Anthem's Fall (38 page)

Only in a time of peace, of prosperity, could such trivial notions as fashion and celebrity hold such sway over society, and in that sense he was thankful for the overhead glamour. All things considered, there were worse things to worship than pop culture.

Gawking tourists and relentless street salesmen obstructed his way as he crossed congested intersections and came before the grand entrance to the Marriott Marquis. He tossed his water bottle into a gold-embossed hotel garbage can and took a deep breath of the agreeable autumn breeze. Beyond the street-level marquee, the hotel rose far overhead, its zenith indistinguishable among so many others of Midtown. Almost at once Ryan felt out of place with his untucked plaid shirt and jeans as he entered the opulent hotel lobby. Everything was elegant, from the detailed handrails to the sumptuous carpet. Ryan took the stairs up to the second floor, and ambled into the Lutvak ballroom. Hesitating inside of the doors, he stretched to his full height and looked out over the many rows of chairs and tables lining the huge space. The displays ranged from studies on viruses in Geneva to microchips in the Silicone Valley to extensive charts on radiation research in northern Japan. Ryan noted that the podium at the head of the ballroom was unmanned; he was early. He navigated the perimeter of the room and saw the largest congregation of people amassed by the Vatruvian cell display station against the far wall. Ryan meandered toward it, peering past some shoulders and watching a Vatruvian cell rotate slowly on a large laptop screen.

“Glad to see the demographic of suits and blazers didn’t turn you away at the door,” Ryan heard Kristen say, and turned to see her sitting down, her chin resting in her hands. A few looked at her strangely due to the irreverent remark, but Kristen did not seem to care. “Have you been watching the news?”

Ryan pulled up a seat next to her. “Seems like more of the same.”

“Some hotel worker just announced the government has heightened national security,” Kristen said. “Kind of freaky.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing too serious.” Ryan watched a group of people and saw the man he recognized as Nicoli Vatruvia shaking hands with some old professor types. “Are you sticking to your plan?”

“I am.” Kristen tapped the pen drive attached to the laptop nearest her. “I just put together a final slide that tells about the mice.”

Ryan drew a nervous breath.

“It’ll be fine,” Kristen said. “It’s what needs to happen. Professor Vatruvia told me we’re presenting second on the itinerary, so I don’t think I’ll start our presentation for twenty minutes or so.”

“Okay.” Ryan nodded.

The amplified voice of a man standing behind the podium abruptly rose over the hubbub of the ballroom. “Hello, researchers from around the globe, and thank you for coming to this year’s convention! We will be starting the day’s presentations momentarily, so if everyone can find a seat, we’ll get underway as soon as possible!”

Kristen sighed anxiously and clapped the laptop shut as Professor Vatruvia turned and beckoned her over. “Well, this is it,” she whispered bleakly. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Ryan said. They looked at each other for one caring moment, and then Kristen turned to follow Professor Vatruvia.

Ryan rose from his seat and walked to the rows of seats by the rear of the ballroom. On the broad projection screen behind the stage, the title of the first presentation read:
Bovine Lymphocyte Formations
. He cringed at the subject and decided to visit the café downstairs and grab a coffee while he waited. Ryan swept down the main stairs, and found the lobby mostly unoccupied. Most guests were now up in the Lutvak Ballroom. After exchanging a pleasantry with the barista, Ryan stirred his steaming cup of French roast and raised his attention to a television screen propped beside the chalkboard menu.

The airplane crash in Albany had taken a secondary priority, and another evidently more important story was now holding precedent. Ryan noticed at once that the news anchors were failing to conceal anxiety behind their practiced on-camera guises. A flashing headline said the United States government was officially advising the country to be on guard. Ryan stared at the television as he stood alongside the few workers and patrons of the café. The broadcast suddenly cut to the president himself, standing behind a podium in the White House press room.

If the reporter’s had looked worrisome, the President of the United States looked outright sick with angst.

