The Julian Year Page 25

  Shrugging, she stepped over the hole and climbed down the ladder. The air felt a little stuffy but not too bad. When she was halfway down, Carmudy followed her, stopping only to slide the cement panel with the keypad back into place. As soon as it closed caged lightbulbs mounted on the cement wall opposite the ladder came on. Rachel went the rest of the way to the concrete floor and waited for Carmudy to join her.

  “What happens when someone sees that ice machine out of place? And what if someone steps on the false floor?”

  Carmudy loosened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket. “The components open separately but close as one. The ice machine is back in place.”

  “And if someone moves it?”

  “This entrance was kept open for you. Now that you’re here, it can finally be sealed.”

  She heard disapproval in his voice but she didn’t care.

  Carmudy led her to a steel door that also had a keypad. This time he entered a seven-digit number. The door unlocked, and when he opened it they entered what could have been an emergency stairway in any apartment building, with metal steps descending into gloom. Using a screwdriver, Carmudy pried the keypad off the wall, then kicked it into the stairway. He closed the door and threw a series of manual locks, and Rachel followed him down the stairs.

  “I’m sure you must have questions,” Carmudy said.

  “You risked your life to bring me down here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How far down are we going?”

  “Seven flights. With the ladder, we’re ninety feet underground.”

  “They couldn’t have made it an even hundred?”

  Carmudy didn’t answer.

  “How many people are down here?”

  “In this facility? Three hundred, including the people you knew at Shady Trees.”

  “How many facilities are there altogether?”

  “There are one hundred active military facilities in this country. One hundred and forty-two total.”

  “Military installations like this?”

  Carmudy didn’t respond.

  “How many people can our facility accommodate?”

  “Quadruple what we have.”

  “Then what?”

  “We go back up and see what’s waiting for us.”

  “So it’s another waiting game. Another ticking clock.”

  Carmudy stopped and faced her. “It’s another chance. That’s all we’ve got. There are no guarantees.” He resumed his descent.

  “Are we in communication with the other facilities?” “No, we’re all isolated from each other. It’s safer that way.”

  “What’s it like down there?”

  “Not bad once you get used to artificial light twenty-four hours a day and no weather. Imagine an apartment complex, a school, and a shopping mall all combined. We have a track, hydroponics, water purification.”

  “What about meat?”

  “A lot of frozen chicken, beef, and fish, but once that runs out we’ll all be vegetarians.”

  “Medical facilities?”

  “All the antibiotics and Band-Aids you could need, not to mention a few doctors and nurses.”

  “Internet?”

  “Get real. But we have electricity and electronics and a library of movies and television shows. We’ll get by.”

  “What about government?”

  “We have a representative town council. There’s been talk of holding elections next January when we know we’re safe for another year.”

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they faced a gleaming steel vault door six feet in diameter.

  “It’s set in six feet of reinforced concrete.” Carmudy punched a final code into a keypad, and the vault door opened with a loud hum. “Welcome to New York Sanctuary Two, also known as NYS2.”

  Rachel stared inside the vault, which had another door in the opposite wall. “What happens if I change my mind?”

  “You’re here for the duration. There’s no leaving; that would jeopardize everyone down here, and everyone in the other sanctuaries. If you try, you’ll be shot.”

  Thirty-four

  April 21

  The wind blew rain at Weizak as he exited the taxi and crossed the sidewalk to One Hudson Square. Daryl, the latest doorman, opened the door for him as thunder rumbled. Weizak’s shoes squeaked on the gleaming floor as he approached the elevator and pressed the button.

  When he got to the newsroom, his iPhone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out and looked at the screen.

  News Alert

  President Rhodes will address the nation at 10:00 a.m. Eastern regarding unconfirmed reports of military actions at penitentiaries across the country overnight.

  With his mouth open, Weizak looked at his editor in chief. “Oh, my God.”

  “It was inevitable,” Rosen said, glancing up from his phone. “You’d better get busy.”

  Weizak sat at his desk, switched on his computer, picked up his landline, and entered a number. “White House press secretary’s office,” he said.

  By 10:00 a.m., the dozen or so reporters who continued to work from the office stood in a loose half circle around the largest monitor on the floor, their arms crossed.

  President Rhodes sat at his desk in the Oval Office once more, which meant no questions could be asked. He appeared haggard. “Good morning. At the crack of dawn on the East Coast United States soldiers stationed at prison facilities across the country executed every possessed person in our custody. This was the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make, but I made it to ensure the safety and survival of the citizens of this nation. The executions were carried out as humanely as possible, using a variety of gasses. Our men and women in uniform performed their unenviable tasks with the professionalism we’ve come to expect.”

  “That’s more than nine million people,” someone said.

  “I know this news comes as a shock. Many of you, like me, have a hard time believing that the bodies of our loved ones were possessed by the souls of others. But we know this to be true, as the violence waged against us these past months has proven. Like me, many of you no doubt held out hope that the souls of those loved ones could somehow be induced to return to their bodies.

