Charges (14 page)

Vincenzo opened his backpack and removed the cold pack that contained one of the Cornish game hens. The poultry was still cold; the container had done its job. He ate it just like that, tearing through it with hunger-driven zeal. It took less than two minutes for him to consume virtually every scrap of meat on the bird, then he washed it down with a draught from the Hydro Flask. It was good to have something cold to drink, a luxury he lamented would be scarce over the coming weeks. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was a hell of a lot he was going to miss. He put the hen bones back in the cold pack, figuring he could use them to season some soup later, if they didn’t go bad before he had the opportunity. For dessert, he helped himself to one of the pumpkin spice muffins.

He got the bottle of Tylenol from his knapsack and took three, swallowing them with another dose of cold water.
 
He pulled off his boots and socks and massaged his feet, feeling for blisters. He was fortunate not to find any, but the balls of his feet were definitely hot spots. His calves ached pretty badly, so he wrapped a couple of the ThermaCare air-activated bandages around them. Given the humidity level, the heat against his skin wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was preferable to waking up screaming from charley horses in the middle of the night.

Once he’d repacked everything except the Glock, which he wanted within easy reach, Vincenzo sat and listened to the night. He couldn’t see anything through the brush, no firelight, no nothing. Something stirred in the thicket, but it sounded small and furtive, like an animal foraging. For a moment, he felt dread, not because he feared it would be a predator but because the last thing he wanted was to come face to tail with a skunk. Whatever it was crept away in the opposite direction. He reluctantly put on his boots and got to his feet, feeling his muscles complain. He relieved himself in the bushes, spreading a little human deterrent that he hoped would keep most of the animals away. That important mission completed, he returned to his spot and stretched out, using his backpack as a pillow. He left his boots on, just in case he had to leave in a hurry. He heard distant gunfire, and a few minutes later, some people passed on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t make out the words, but he clearly heard a woman’s voice and those of a couple of exhausted children. Vincenzo mentally wished them well but didn’t leave his den to investigate.

Minutes later, he was asleep.

11

Vincenzo awoke to the sound of high-pitched, angry buzzing.

Vincenzo slapped himself across the face when it dawned on him that he was being used as a blood buffet for what seemed like thousands of mosquitoes. He sat up, brushing his face and neck, already feeling itching welts forming as he smashed delicate insect bodies against his skin. He had no doubt each blow left a small splash of blood as mosquito guts erupted, spilling their payloads of pilfered circulatory fluid.
Damn it. I should’ve put on the bug repellent.

He fumbled through his knapsack until he found the little pump spray bottle of Coleman DEET. He sprayed the stuff on his arms and neck then rubbed some on his face. The chemical burned when it contacted broken skin, especially across his knuckles. Once he was satisfied that he was fully protected, he replaced the bottle’s plastic cap and returned it to the knapsack. He checked his watch. It was just past four in the morning, which meant dawn would be making its appearance within the hour.

Vincenzo sighed. He was still bone tired even though he’d had almost eight hours of sleep, and his muscles ached. He popped more Tylenol, drank a good amount of water from the Hydro Flask, then refilled it with one of the warm plastic bottles. He lamented the fact that the water’s chill was fading. He felt a stab of pain in his abdomen and realized it was from the Berretta pressing into his gut. He’d been so tired that he hadn’t bothered to remove the weapon from the holster. He adjusted the holster, trying to find a more comfortable position. When he had it situated as well as he could, he clambered to his feet. His sore muscles protested, but he had no choice. He stretched out a bit in the middle of his little den, trying to work out the kinks in his legs and, more worrisome, his back.

After brushing his teeth, he used his small entrenching tool to dig a hole so he could void his bowels. He’d had to do the same thing while hunting turkey on occasion, so it wasn’t a new experience for him, but he still found it uncomfortable.
The things we miss when the lights go out… like toilets.
He buried his mess then used a liberal amount of hand sanitizer. Standing in the tiny glade, he listened to the sounds of the incubating morning. Birds were coming alive in the trees, and small animals rustled through the brush. Mosquitoes still buzzed around him, but the insect repellent made sure they maintained their distance. He heard no signs of human occupation in the immediate area, but that was more wishful thinking than anything else.

