No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (27 page)

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CHAPTER 69

H

e had walked in silence along with the rest, unaware of his destination. He was wearing the work clothes of the whitecollar world, a gray pinstripe suit covered by an equally gray topcoat, designed to keep its occupant warm long enough to

step from a cab into his office building in downtown Manhattan and return to a waiting cab at the end of his work day. He wore Florsheim patent-leather shoes, standard footwear for businessmen of his type. The only barrier between his feet and the thin leather shoes were silk socks. He had walked in the midst of the crowd, headed west to somewhere else, and had traveled ten blocks before the blisters began to form. Now his feet were swelling and his wool topcoat was letting the February winds in. He was hungry just like the rest, and cursed himself for staying behind at happy hour instead of taking the commuter train back to the comfort of his Connecticut home.

In the three days since the detonation, the shelves in the stores had been stripped of everything edible, and those who had chosen to remain in the dark and silent city had begun to kill each other for food. Even the rats were coming out of their hiding places, some as big as cats, and aggressive. When word-of-mouth rumors began to spread that bubonic plague had been diagnosed in a neighborhood in the lower east side, he decided that it was time to get out. To the east was Long Island, and then the Atlantic. A dead end.

West was the only practical way to go, and the bridges over the Hudson were already full of foot traffic. Those lucky enough to own a bicycle had already evacuated ahead of the crowd of city dwellers, wary of those who would attempt to knock them down and steal their ride. At this point, walking was the only option.

It was the families who began the exodus. The fathers sensed the danger, the mothers gathered up what they would need to survive, and the children asked questions about the unanswerable unknowns that festered inside of all of them. Many wore three layers of clothing, but others tried to lug suitcases. Some toted their essentials and children in shopping carts pilfered from the supermarket.

The bridges were full of pedestrians, all leaving the burning city for the promise of something better. Some had a destination in mind; relatives in other parts of the country who would take them in, no matter how tense it could be. They were absorbed back into their extended families for the duration of the “event.” They were the lucky ones. They got out when they could, before the harsh realities of their situation threatened their survival, falling into the comfort that family could provide. Years later, people would recount the “event” as a life changer. In some ways, the survivors were made better for it. Getting out of the city was the difference between life and death for them, and they were spared the horrors that remained behind in the darkened shell of Manhattan, illuminated at night only by the tall buildings that burned out of control.

The Lincoln Tunnel and the Holland Tunnel were both flooded. The powerful pumps that maintained them under the Hudson River failed when the grid fell, and the river was slowly reclaiming its territory. His only option to escape the city was the George Washington Bridge, and from his office on the upper west side, it was the closest.

The wind came out of the Northeast, cold and gusty. He could feel it cut through his topcoat, and his shivering increased in intensity until his bottom lip quivered uncontrollably. He wasn’t alone. He walked in step with numerous other evacuees, bundled the best they could.

“Where ya from, man?” A stocky, square-jawed man with a prodigious growth of stubble on his face peered at the businessman from a snorkel jacket that had seen better days. Without pausing for a reply, he said, “Managed ta get this one from the Goodwill store before they stripped it clean. Yer gonna freeze yer ass off in that getup,” he said, displaying his keen sense of the obvious. “First chance ya get, find yourself one ’a these. Toasty in here. Yessir!” He picked up his pace as the businessman slowed near the center span of the bridge.

He paused to rest, and looked south. From this vantage point, he could see the length of the Hudson down to the Jersey side, where the Statue of Liberty stood like a green speck in the distance. It was many miles off, but it was unmistakable. Between gusts of wind, he could hear the thrup-thrup of the rotors of helicopters. Two black specks moved into view, traveling low and moving fast. It was the first mechanical sound he had heard since before the blast, and for a moment, he had an adrenaline rush of hope. Then there was a bright flash, and the green speck on the horizon wilted in a glow and then collapsed. He stared at Lady Liberty until the glow subsided, and turned toward his destiny.
There has to be a workable commuter line somewhere, and I intend to find it. Anything heading north. I won’t be picky. Once I get home, I won’t be coming back.

