The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling (8 page)

As August, sickness, and
each
death
encroached
, ten hour shifts became twelve-hour shifts, then sixteen-hour shifts, and toward the end, eighteen hour shifts. The four immune scientists became exhausted trying to make up for the productivity of the others. And all the while, Dr. Peacock led his staff and recorded their plight, as best as he could with his deteriorating health.

Despite the hardships, it was a manageable situation. The discipline was there. The staff was still moti
vated to save the world. Hydro-c
affeine provided artificial energy. And the scientists were only slightly behind the forty-day schedule. Everything would have been fine (other than the fact the infected were still dying), and they would have finished the job without incident—if only the power held out.

The government provided an independent power source for the building, so loss of power wasn’t a problem as far as operations were concerned. The backup generators kicked in once when SkyCharge went down, and again when the ground system gave. Things carried on for the scientists without much pause. The problem was the Biogenetics building
had
power, while the other buildings
did not
. The rest of the city was in darkness, fire, and chaos; but this mysterious building at the corner of York Avenue and 68
th
Street, it still had lights. The
Biogenetics building
still had lights. The building glowed into the night, and it stood out in glaring contrast for anyone to see. This attracted attention.

***

Every couple of hours, the scientists took tours to see what was going on outside. They did this for security, but also to get a much needed break from their task. And from August 27
th
on, the scientists began seeing crowds.

At first, they were small groups of curious people who had gathered on York Avenue. They stood across the street and watched, as if they were waiting for something to happen. The observers couldn’t see a scientist or anything else from their vantage point through the tinted windows, but the scientists could see them.

The scientists weren’t happy with the new attention, but ultimately they shrugged it off. The small crowds were harmless enough. And after half an hour to a couple of hours, they lost interest and they dispersed. Every now and then one of the more determined groups did try to pry their way inside, but once they realized the building was sealed, they gave up and wandered off as well.

On September 1
st
, however, a crowd had finally decided to make a more aggressive move. A group of misfits had brought a fire truck with them this time. They parked it on the sidewalk along York Avenue, and they were positioning a ladder to reach the fourth level—the first level that wasn’t sealed off. This was spotted by Dr. Marisol Canas. Her tour of the building was almost over, and she was on her way back to the chamber when she happened to see them.

Immediately, Dr. Canas ran to inform the others. She was out of breath when she made it to her colleagues. At the doorway, she hunched over and coughed for thirty seconds without pause. Her colleagues were afraid she was going to drop dead right where she stood.

Eventually, she coughed up the words, ‘Ladder! Fire Truck! Outside! Now!’

There was a quick panic. Dr. Peacock yelled
, ‘Protect everything! Protect everything at all costs!” His voice was weak but his urgency was steel-strong.

Dr. Philippe Bertrand and Dr. Steven Jones hurried out of the chamber an
d raced up the stairs to the 10
th level. They ran as fast and their legs could take them. Once they were there, Dr. Bertrand entered the room at the southwest corner and Dr. Jones entered the room at the northwest corner. There were bubble shaped gunning stations in each room. The stations were large enough to fit a man in a leather seat. Sleek computer screens were on the interior walls. And menacing barrels protruded from the front.

Without hesitation, and almost simultaneously, the two entered their gunning stations. They fl
ipped on the power by pressing
red buttons at their left sides. And both said, ‘Project and target.’

With jarring speed, the two corners of the bui
lding blasted apart at the 10th
level. Bits and pieces of glass, aluminum, and steel rained to the stunned crowd
below. The stations jutted out, and the
hydraulics were loud and clear through the two scientists’ microphones. The computerized voices announced in unison:
Hostiles located thirty-six meters below. Target Acquired.

Then Dr. Bertrand commanded, ‘Computer, amplify voice projection to the hostiles.’

There was a ping.

‘You are all in danger! I repeat. You are all in danger! You should leave this facility now. This is your one and only warning. We will fire if you do not comply!’

Dr. Bertrand was shot at. Bullets thumped loudly against his protective shield like beats against a drum. Dr. Bertrand yelled in surprise, and without a doubt, he knew he had his answer.

‘Computer, destroy target.’

