, trembling. “When the plague was first announced, I had a feeling… How do we get inside?”
“They’re bringing us up in small groups. They need to determine who is clean.”
“We’re clean.” Paolo pulled Francesca to his side. “No plague, you can check us.”
The big man smiled “No, brother, by ‘clean’ I am referring to the soul. Everyone must be escorted inside, at which point the worthy will be separated from the heretics. No sinner shall be granted access by the Trinity.”
Shep looked to Virgil, who shook his head.
“What about the plague?” Francesca asked “Aren’t you afraid of being contaminated?”
“Sister, it was Dis that summoned Jesus’s return.”
“Dis?”
“The disease,” the woman said, straining to adjust her blanket so she could see. “Vern, explain it to them the way Pastor Wright explained it to us at the mission.”
“My apologies. We’re the Folleys, by the way. I’m Vern, this is my wife, Susan Lynn. We flew in Saturday night from Hanford, California, for a two-day medical conference. We were scheduled to fly home this afternoon, only they shut down the city before we could leave. We wandered the streets for hours, somehow ending up at the mission.”
“It was God’s will,” Susan Lynn chimed in.
“Amen. When we arrived, Pastor Wright was telling hundreds of people that he had just spoken with the Virgin Mother. She had incarnated herself as a Christian woman. The Virgin told him that Manhattan had been selected as ground zero for Revelations because of all its wickedness.”
“What made him believe she was the Virgin Mary?” Francesca asked.
“There can be no doubt, sister. Pastor Wright actually witnessed a miracle when the Virgin cured the infected. Seeing the pastor, the Holy Mother instructed him to gather his flock in Central Park for the Rapture, that Jesus would be coming before the dawn. The Virgin would determine who would be saved and who would be cast out into Hell.”