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CHAPTER 70

H

ave you noticed anything about Glenda’s broadcast that isn’t right?” Bill Staffman was monitoring broadcasts on the major networks as Andrew Fox worked on the leftover pizza from lunchtime the day before. With a little salt

and some red pepper, it would make great breakfast food, he thought, remembering his college days and all-nighter munchies. It wasn’t time for breakfast, but he hadn’t had much to eat since the latest incident in New York, and they hadn’t left the building for a day and a half.

“No, she looks the same, everything looks the same,” replied

Andrew.
“That’s just the point. That studio is in New York.”
“Holy shit . . .”
“And another thing. She used to have a lot more personality, you

know what I mean? She used to cut up a lot more, and she used to be a whole lot easier on Max. Now she just reads the news and gets off.” “Now that you mention it . . . yeah, there’s something mega-weird going on there,” Andrew surmised. “Run up her last broadcast. I want to look at it with new eyes.” He dropped the crust into the pizza box and walked toward the wall that served as the broadcast screen. “Make it big.” Glenda Reasoner came up, her image as large as the wall.

“In the latest disaster of the Masterson administration, now less than two months old, Max Masterson’s popularity rating has plummeted from an all-time high of eighty-three percent to seventy percent, and I predict a big fall after the events of the past twentyfour hours. New York is burning and people are dying, underscoring the failure of our president to lead.” The image of people screaming and running had been inserted, and then the camera brought the image of Glenda at her desk into focus.

“Focus on her hands,” said Andrew.

Staffman manipulated the image, and as Glenda spoke, they watched in high-definition.
“She was doing something with her hands. My memory works that way. When I remember an image that doesn’t look right, it comes back to me in virtual detail. It’s a blessing and a curse,” Andrew revealed.
“Are you sure it isn’t just the stale pizza?” Staffman was skeptical. He didn’t appreciate that some kid from the Midwest had taken a position of high importance over him, a long-time loyal trooper. He appreciated how far he had gone, but in the Washington environment, the pecking order was everything.
“No . . . Look.”
Glenda was tracing letters with her left hand.
“H,” she traced, casually, but clear.
“E” came next, so subtle, but unmistakable.
“The Masterson administration has failed the American people. At a time when we as a nation would support our president, he has slipped to mediocrity.”
They weren’t listening to the words. It was her hands.
“L,” she traced.
“America should run this charlatan, this nonpolitician, from our highest office, and bring in someone who can bring us back to our essence. We need to support the way things are, our status quo.”
“P,” she traced before the clip had finished.
“Kid, you are amazing,” said Staffman. He reclined in his chair, and contemplated the next action. “You can inform the president, and I will inform everyone else that we are being played.”

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CHAPTER 71

T

hey began burning the Chippendale furniture when the small supply of firewood ran out. It wouldn’t matter soon, anyway. The city was burning, and the smoke hung in the air as a constant reminder. Before long, fire would indiscriminately

consume the building and everything in it. “I want an evacuation plan, and I want it now,” Scarlett announced to the room.