And with that, a surge of power bolted from Dr. Bertrand’s barrel. It was like a lightning strike streak
ing
the short distance. It struck the fire truck below, and the fire truck blasted apart into shrapnel and balls of fire. The force of the explosion shook the building itself.

Dr. Bertrand said, ‘Whoa!’ He was taken aback by what he had just done.

The surviving hostiles ran for their lives as Dr. Jones fired warning shots to chase them away. After a mere ten seconds, all that remained were smoldering debris, and a burning hulk of metal that used to be the bottom of the fire truck. And the building had a new, gaping hole that would have to be protected at all times.

The battle was won but now it was war. There was no turning back. The word spread fast that something was definitely up at the Biogenetics building of York Academy. And it didn’t take much for people to imagine that whoever was inside a building with that name, they had to have had s
omething to do with the virus
.

Around Noon

It was a lonely yet thrilling walk along Hudson River Park
as I tried to find a way to leave Manhattan. Excitement, anxiety, and ultra-awareness accompanied me every step I took into the unknown. This was by far the most impulsive thing I had ever done—at least to that point. I had no water, no food, no e-reader
,
no plan, and if I allowed myself to think reasonably, which I didn’t, no prayer. I was just a pissed off, determined young man, who took a huge leap—or more truthfully, received a huge shove—forward, and who refused to look back. I thought to myself:
Sure, I could be killed out here today. But for now, this is living life to its fullest.

Adjacent to Canal Street, I ran into my opportunity. There was a small, fiber-carbon canoe, cream colored and smooth. It butted against the pier as a rubber duck would bump against the edge of a tub. And without missing a beat, I ran toward it, afraid that the current would carry it away.

Once I was close enough to see inside, I paused with surprise.

There was a man inside. He
was Caucasian, middle-aged, and definitely
dead. His lifeless eyes were staring upward to the partly cloudy sky. His mouth was a jagged, purple line. He was in a simple, blue plaid shirt with ripped, muddy jeans, and he had on
soaked
cowboy boots. Clutched in his hands were a small portrait—no doubt of this family—and a twenty by twenty centimeter New York City flag. By my judgment, he couldn’t have been dead for more than thirty minutes. The cancer took the poor bastard’s life, just before he had reached his destination.

After the initial shock,
I looked around to see if anyone else was in the vicinity. Convinced that no one was close, I climbed over the rail and eased into the canoe, which was almost two meters below. The canoe nearly took water with the added weight, but after I stood perfectly still, it stabilized.

Fortunately there was rope inside. Moving slowly, I tied a loop to the rail. I connected the rope to a metallic ring at the canoe’s stern. And once the craft was secure, I removed the picture and flag from the dead man’s grip, and placed both on the pier above.

Next, I began the difficult task of removing the body. And this guy was heavy. It was hard to keep balance. The little canoe
did
fill with water as we tilted one way or the other, and we nearly fell into the Hudson twice. But after ten minutes of intense struggle, my benefactor was on land at his final destination.

Feeling victorious, I dragged the body to a pedestrian bench about a meter and a half away. When we reached it, I laid the body flat and placed his arms over his chest. It was certainly a figment of my imagination, but I could swear he had the slightest of a smile that wasn’t there before. Next, I retrieved the portrait and flag and placed both how I had found them. And for the final touch, I used my index finger and thumb to close the man’s eyelids.

I stood back and admired my work for a moment. Then I said, “Whoever you are and wherever you came from, I have no idea. But you have made it to New York. I am happy to have brought you to land. Thank you for the canoe, and wherever you are in spirit, may you be in happiness and peace.”

As I entered the canoe, nostalgia
overtook
me
in a wave
. This was it. I was leaving my home. The only place I had ever wanted to call home.

I untied the rope, and immediately, the canoe began drifting away. The paddle was lying in the bottom, thank God, so I picked it up and started rowing toward New Jersey. It took a few moments to get the rhythm of what I was doing, but once I had it, it was natural.

I wasn’t the only one on the river. Farther
up, around midtown or so, there were other boats. There were hundreds of them, and they were heading towards Manhattan. As I watched, my jaw dropped, and a flash of stiff nervousness shuddered down my spine. But after several minutes, it was clear: their sole intent was reaching New York.