He noticed a small glow on the horizon. It wasn’t the coming of dawn but a fire, which wasn’t surprising. With all the downed airliners and other accidents, fire was going to be a big problem in built-up communities. It was like living in the nineteenth century again, where a bucket brigade would be the new tanker truck.

He wanted to check his map, but it was still too dark. He still felt uneasy about using a flashlight. While he wasn’t defenseless, he was likely still more prey than predator at the moment. He needed to avoid attracting attention. But he felt a desire to get underway again, even if it meant stalking through the predawn gloom. He figured he might as well have some breakfast, so he dug out a couple of the Danishes he had baked in New York. They were already going stale. As he chewed, he wondered how far he had come. Twelve miles? Fifteen? Neither number was particularly encouraging. He drained another bottle of water then placed the empty container in his pack.

It was time to get going.

###

Vincenzo emerged from his hide site in the brush and quickly walked back to the road. His feet and legs protested, but they weren’t in charge just yet. He needed to get gone, and soon. The park was dark, but in the slowly brightening morning, he could see lots of people. Those with tents had it better than those in the open. At least the chances of being eaten alive by mosquitoes were reduced. A few people were awake, but they ignored him.

Fort Lee Road was empty of pedestrian traffic. There were still plenty of motionless vehicles, though they were far from abandoned. People had used the dead cars and trucks to sleep in. He figured that was wise, and he took note of that. There would be more than a few times on the road where he would need shelter, and vehicles, especially semi-trucks with sleeper cabs, would come in handy.

He strode as quietly as he could as the eastern horizon slowly brightened. He wanted to be out of there before the rest of the park stirred. From what he had seen the night before, he was one of the more prepared individuals, and that frightened him. His packs and others’ visions of what they might contain would make him a target, and he needed to figure out how to avoid that.

The road narrowed with the westbound lanes merging into one, while the eastbound ones maintained two. When he saw the bridge ahead, he pulled the Glock out of the knapsack and held it in his right hand. He’d already decided that he would use that weapon first and save the Berretta. The Glock didn’t feel quite right because of the stippled grips, but the weapon had a reassuring weight. He wished he’d had the opportunity to test fire it, but there hadn’t been time for that. Whipping it out and firing a couple of rounds over the Hudson while crossing the George Washington Bridge wouldn’t have been welcomed by the rest of the refugees fleeing New York City.

As he mounted the bridge, he found it was surprisingly clear of litter compared to the rest of the road. He figured people had just been tossing their detritus over the side, but if that was the case, it didn’t seem to deter one man who had a fishing line out over the side. Vincenzo kept a lane’s distance between them.

“Morning,” the fisherman said.

Vincenzo didn’t try to hide the pistol in his hand, but he figured the gloominess did that for him. “Hi, there. Any luck?”

“Not yet, but the day’s young. Caught four catfish yesterday.” The older guy wore a bucket hat, big eyeglasses, a vest over a long-sleeved shirt, and cargo shorts.

“Well, hope you can repeat it,” Vincenzo said, walking past.

“Thanks. Have a good day!”

Vincenzo snorted.
Not likely, if yesterday was any indication.
Unbidden, images of the man he had killed on the GWB came rushing back. He was surprised at the stark emotion that hit him. It hadn’t been a clean, sterile kill, like one delivered from the business end of a firearm. It had been up close and personal, the kind of action Vincenzo had never even dreamed of, much less prepared for. The huge implication of the act—ending a human life, even that of a man trying to do the same to him—was horrifying.

Get over it, you pussy
.
If nothing else, you know something new about yourself: you’re not going to lie down and die.

He crossed the bridge and headed down the road on the other side, still wrestling with his emotions. It wasn’t easy for him to get past what he’d done, though it hadn’t bothered him much at the time. It had been self-defense, after all. But in the light of a new day, it was like a festering sore that he was prodding despite the pain. Because of his musings, he realized far too late that his awareness of his surroundings had drastically diminished. When he looked up from the road, a man was standing in front of him, pointing a rifle right at his head.

