“They don’t care,” Shep said, closing his eyes. “We’re simply numbers on a ledger sheet, acceptable losses. They’ll incinerate Manhattan, blame Scythe on a bunch of terrorists, and the next thing you know, it’ll be World War III.”
Alone in the darkness, marooned on the moldy mattress on the damp concrete floor, Leigh Nelson’s body convulsed as she heard someone cross the first floor directly overhead. Terror gripped her mind as the heavy-footed soldier descended the wooden steps.
She cried out as he approached.
“No more waterboarding, I promise. I brought you something to calm your nerves. Can you sit up?” Jay Zwawa helped Leigh Nelson into an upright position, the female physician’s muscles trembling. He handed her the open bottle of whiskey.
She forced it to her lips and drank. Drained a third of the bottle before he could take it from her. Her insides were on fire, the internal heat soothing her frayed nerves.
“You okay?”
“Why did you torture me?”
“Why? Because I was following orders. Because the world’s gone crazy. Because common sense got tossed out the window the day presidents decided chicken hawks like Cheney and Rumsfeld and DeBorn knew more about running the military than men who had actually served in the armed forces.”
“I hate you and your damn wars, and your insane biowarfare programs. I hope and pray every maggot and warmonger involved burns in Hell.”
“I suspect you may get your wish.”
She cowered as he reached into his jacket pocket—
— withdrawing a cell phone. “Call your family. Tell them you’re okay. Nothing more.”
With a trembling hand, she took the device and dialed.
“Hello?”
She broke into a sob. “Doug?”
“Leigh! Where are you? Did you get out of the city? I’ve been calling you all night!”
She gazed up at Captain Zwawa through a pool of tears. “I’m okay. I’m at an Army base on Governor’s Island.”
“Thank God. When will you be home? Wait… are you infected?”
“I’m okay. Are you okay? Are the kids safe?”
“We’re all here. We’re okay. Autumn’s right here next to me. Autumn, you want to say hi to Mommy?”
A groggy child’s voice said, “Hi, Mommy.”
Leigh burst into sobs. Her throat constricted as she talked. “Hi, baby doll. Are you taking good care of Parker and Daddy for me?”
“Yes, Mommy. Are you taking care of Patrick for me?”
Leigh’s heart pounded in her ears.
Jay Zwawa’s eyebrows rose, his expression darkening.
“Honey, Mommy has to go. I love you.” She powered off the phone, terrified. “I took him home to meet my family. He bonded with my little girl.”
The captain pocketed the cell phone. Without another word, he trudged up the bare wooden steps, locking the door behind him.
Leigh Nelson crawled off to a corner of the basement and retched.
Ernest Lozano followed Sheridan Ernstmeyer into the apartment building lobby, their guns drawn. The small marble foyer was dark, save for a lone yellow emergency light blinking along the ceiling.
Shadows crawled. Moans rose from coughing victims. Muffled screams reached out from first-floor dwellings. The foul air reeked of death.
Lozano was losing his composure quickly. “This is bullshit. DeBorn’s infected, he could be dead before we even make it back outside.”
“Shut up.” The female assassin searched for a stairwell, her cardiovascular system amped up on adrenaline and amphetamines. “Over here.” She yanked open the fire door, releasing a cat. The skittish house pet scurried past them into the darkness.
“Floor?”
“Huh?”
“Shepherd’s wife, what floor is she on?”
“Eleven. Sheridan, this is a fool’s errand.”
Turning to face him, she aimed the barrel of her 9mm at his mask. “DeBorn’s a survivor, he’ll make it out of here alive. Will you?”
“You’re crazy.”
“You mean I’m a crazy bitch. That is what you were thinking, isn’t it, Ernie? Go on, make a menstrual reference. We’ll see who will be the one bleeding.”
The eyes peering at Lozano from behind the woman’s mask were frenetic. “Let’s just find Shepherd’s wife and get the hell out of here.”
She poked his chest with her index finger. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Backing away, she turned and headed up the concrete stairwell.
The death of a child was profoundly unnatural, a perversion of existence. Children were simply not supposed to die before their parents. When it happened, it unleashed boundless grief, a pain so intense, the emptiness so encompassing that it could spiral the bereaved parent into oblivion.
David Kantor had been to war. He had treated children missing limbs. He had held their lifeless bodies in his arms. After five deployments spanning two wars, the medic had never grown immune to any tragedy involving children. Only this was different. A sight so heart-wrenching that only the overwhelming need to find his daughter prevented him from a mental breakdown.
David staggered from one classroom to the next, the beam of his flashlight uncloaking Scythe in its most evil form. Infected by plague, the youngest had huddled together on the floor like a newborn litter of puppies, drawn to one another’s body warmth. Human snowflakes stained in blood.
She won’t be here. These are the elementary-school students. Find the seventh graders.
David heard someone moaning. Moving quickly toward the sound, he cut across the corridor into the library, his flashlight homing in on the source.
The headmaster was lying on the carpeted floor, his head propped on an encyclopedia. Rodney Miller opened his eyes, each labored gasp exhaling a breath of blood.
“Miller, it’s David Kantor.”
“Kantor?”
“Gavi’s father. Where is she? Where are the older kids?”
The headmaster struggled to form words. With a final gasp, he muttered, “gym.”
A driving wind whipped the East River into a rabid chop, stirring the muddy cloud bank hanging over Manhattan into an atmospheric maelstrom. Below the toxic ceiling of carbon dioxide and chemical compounds, the survivors of Scythe huddled on rooftops, each patch of elevated asphalt a refugee camp, the buildings’ apartments having long been abandoned to the dying, the streets to the dead.
Pankaj Patel ground the gears of the gray Volkswagen microbus as he drove southwest along Henry Street, the bonnet of the clunky five-speed relic sideswiping awnings and everything else littering the tight sidewalks. He passed beneath the remains of the Manhattan Bridge. Turned right on Catherine Street. Drove another two blocks before he was forced to stop.
The north — south thoroughfare known as the Bowery was a virtual pileup of cars, buses, and trucks that occupied every square foot of asphalt and sidewalk as far as the eye could see. Most of the passengers caught on the Bowery had long since abandoned their vehicles, seeking bathrooms and food. Those few who had steadfastly remained inside their cars managed to avoid the pandemic into the night, only to find themselves trapped on their island of sanctuary with nowhere to go.
The silhouette of Chinatown’s redbrick buildings and rickety fire escapes loomed beyond the Bowery’s moat of vehicles like a medieval castle.
Pankaj turned to the others. “We have two choices: Remain here and die, or attempt to pass through Chinatown on foot. It’s a short walk to the Financial District from here, then it's clear on to Battery Park and Paolo’s brother-in-law’s boat. Manisha?”