“My crystal has calmed. My spiritual guide is in agreement.”
“Virgil?”
“Agreed.”
“Paolo?”
“Francesca’s water broke, she just had her first contraction. What happens when the baby starts coming?”
“We’ll have to make do… find a cart or something to wheel her around in. Patrick?”
Virgil nudged Shep awake. “Your wife and daughter are close. Are you ready to continue on?”
“Yes.”
Exiting the minibus, the seven survivors made their way across the Bowery on foot, climbing and sliding over the hoods and trunks of cars until they reached an eighteen-wheeler. The produce truck was lying on its side, blocking their entrance into Chinatown.
Sixteen hours earlier, the Asian enclave had been a crush of humanity, thousands of tourists filtering through dim sum restaurants and bargain hunting along the cluttered narrow streets. By mid-afternoon, the tourists had fled. By dusk, the Asian ghetto had segregated itself from the rest of Manhattan. Organizing quickly, Chinatown’s leaders had cleared the streets of vehicular traffic as far north as Canal Street, ordering access into the community sealed off from all outsiders, the borders barricaded with over-turned delivery trucks.
Pankaj signaled them to follow, the psychology professor having located an accessible fire escape. “We’ll climb up to the roof, then make our way south to Columbus Park.” Scaling a trash bin, he reached up and grabbed the lowest rung of a steel ladder, drawing it down from its slide axis.
Minutes later, the group was ascending the side of the building, the rusted slats of the fire escape’s steps creaking beneath their weight.
The emergency generator had been powered on, its tentacles rewired to distribute electricity only to the building’s six elevators. In the lobby, the process of disseminating Racal suits began, the self-contained hazardous-environment apparel loaded onto carts and sent by military escort to the suites still harboring survivors.
On the thirty-third floor, President Eric Kogelo and his staff had already received their suits. The leader of the free world has been awake for almost thirty hours, under enormous pressure. Throughout the long night, he had been assured by CDC physicians that his fatigue and low-grade fever were simply a result of exhaustion and not Scythe. Kogelo had pretended to accept their verdict but had chosen to isolate himself inside his private office “just as a precaution.”
That the buboes had swelled along his groin and not his neck had helped hide the truth from the rest of his staff. Only John Zwawa at Fort Detrick knew that the president had been infected, the colonel hell-bent on delivering a cure by the time Kogelo arrived at Governor’s Island.
“Mr. President, the vaccine is in Manhattan, being acquired as we speak. If the buboes only appeared six hours ago, then we still have time. I know it’s difficult, sir, but try to remain calm.”
For a while, Kogelo had remained calm, tasking himself to leave video messages to his wife and children, his vice president, Congress, and the American people. Internal hemorrhaging had forced him to stop, each blood-drenched cough raking his lungs with pain.
Now, as he lay on the leather couch in his Racal suit, he prayed to his Maker that he be allotted a little more time… to see his kids again, to hold his wife—
— and to forestall the war that would end all wars.
One level after another, they continued their ascent on the rickety fire escape. Manisha kept a watchful eye on Dawn, Pankaj assisting Virgil. Paolo helped Francesca up the narrow trellis-like steps, his wife’s progressing labor forcing her to pause every eight to nine minutes to “ride” a contraction.
Patrick was the last to step off the fire escape onto the eight-story building’s summit — an expanse of tarmac and gravel that revealed a disjointed maze of silhouetted rooftops. Some were flat, others angled, almost none equal in height, creating a labyrinth of shadows that concealed brick ravines and interconnecting bridges, pipes and heating ducts, air conditioners and chimney stacks, antennae and satellite dishes — all jutting out at varying degrees in the darkness.
“This way,” said Pankaj, certain of the direction yet unsure of the path. Ushering them to the west, he resumed the lead—
— when the asphalt suddenly rose before him in undulating waves, the shadows becoming people. Huddled beneath blankets, hundreds of Asian men, women, and children awaken to greet the invaders with utter silence, the dying light from their lanterns casting an unworldly aura upon the confrontation.
A boundary had been violated. Weapons were drawn.
Before Pankaj could react, before Manisha could register the vibrations of her crystal, before ten-year-old Dawn could scream or the Minoses pray, the mob cowered back into the shadows, dropping to their knees in fear.
Patrick stepped forward, his head and face concealed within the shadow of his ski jacket’s hood, his prosthetic arm held aloft as if it were the Angel of Death’s scythe.
“Paolo, I think it’s time I took the lead.” Pushing past the stunned psychology professor, Shep ventured forth, his presence parting the terrified sea of survivors.
The gymnasium was located on the ninth floor. David tried the doors — locked. Using the butt end of his assault rifle, he banged on the small rectangle of glass, shattering it. “Hello! Is anybody in there?” He shined his light inside. Heard rustling… whispers. “Who is it?”
“David Kantor, I’m Gavi’s father. I am not infected.”
Someone approached. A heavy chain was removed from the inside of the door. It was pushed open, and David entered. Dark inside, save for a fading emergency light. The students were spread out on the hardwood basketball court, silhouetted in blackness.
“Who’s in charge here?”
“I am… sort of.” The young man was sixteen. “There are eighteen of us in here. No one’s infected, as far as we can tell. We locked ourselves in around two in the afternoon.”
“Is Gavi Kantor in here? Gavi?”
“She’s not here.” A seventh grader stepped forward, an African-American girl wrapped in a blanket. “She wasn’t in school today.”
She wasn’t in school! Did she cut classes? Maybe she’s not even in Manhattan…
“Dr. Kantor, do you have enough environmental suits for all of us?”
A young boy in first grade tugged on his pant leg. “I wanna go home.”
Home? David ground his teeth. If they leave, they’ll become contaminated. If they stay, they’ll die anyway. What do I do with them? Where can I take them? There’s no way off the island…
They gathered around him like moths to a flame. “Please don’t leave us.”
He looked down at the seven-year-old boy. “Leave you? Now why would I do that? I’m here to take you home. But before we can leave, everyone needs to cover their mouths and noses with something. Use a scarf or a towel, even a sock… anything you can find. You older kids, help out the little ones. Once we leave the gym, you can’t touch anything… you need to breathe through your scarves. Leave your belongings here, you don’t need them. Only your jackets, gloves, and hats.”
The sudden reverberation of her crystal caused Manisha to jump. She looked around with a mother’s paranoia. “Pankaj, where’s Dawn?”