“Hi, there,” the man said. “I see that Glock in your hand. Let’s not get carried away.”

Vincenzo came to an abrupt halt. “I come in peace,” he said stupidly.

“Cool. That makes two of us.” The guy had a huge pack on his back and a wide utility belt with lots of pouches on it. But most interesting were the night vision goggles on his head. The man had obviously been prepared for a catastrophe.

“Ah, are you military?” Vincenzo asked.

“Prior service. You come out from New York?”

“Yeah.” Vincenzo pointed at the night vision goggles. “How do those still work?”

“Had them stored in an electrostatic bag inside an old microwave oven. Mind telling me the situation over in New York City??”

Vincenzo shrugged, keeping the Glock pointed downward. “It’s not too great. Things were unraveling pretty quick when I left yesterday. There are aid stations set up, but the city probably doesn’t have the resources to take care of everyone.”

“Know anything about the Upper East Side? Around Eighty-Seventh Street?”

“Sorry. I came from midtown. Central Park South. But there were a lot of fires burning there, and it didn’t look like a ton of people were working very hard to put them out.”

“Okay. What about the NYPD?”

“They’re not really getting involved,” Vincenzo said. “They tried the day after the lights went out, but the mobs were already forming. When I left yesterday, the police were a lot more passive than they probably should be.”

“Any sign of a military presence? National Guard, anything like that?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No. Not that I saw. I came up the west side and crossed the GWB, but I didn’t see anything other than the cops. And like I said, they don’t seem to be very interested in the job anymore.”

“As anti-cop as Manhattan is, I can’t blame them. Can you?”

Vincenzo didn’t know how to answer that, so he just shrugged again.

The man lowered his rifle a bit. He turned his head, looking toward the bridge and the creek. He removed the goggles and switched them off. His eyes were dark and had a predatory aura to them. Vincenzo was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to meet the guy when he had his war face on. When he looked back at Vincenzo, he asked, “What’s the situation between here and the George?”

“Wasn’t as unstable as New York yesterday, but that was before ten thousand Manhattanites showed up. I really don’t know. Hey, you’re not heading into the city, are you? Because if you are, my advice is: don’t.”

“No choice. My brother and his family are there. I promised them that if things went bad, I’d come looking for them. Things went bad.”

They sure did
. But Vincenzo couldn’t blame the guy, since he was on a similar mission. “Well, if you’re going in, you have to be careful. You have lots a gear, and everyone will probably want a piece of it. And your rifle is illegal there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s illegal here in Jersey, too.”

“Then you’re going to have a problem. Local cops are out in force, and they’re backed by state police. They see you with that thing, they’re probably not going to be very thrilled. And they’re all over the approaches to the bridge.”

“Thanks for the intel, but I’m not headed for the bridge. It’ll either be one of the tunnels or just overwater.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess with those goggles you’ll be able to see anyone before they see you, right?”

“You got it. Where you headed?”

“West.” Vincenzo didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hear someone else tell him he was crazy for trying to walk to Los Angeles.

“Stay out of Philly,” the man said. “I was outside there when the shit hit the fan. I had a vehicle stored near there, and I got as far as ten miles from here before it was taken from me by force. Philly’s a shithole, just like Manhattan, it sounds like. And there are already organized areas of resistance setting up, lots of guys with skills making grabs for everything they can get their hands on.”

“I’m not headed to Philly, but thanks for the information.”

“Teaneck seems to be okay, but I’ve been traveling at night for two days, so I miss most of what goes on in the daytime,” the man said. “Things are going sideways pretty quickly, as people begin to figure out they’re all royally fucked. Keep your eyes open, bro. It’s going to get worse.”

“Yeah. You too.”

The man nodded. “Best of luck. Thanks for the intel. And if you’re going to keep that weapon out in plain sight, make sure you keep it indexed. Last thing you want is to pop a hole in your own foot.”