  “But our doctors and scientists have been unsuccessful in achieving such a breakthrough, and the number of people inhabiting our prisons exceeded the number we could safely contain. For many of you, this will be like losing those loved ones all over again, and for that I’m truly sorry. In consultation with my advisors, I determined that this was the only recourse available to us. Other nations took a similar stand as far back as January before we even knew the nature of our common enemy.”

  Rhodes stopped speaking to drink from a glass of water, and Weizak looked around the newsroom. Everyone stood riveted to the screen, including Rosen. A telephone rang unanswered.

  “Beginning immediately, our forces will dispose of the bodies of these possessed individuals. Neither bodies nor ashes will be returned to loved ones; it simply isn’t feasible. At the same time, newly possessed persons will be executed upon their transformation. We can never allow their ranks to swell to this degree again. We’re living in dark times, with even darker days ahead, and we can no longer put off making these difficult choices. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”

  The presidential seal filled the screen, then two ashen-faced newscasters replaced it.

  Rosen lowered the volume. “I’d say we have a busy day ahead of us.” He eyed Weizak. “Aren’t you glad you don’t work in obituaries anymore?”

  US Army troop transport trucks lined Sixteenth Street near Eighth Avenue.

  “How am I supposed to park?” Anibal said, steering the Cavalier.

  “It’s getting harder and harder to even reach our crime scenes,” Larry said.

  “Troop transports taking up traffic, troop transports taking up parking spaces .
. . People say we’ve turned into a police state, but the police are the ones being marginalized. It’s not like we can double-park beside one of these things.” He saw a space ahead. “Here we go.”

  Anibal pulled into the space on Fifteenth Street and got out. Larry did the same.

  “There’s your problem.” Larry pointed ahead.

  Two long blocks later, Anibal looked to Union Square, where dozens of soldiers held back a swelling crowd while workers unloaded fruits and vegetables from produce trucks.

  “A sign of things to come,” Larry said.

  “I hope not.”

  They walked back to Eighth Avenue. Along the way, Anibal made eye contact with numerous soldiers standing at attention. At least I’m free to walk around, he thought.

  At last they reached their destination: a narrow five-story apartment building with a smooth surface. A uniformed police officer stood outside the entrance, and Anibal showed the man his shield and ID and waited for him to record the information on his clipboard.

  “What are we looking at?” Anibal said while Larry showed the officer his ID.

  “Family,” the officer said. “Father took out his wife and kids, then did himself in.”

  What few spirits Anibal had sank. Families were the worst.

  They went inside and took the stairs to the second floor, where another officer stood outside a doorway.

  “You want me to do this alone?” Larry said.

  Anibal cocked one eyebrow. “No, bro. What good am I if I can’t do my job?”

  Nodding to the officer, they entered the apartment. Two small bloodied corpses occupied a single blood-soaked bed in one room; a larger corpse lay on a bed in another room. The shooter, a thin man who wore a suit, sat on the bathroom floor, a revolver in one hand and the back of his head splattered on the tiled wall. A wallet rested on top of the toilet lid.

  Anibal pulled on latex gloves, then picked up the wallet and opened it. “Richard Steigert, forty-four years old. Birthday on April 24. He was scheduled to turn himself in tomorrow.”

  “Coward,” Larry said. “He didn’t have to take them all with him.”

  Anibal set the wallet down. “Maybe they wanted to go out as a family. Or maybe he knew they couldn’t hack it without him.” He thought of Jasmine, who hadn’t been the same since Julio’s birthday. His wife did her best for the sake of Juan but seemed to battle near constant depression.

  “Every person should make his own choice how to face this. Ricky here took their choice away.”

  Overlapping beeps filled the bathroom. Anibal reached inside his pocket and took out his phone.

  News Alert

  In an address televised minutes ago, President Rhodes revealed that armed forces executed all possessed persons incarcerated in the United States. It is estimated that nine million people were executed. The United States joins a growing list of nations around the world that have adopted mass executions as a solution to the Omega Disorder epidemic. For weeks, debate has raged in Washington as to what course the president should take.

  “Oh, my God,” Anibal said. His body turned numb and Julio’s face filled his mind.

  Larry checked his own cell phone for the news.

  Anibal rushed out of the bathroom. “I have to go.”

  “I’m coming too,” Larry said behind him.

  On the sidewalk, Anibal broke into a run, ignoring the soldiers.

  Julio!

  He reached the Cavalier and unlocked its doors with the remote.

  “Hey, Anibal!”

  He turned just as Larry caught up to him. “I have to go.”

  “I know.” Larry plucked the keys from his hand. “But let me drive. In your state of mind you’ll hurt yourself or someone else.”

  Anibal stared at him for a moment, his chest rising and falling. Then he bolted around the car and jumped into the passenger seat.

  Larry slid behind the wheel and keyed the ignition.

  “Get me to Battery Park,” Anibal said.

  Weizak rapped on Rosen’s glass door, and the editor looked up from his desk and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard but the White House is stonewalling.”