Still, I rowed faster, and leaned at an angle to make myself smaller.

***

12:00pm Transcript of Station 37, Transmission B

There is a monotonous hum of a hovercopter’s engine. It is not too loud, but it is noticeable. There is also the sound of a man fumbling with his microphone, verifying that it is on. The popping sound is loud as he taps his thumb against the surface. The clarity is sharp as he blows a soft breath. Satisfied with his result, the man speaks.

Terrence Green:

Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is Terrence Green, coming to you live from above Manhattan. Before I begin, my staff and I would like to thank you for taking the time to listen to our broadcast. We have all faced some difficult days, and there are many more difficult days ahead. But for us to know that you’re listening, especially at these trying moments, well, it makes our effort worth the while.

What brings us to Manhattan today is a confrontation at York Academy. It has been brought to our attention that scientists, soldiers, or a combination of the two, are holed up inside one of the buildings at the University, or what remains of it. We were told that whoever they are, they are defending something inside. The vast majority of people on the ground believe that this ‘somethin
g’ is the source of the pandemic. The pandemic
that has devastated mankind. And the people on the ground are determined to stop them.

From our position above, I can see thousands of people converging on the location. They are coming in from all directions. Many are on foot, there are a few who are lucky enough to travel in cars or trucks or motorcycles, and there are even people crossing the East River by boat.

At the site of contention, farther to my north, I can see plumes of smoke, rising from the ongoing battle. Before we make our way there, we will check in with Jessie McCarthy, our correspondent on the ground.

Terrence turns a switch. This is followed by a high-pitched tone. At first the tone is loud; then gradually, it is replaced by crowd noise.

Standing out in the foreground of this crowd noise are two men. It’s an interview. One man is asking questions, and the other man is answering in a soft and inaudible voice. The interviewer is entering information into a tablet. The surface chirps with every touch.

Terrence Green:

Jessie! You’re live. Are you there? Hello? Hello?

Jessie McCarthy:

Oh shit! Hey! Hi! Hello…Yes, this is Jessie McCarthy, coming to you live, from 59
th
Street in Manhattan.

Terrence Green:

Good afternoon, Jessie. Could you tell us what’s going on down there?

Jessie McCarthy:

Things are about to get intense, Terrence! I am in the middle of an interview with Jayden. Jayden is from Bridgeport, just as we are. He’s here because of the broadcast earlier this morning; it was on Station 24, Transmission B. The broadcast purported that there is a Dr. Lin inside one of the buildings; that he is th
e mastermind behind the pandemic
that has decimated our species; and that he is working on something to finish off the rest of us. After hearing this news, Jayden, along with thirty others from his group, have come here to stop him.

Jayden’s story is very common among the people out here today. People have come from New Jersey, upstate New York, Long Island, other parts of Connecticut, and of course, the other five boroughs of the city.

As of this moment, I have not been able to confirm anything regarding this Dr. Lin, but as you can see, the fighting is real. And from what I have gathered, it has been going on for a day or two by now.

At my current location, under the Ed Koch Bridge, a few individuals have set up a registry. They are keeping a record of the participants and of their efforts for this day. There is no clear leader as of yet, but rather a consensus of different leaders. These leaders come from many gangs and many militias.

Some of these gangs and militias, from what I have heard, are sworn enemies who would fight one another under other circumstances. But today, they are cooperating for the common cause. The common cause of taking out the threat.

I was able to obtain a list of names. Names of the groups who will be fighting today.

One moment, let me pull it up…ok, I got it right here.

We have the Wall Street Battlers; The Last Jews of Williamsburg, The Elizabeth Ghosts, Riker’s Island Finest, The Last Standers of Manhattan, The New Astoria Peoples, Chinatown Village, Soundview Crew, The Fordham Mourners, The Mountaineers of Riverdale, Bayside, The Staten Islanders, The Mount Vernon Redeemers, and the list goes on
,
Terrence. These are the groups we know of so far, but there are many more already here and on their way. This fight is going to be
epic
before it is all said and done!