“My fellow Americans. I will first affirm that the recent security advisory is not, I will repeat, is
not
a cause for panic or evacuation of any specific locality. Instead, the Department for Homeland Security and myself have collaborated, and decided to come forward with this advisory merely as a precautionary measure. Our decision to take this action was done only with the intention of having our national infrastructures prepared should a disturbance on American soil occur. At this time I cannot state what the cause for our concern is, but I assure you it will be made clear to the public the moment we have been given clarity on the situation. I do not want this message to be perceived as cause for alarm. Schools and public offices will remain open. Public transportation and airports will remain in service. I have issued assurances to my advisors that the honor and courage of our people will hold them grounded against fear or social unrest. To our citizens, I advise you to stay calm and vigilant. To our police, fire, and emergency responders, I advise you to be ready. You will be updated the moment we believe the cause for this threat to be pacified. God bless America.”

An ominous quiet filled the lobby, where nearly everyone had seen the president’s face above the blinking word
live
and stopped what they were doing to listen.

“What the hell?” a man on a couch beside Ryan murmured to no one in particular. Nervous talk broke out among the café workers and patrons. What should they do? Should they leave the city? Were they
safe
? Ryan stared at the television silently. It did not feel right. Terrible possibilities began to play in his mind. Unlikely possibilities. He quickly shook his head and forced out his irrational fears. Surely a terrorist had gone missing or a threat had been made. Still, he did not like it, and assorted worst-case scenarios filled his imagination.

He thought of Kristen, upstairs by herself.

The reporters were beginning to speculate upon a connection between the Albany plane crash and the president’s announcement as Ryan reluctantly turned away and began to trudge back up to the convention. He was halfway up the main stairs when he heard a cry from the lobby. Turning, he saw people pushing against each other to get in front of the television, several of the women with hands raised over their mouths in horror. Ryan stared at their frightened faces, uncertain what could possibly have captivated them so completely. Slowly, nervously, he put one foot in front of the other and descended back down the wide stairs.

Ryan froze in place when he saw the television.

The words flashing on the screen could not be possible. An icy dread filled his being.

BREAKING NEWS: CHICAGO UNDER ATTACK

Above the blinking headline, a reporter was standing in the middle of a horrible scene. Men and women were running hysterically in every direction, and the scene was obscured by dust in the air. The camera was faltering, and moving about like a home video. Beneath the news reporter, the street shook as though an earthquake was ripping through the scene, indiscriminate roars and crashes nearly drowning out all other sound. The reporter was pressing one hand against her earpiece and with the other holding the microphone against her mouth, screaming into it as loudly as she could, though her voice could barely be heard.

“Chicago is under attack! The entire downtown area has turned into some sort of . . . of
warzone
!” the reporter screamed, the microphone pushed against her lips. She was stumbling, and the camera could barely stay on her. “We have
no
idea what is attacking the city, but it feels like . . . like . . . bombs are going off in the buildings! We don’t”— a terrible booming sound overwhelmed her voice. Whatever it was caused her to crash against a local news van as she screamed— “
WAR
.”

“
What is happening?” Ryan asked with an unusually hollow and croaky voice.

A man in a polo shook his head slowly, his face turning pale. “The . . . the buildings are collapsing?” the man said, more as a question than a statement.

Ryan said nothing; he wanted to swallow heavily but his mouth and throat were dry. He took a step closer to the large television and squinted at the frantic broadcast. The shattering carnage on the screen was like nothing he had ever witnessed. He began to breath heavily, uncertain of how to act. Hundreds of thousands—maybe even millions—of people were being killed. Placing a clammy palm against his forehead, he had to steady himself as he embraced the terror.

“It doesn’t seem like missiles,” the man in the polo said.

“No,” Ryan muttered, his eyes unblinking and the color leaving his own face. “They don’t know?” Ryan repeated and stepped directly in front of the television, intensely scanning the chaotic camerawork of the Chicago streets. A number of people loudly objected from behind him, but Ryan was too distracted to hear.

The atrium of the broad skyscraper behind the shouting news reporter suddenly exploded outward, instantly engulfing her and the cameraman in a grayish cloud of debris and mangled steel. CNN’s broadcast went ominously blank, before cutting back to the studio. The two newscasters behind the desk each seemed momentarily unable to speak despite the teleprompter. They simply stared at the camera at a loss for words.