  “Everyone’s saying the same thing,” Rosen said. “It’s a media blackout.”

  “I thought I’d go over to the armory on Lexington and Twenty-fifth and see what’s cooking, maybe do some man-on-the-street interviews.” The Sixty-Ninth Regiment Armory had been one of the first structures in the city converted into an emergency prison.

  “Be careful,” Rosen said. “It’s not like you’re a war correspondent or anything.”

  Larry slowed to a stop six blocks away from Battery Park. A platoon of soldiers directed oncoming vehicles away. In the distance, someone droned over a megaphone.

  “It looks like this is as far as we’re going,” Larry said.

  “It’s as far as you’re going.” Anibal opened the passenger door.

  “Are you insane? You could get killed out there.”

  “They killed my son. Do you hear me? They killed my son. Take the car back to the crime scene or to the precinct or whatever.” Anibal slammed the door and disappeared into the crowd.

  Weizak climbed into the taxi and told his driver the address he wanted.

  “It’s crazy over there,” the cabbie said. “I don’t know how close I can get you.”

  Weizak handed the man his ID card, which he swiped through his credit card machine. “Get me as close as you can.”

  The taxi drove off.

  “Can you believe the balls on this president?” the driver said. “Good for him. I don’t know what took him so long.”

  Nine million now means another nine million in three months, Weizak thought.

  Anibal ducked beneath a police barricade and merged into the crowd of hundreds surrounding the outskirts of Battery Park. All around him, men and women wept and wailed.

  Parents, he thought, feeling close to all of them.

  Two dozen soldiers stood in formation around the man with the megaphone, aiming their machine guns at the people.

  Anibal snaked through the crowd so he could hear the man’s words more clearly.

  “. . . one more time: no one is permitted to be here unless you are delivering your children to detention. Everyone else is trespassing. If you’re here for information related to a possessed person already incarcerated, let me be clear: all our prisoners have been euthanized. No bodies will be returned to families. All our prisoners have been euthanized. No bodies will be returned to families. Disperse in an orderly manner now, or we will be forced to shoot.”

  Anibal felt like he had been slugged in the solar plexus. Julio was dead; there was no hoping otherwise now. He understood that his boy had ceased to exist upon his birthday, his soul replaced by that of some foul monster, but his body had remained, the body that Anibal and Jasmine had created together.

  “This is your last warning! Disperse or we’ll be forced to fire!”

  Anibal sensed the bodies around him tensing. Was the officer serious?

  The officer lowered his megaphone and barked a command at the soldiers, who fired their machine guns.

  Screams erupted from the crowd. Anibal was carried away by fleeing civilians. When he realized there was no way for him to reach the far side of the park and no point in his doing so, he turned and followed the flow. A woman ahead of him fell to the ground, and he hauled her to her feet before she could be trampled. A panicked minute passed before he realized the soldiers had stopped firing. The crowd ahead toppled the barricades, and everyone poured into the street. Anibal sprinted around the corner of a bar and flattened himself against the wall and drew his Glock.

  “Drop it,” a female soldier lurking in the doorway said as she raised her M4 to her shoulder.

  Anibal dropped his Glock on the sidewalk. “I’m NPF.”

  “Show me your ID,” the black woman said.

  With deliberate movements, Anibal took out his Nati
onal Police Force ID.

  The soldier aimed her weapon at the sidewalk. “You can pick it up.”

  Anibal retrieved his gun. “They’re killing those people.”

  “Nah. They’re shooting rubber bullets, standard riot control.”

  Anibal peeked around the corner: except for a few limping stragglers, the crowd had dissipated. He turned back to the soldier. “Someone could have been killed in that stampede. Haven’t those people suffered enough?”

  The soldier held her gun in a relaxed manner. “No one told them to come here. I mean, what did they hope to accomplish?”

  Anibal didn’t know what he had hoped to accomplish by coming to Battery Park. He only knew that he needed to be here.

  “You’d better get going,” she said. “Good luck.”

  He looked at the name stitched over her shirt pocket. “You too, Johnson.”

  The taxi came to an abrupt stop on Lexington Avenue near Twenty-third Street.

  “Holy Christ,” the driver said.

  Leaning forward, Weizak saw a wall of people running toward them.

  There must be hundreds, he thought.

  Looking over his shoulder, the taxi driver backed up. When he’d gotten a safe distance away from the stampeding crowd, he moved forward and turned down Twenty-second Street. Then he pulled over. “Where do you want to go instead?”

  “Here is fine.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Weizak paid him. “Just give me a receipt, okay?”

  The driver handed him a receipt, and Weizak got out and closed the door. The taxi drove away, and Weizak took the cap off his camera. Standing in a safe zone, he photographed the crowd as they stampeded past him. After the last of them had run by, he turned the corner and walked up the middle of the deserted street toward the armory.

  Is this what it will be like on the last day?

  He walked two blocks, then came face-to-face with a couple of dozen armed soldiers outside the armory.