فصل 46

CHAPTER 46

Mark is in a conference room in the Lincoln Building, curled up into a ball under the huge table where he guesses very important men and women used to gather and talk about very important things. His stomach aches from the now weeks-old diet of junk food and soda pop scavenged from the vending machines scattered throughout the building. It took some work to break open the things—but a couple of former soldiers like Alec and Lana were trained to break open things, weren’t they? People and objects alike.

The Lincoln Building is a terrible place. Hotter than hell. Suffused with the gagging, sickening smell of rotting bodies, people who died from the initial burst of heat and radiation. They are everywhere. Mark and his new friends cleared the entire fifteenth floor, but the rank stench still permeates the air. It’s something you just don’t grow used to. And of course, there is nothing to do. Boredom has settled in like a cancer in the building, ready to eat away at their sanity. Not to mention the threat of radiation outside—though Alec thinks it’s finally dwindling. Even so, they’ve kept away from the windows as much as possible.

For all that, there is one thing Mark keeps thinking that makes it all seem not quite as bad as it could be: He and Trina have grown closer than ever. Very close. He grins like a fool and is glad no one can see him.

The door opens up and shuts; then there are footsteps. A can rattles across the floor and someone swears under his breath.

“Hey,” the someone whispers. Mark thinks it’s Baxter. “You awake under there?”

“Yeah,” comes Mark’s groggy reply. “And if I wasn’t I would be now. You’re not very good at being quiet.”

“Sorry. I was sent to find you—there’s a boat heading down Broadway, driving straight toward us. Come have a look.” Mark never thought he’d hear those words—a boat coming down one of the most famous streets in the world, where cars are supposed to drive. But Manhattan has turned into a grid of rivers and streams, the fierce sun constantly reflecting off the waters in spectacular and blinding flashes. It’s like they have a sky both above them and below.

“Are you serious?” Mark finally asks, realizing he’s been quiet for a few seconds, stunned by the news. He tries not to get his hopes up that they’re about to be rescued.

Baxter scoffs. “No, I made it up. Come on.”

“Guess the radiation has died down, unless a couple of freak shows are driving it.” Mark wipes at his face and eyes, then scoots out from underneath the large table. He stands and stretches, yawns again, teasing Baxter by not hurrying. But then the curiosity finally gets to him.

They head out into the hallway, where a fresh wave of heat and stench assaults Mark’s senses. After weeks of this, he still gags, willing himself not to throw up.

“Where are they?” he asks, assuming Alec and Lana are the ones who’ve spotted the boat and are watching it now.

“Down on five. Smells a thousand times worse down there, but that’s where the water line is. It’s like rotting fish and humans. I hope you haven’t eaten in a while.” Mark just shrugs, not wanting to think about food. He’s sick of candy bars and potato chips—something he never would’ve thought possible.

The two of them go to the central bank of stairwells and begin the ten-story trip down to the fifth floor. All is quiet except for the thumps and scuffles of their footsteps, and Mark finds that his excitement over who might be in the boat overcomes the growing stench as they descend. There are bloodstains on the stairs. He sees a chunk of hair and meaty mass on one of the handrails. He can’t imagine the panic that ensued in this place when the sun flares struck, and the horrors that resulted. Luckily—for them, anyway—no one was alive by the time they arrived.

They reach the landing of the fifth floor and Trina is waiting at the door to the stairwell.

“Hurry!” she says, motioning with a quick nod to follow her. She breaks into a trot and talks over her shoulder as they maneuver down a long hallway toward the outermost wall of windows. “It’s a big yacht—looks like it was nice and fancy before the flares struck. Now it seems like it was built a hundred years ago. Can’t believe it floats, much less runs.” “Could you see the people on it yet?” Mark asks.

“No. They’re obviously underneath. In the cockpit, the bridge, whatever you call it.”

Seems like she knows as much about boats as Mark.

They turn a corner and see Alec and Lana at a section where the windows have been knocked out, the water of the sea lapping against the wall just a foot or so below them outside. The Toad and Misty are sitting on the floor, staring out. Mark hears the boat before he sees it, a coughing, choked sound of engines that have seen better days. Then the battered vessel comes into view past a small building, its back end sunk low into the water as the yacht chugs along. It’s about thirty feet long, fifteen wide, with duct tape and plywood boards covering up scattered holes and split seams. A tinted window with spiderwebs of cracks is like an ominous eye, looking at them as it approaches.

“Do they know we’re here?” Mark asks. He only allows himself to think that these people are coming to rescue them. Bring food and water, at least. “Did you hail them down?” “No,” Alec answers curtly. “By the looks of it, they’re checking out every building. Scavenging, no doubt. But they’ve seen us by now.” “I just hope they’re friendly,” Trina whispers, as if she doesn’t want the strangers to hear.

“I’ll fly to the moon and back if these folks are nice,” Alec replies in a completely dead voice. “Stay on your toes, boys and girls. Follow my lead.” The boat is very close now, its noises filling the air along with the smell of fuel. Mark can see the faint shadow of two people behind the darkened window now, and they both appear to be male. They both have short hair, anyway.

The engines of the yacht cut off and its tail end begins to swing around so that the boat can bump lengthwise against the building. Alec and Lana step back, and Mark notices that at some point the Toad and Misty have scooted all the way to the far wall. Trina, Baxter and Mark are standing in a tight group, the tension clear in their faces.

One of the people from the bridge appears on deck, stepping through a doorway from below. It’s a man, and he’s holding an enormous gun in both hands, the muzzle already pointed at the spectators inside the Lincoln Building. He’s one ugly dude, greasy hair matted to his head, a scruffy beard—the kind that looks like a wild fungus on the neck—and black sunglasses. His skin is filthy and sunburnt, his clothes tattered.

Another person appears, and Mark’s surprised to see it’s a woman with a shaved head. She deals with securing the boat against the wall as her partner steps closer to the broken window where Alec and Lana stand.

“I want to see every single hand,” the man says to them, sweeping his weapon back and forth, pausing for a brief moment on each person. “Two each, up in the air. Go on.” Most of them do as they’re commanded, except Alec. Mark hopes the man doesn’t do something crazy and get them all shot.

“You really think I’m bluffing?” the stranger says in a raw, scratchy voice. “Do it now or die.”

Alec slowly raises his hands toward the ceiling.

The man with the gun doesn’t seem satisfied. He’s breathing heavier than he should, and staring at Alec through those dark sunglasses. Then he swings his weapon at Baxter and lets loose three quick bursts of fire. The explosions of sound rock the air, and Mark stumbles backward until he slams into the wall of a cubicle. The bullets have torn into Baxter’s chest, spraying red mist everywhere and knocking him onto his back with a hard thud. He doesn’t even scream, death having taken him already. His torso is a mess of blood and mangled skin.

The man takes in a deep pull of air. “Now I expect you’ll do what I say.”