Ryan felt nausea rise in his own stomach.

“I—we . . . remain uncertain what is happening in Chicago,” one of the newscasters stammered in a detached tone. “We received some . . . startling . . . footage from a freelance cameraman in Chicago. What it depicts . . . what it depicts speaks for itself. We have no explanation . . . as to what it is. I must warn you, what you are about to see is very alarming.”

The broadcast cut to an entirely normal-looking Chicago on an ordinary-looking drizzly day. The digital time signature on the recording evinced that the video had been taken just minutes ago. A video camera was recording the narrow vista between two rows of gigantic skyscrapers drenched with whipping rain. Two men were discussing the best angle for their shot, their voices rising over gusts of wind.

“Jake, we need to get across the street. In this diffuse lighting, we should focus on the closest buildings. The far ones aren’t going to be clear anyway ’cause of the fog.”

“But what about if we took the shot from that build—” the other man stopped and hissed, “What the
hell
is that?”

There was a fumbling noise, and the camera jerked to the side. It came to rest overlooking several skyscrapers across the street. Above and between the dark forms of the buildings, a stormy cloud cover loomed.

“What in
holy
hell?” the first man exclaimed.

There was an odd dark spot in the sky just over the spire of one of the skyscrapers. The camera focus shifted, going from blurry and rushing past clear to blurry again. It then readjusted slowly, and with it so too did the dark object over the building. Against the silhouette of murky clouds, an unmistakable man was floating in the sky.

Ryan’s hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

The man, the freakishly huge man, hovering high in the storm turned in the air and darted through the sky, piercing straight into the side of one of the skyscrapers. A moment passed, then the skyscraper let out a great shiver, the roof collapsed inward, and the whole building fell out of the camera’s shot.

The several people watching the broadcast around Ryan gasped, unable to understand.

Ryan blinked at the image several times, his whole body beginning to shake uncontrollably. “Oh no. Oh no,” he muttered as he placed his trembling fingers against his brow. “Oh no.”

Stumbling to the side, Ryan crashed onto a suede chair, his legs barely able to keep him upright. “Not here. Oh, please not here. Don’t do this to me.”

The man in the polo and one of the café workers stared at him, puzzled by his reaction. He looked up the stairway to the doors of the Lutvak ballroom, to where Kristen was. How could he leave her in this place? Beautiful, radiant Kristen left to fend for herself against the horrors of his past. He could not bear to think of it. She could not meet the truths he knew. The thought of it made him want to die with pain. On the television, another skyscraper crumbled to ruin. As it fell, he made up his mind at once. Ryan knew he would never forgive himself for abandoning her.

“How did they find us?” Ryan murmured. He thought of his father. He thought of his teacher. They were the only two who knew about this place. “How did they possibly find us?”

One of the baristas looked taken aback. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Get out of the city!” Ryan suddenly yelled as loudly as he could. “Get out, all of you. Don’t think—just run! Tell the people in the convention to get out! They’re going to kill everyone.”

Ryan sprinted out of the Marriot Marquis and crashed out onto the street. People were everywhere, going about business as usual. Ryan turned again and again on the sidewalk, looking up to the skyscrapers, utterly unsure how to act. His stomach lurched, the familiarity of the city he loved and the people he knew churning up piping emotion.

Around him the news of downtown Chicago’s destruction was visibly spreading through the crowds of Times Square like an outbreak of plague. He darted his attention around the congested intersections with growing panic. Here and there people were beginning to shout into cell phones. New York City was on a countdown to bedlam. The image of a giant man crashing into the Chicago skyscraper was seared into his mind as it undoubtedly was in everyone’s, though he alone knew the depths of the malice. Ryan turned in agony, his breath unsteady as he paced back and forth on the sidewalk. He looked upward, but saw only brilliant blue. The afternoon weather was a stark contrast to the grimness of Chicago. There were no dark forms above the buildings.