“Madam Vice President, it is protocol to remain in place and secure and wait for extraction,” Agent Jones said.
“Well, Jones, what is protocol for extracting the vice president from a burning building in a city without any shred of hope? They can’t put out a fire without water or power, and I have no intention of being a casualty, is that clear?” She seethed at the thought that rescue efforts had not taken her away from her misery, and she was not one to give up and wait for something to happen. She would lead.
“Bailey, find yourself a bike or something, and go over to the Hudson and scout our situation, and report back to me. I need to know what’s happening out there.”
Bailey nearly flew out the door in search of transportation. Five minutes later, he returned with a mountain bike in his meaty hands. It was a woman’s model, with a frame much too small for his large size, but the tires were full.
The smallest agent, Manley, stepped forward. He was the obvious choice, and the only one who spent his weekends grinding out the miles on his racing bike. Scarlett wasted no time. “Fill your water bottle and go find a way to get us out of this city, now!” She pushed him toward the door as Bailey scrambled to fill the water bottle with Perrier that was stocked in the pantry. Manley adjusted the seat to the top setting and in less than a minute, he was expertly tooling down the road toward Central Park.
His first objective was to cycle across Central Park away from the advancing flames, and if he didn’t encounter the rescue crew, to head west to the river and see what he could see.
There has to be a huge effort to recover the vice president, but without a point of reference, they are either back at her hotel, or they are scratching their heads trying to figure out where we are right now. I’m betting that they are narrowing down our options to Central Park, anywhere but in the path of the fire. That’s where I’d go, and that’s where anyone with any sense would be headed.
There was a large group of people milling around in the park. At the Delacorte Amphitheater there was a man on the podium, talking loudly into an old-fashioned megaphone. He was too far away to hear, but Manley could clearly discern that he was an emergency management official of some sort, instructing them of their options and urging them to leave New York. He rounded the curve of trees and saw it at the East Meadow; a black helicopter, definitely part of the rescue operation, its blades stationary and surrounded by a cordon of individuals holding weapons. He increased his pace until his legs burned. He continued pedaling down the hill, where the helo bearing the American flag sat like a large insect.
“Coming through!” Manley performed a skidding sideways stop at the end of his approach, spraying slush and mud in a high arc of

MARK E. BECKER

the back of the crowd. Without waiting for the inevitable protests, he launched himself into the mass of people and propelled his athletic body toward the helo. His approach was a complete surprise, and for a brief moment, the crowd parted, leaving him facing the muzzles of automatic weapons capable of ripping him in half in less than a second.

“Secret Service! I’m here to take you to Hairbrush!” They had to believe him . . . he knew the right words. Hairbrush was Scarlett’s classified name, and it granted him immediate access. “You need to get this bird in the air and let Washington know that we have her safe and sound,” he said, launching himself into the helicopter.

“We can’t do that, sir,” said the pilot. “We kept her flying after the second EMP went off, but it knocked out all of our communications. We’ll be flying blind . . .”

“I don’t care. Our first duty is getting Hairbrush to safety, and we will serve her or die trying,” he responded. His urgency was contagious, and the helo’s blades began spinning. Manley directed them seven blocks away to the town house.

While they were in the air, Manley noted that the fire had spread and there were people running in the street toward the train station, where a black locomotive attached to passenger cars, all apparently snatched from a museum, was boarding refugees fleeing the city. Judging from the number of the waiting evacuees, it would not be enough. Smoke billowed across Manhattan like a gray curtain, changing the day into night for long minutes. When daylight was able to poke through the haze for a moment, the waiting crowd’s enormity was revealed.

The fire had begun at the source. The buildings across the Hudson that were closest to the Statue of Liberty sustained the most intense bombardment of the EMP blast, and the electrical charge caused sparks. The buildings were old, and the fire was inevitable. The wind coming out of the west spread it like a forest fire, moving in a wave toward the East River.
Soon, anything that can burn will go up in smoke. We need to get to the Vice-President, and fast.

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They flew low enough to witness the chaos below. People were fleeing by train and on foot, all heading west off the island, with the spreading fire hastening their departure. These were the New Yorkers who had hunkered down, waiting for it to be over. When the lights didn’t come back on, and their apartments got cold, they had panicked. The glow of the flames came from the west, a constant reminder of the urgency of their mission. Their destination was well-marked. While Manley was on his reconnoitering mission, the rest of the vice president’s Secret Service contingent had been busy. In the snow-covered street outside of the townhouse, a large arrow had been created with fireplace ash.

Scarlett and her protectors heard the helo simultaneously. Without the need to voice the words, they moved as one toward the door. As they left the building, the fashion models stood at the top of the hallway stairs, crying and begging, “Take us! We’ll die here!” Scarlett paused and scanned the pitiful sight. Their makeup was smeared from constant crying, but it failed to diminish their fragile beauty. A wave of pity came into her mind, but in a flash, it was gone. They were in survival mode, and the first obligation was for the continuity of government to be assured. “You’re on your own now,” Scarlett announced in a solemn voice, and then they were gone.