Last Man Standing (Book 1): Hunger (13 page)

A half mile away at the Long Island shore a high pitched hum pervades the air, just at the edge of hearing, if there was anyone left alive to hear. Above the crackle of fires and the creak of settling concrete the hum grows louder by the second. It's the sound of straining. Of tension.

If anyone was around to see they might hear the occasional tortured
twang
, like the snap of an immense guitar string. If they were paying close attention they may just notice, in the heavy concrete anchorage of the bridge's main suspension cables, hairline cracks appearing in the concrete, weakened by the force of the blasts.

"Tom?" The weak voice carries above the breeze whistling through the cables. "Tom, are you there?"

My eyes dart around, searching for the source of the voice. "Bishop? Bishop, is that you?"

"Over here, buddy. Under the truck."

I turn back to the overturned pickup and fall to the ground, peering beneath the wreckage. I see him immediately, his pudgy face smiling weakly out from the narrow gap between the asphalt and the mangled bed of the truck.

"I see you, Bishop." I run over to the truck and crouch down to look through the gap. "Jesus, how did you get under there?"

"I don't rightly remember, buddy," he laughs, then loses his breath and descends into a coughing fit in the dusty air. "I guess I should have been wearing my seatbelt," he mumbles, his voice dry and scratchy. "I just looked around when I heard the first bombs, then it all kinda went to shit. I think I must have hit a barrier or something, 'cause next thing I know I'm out of the truck and all I can see is sky. I'm sorry, Tom, I fucked up. You OK?"

I nod and wave my hand. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry about me, I'm good. Just a few scratches."

Bishop twists his head so he can look out at me, and he winces when he sees my face. "That don't look like a scratch, Tom. You're redder'n a strawberry."

I reach up and touch my forehead, and my hand comes away sticky. "Don't worry about it," I assure him, "head wounds always look worse that they are. Now, we gotta get you out from under there. Can you move?"

Bishop wriggles a little beneath the truck, and nods. "Yeah, thank God. Don't seem to be caught under anything. Lucky escape, huh?"

"I think someone's looking out for you, Bishop," I laugh. "If you were anyone else you'd have already died three times today. Now, we need to lift this thing somehow. I don't think you can squeeze through this gap."

Bishop shakes his belly with his hands. "I knew I shoulda started that diet at New Year. Couple less pizzas and I might have been able to fit. Hang on, I think I can squeeze through if you can just lift it a few more inches."

I move around to the back of the truck and grip the tailgate, but as much as I strain to lift it the truck won't budge. I try again, pulling up until I feel bile rising in my throat and see spots in my eyes, but I can only manage to move it an inch or so before my strength runs out.

"No dice, Bishop," I gasp. "I need some kind of leverage to get this fucker off the ground. It's just too heavy for me."

Bishop bangs his head against the asphalt, frustrated. I crouch back down to see if I can figure out another approach, but it doesn't look good. His body fills most of the space beneath the overturned flat bed. The base of it is just an inch or two from his protruding belly, too low for him to use his arms or legs to offer any help. The only other thing under there is...

"Bishop?" I ask slowly, almost afraid to finish the thought. "What's that thing next to you?"

He turns his head to the squat red canister strapped into a housing in the bed of the truck. It's about the size of a gas bottle for a camp stove, and so dirty I can't quite be sure if it is what I think it is.

"That's the, umm, bottle jack," he says, as if I just asked him to identify a bird that just flew by.

"Bishop..."

He gives me a blank look. "Yeah?"

"You wanna pass me the damned jack so I can lift the car and get you the fuck out from under there?"

The light appears in Bishop's eyes as he finally understands. I wonder if he's always this slow, or if he's just suffering from some kind of shock from the events of the day. He twists awkwardly in place and stretches his arm out until he can just about scrabble at the strap, loosening it with his fingers.

The hum reaches me before the vibration. For a moment I think it's just the same ringing that's been in my ears all day. I think it's just a symptom of stress, or something to do with the fact that I haven't had a bite to eat or a sip to drink since last night, paired with a couple of nasty head wounds.

But then I feel the road wobble.

It would be difficult to describe it to anyone who hasn't felt a good sized earthquake. It's not like the road is visibly bucking beneath me. It's just a tremble, easily ignored if I wasn't paying attention, but I can feel it all the way up my legs. Something's happening, and my Spidey sense starts tingling.

"Bishop," I say, trying to keep my voice calm, "maybe you should hurry up and get me that jack. Come on now, get it moving."

"I can't quite..." He bears his teeth and tries to stretch further, but he's at his limit. The thick strap is loosening, but only by a fraction of an inch with each tug. At this rate it'll take forever. I drop to my belly and shuffle as far as I can beneath the truck, and with a little effort manage to reach my hand out to loosen the thing with a quick tug.

I feel the vibration in my stomach as I slide the jack out from under the car. I can't be sure, but it seems to be growing stronger, quickly, and every few seconds I'm certain I can feel a slight jolt. I just pray it's in my head.

"OK, man, get ready to slide yourself out as soon as it starts to lift." I search for a decent jacking point at the bent lip of the flatbed. There's no spot I'd choose in a perfect world, but the nearside corner seems solid enough for the job at a pinch. I plant the bottle firmly on the asphalt beneath the steel, and with shaking hands insert the collapsible lever and start pumping. The piston creeps up painfully slowly, and by the time it finally connects with the steel the hum in the air has shifted to a distant, tortured squeal.

"Hear that noise, Bishop?" I try to keep the growing panic from my voice, without much success.

"You too? I was hoping I was just going crazy." I hear the exact same scared tone echoed in his voice. "That... that's not a good sound, is it?"

I'm pumping frantically now, raising the truck achingly slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. "No, that's not a good sound. I think the bridge might be coming down. You think you can start to move?"

"Just a couple more inches and I think I'll be able to— what the
fuck
is that?"

Back at the shoreline the tortured cable finally gives way at the south anchorage point. With the sound of a thousand gunshots the cable snaps loose from the concrete, whipping out across the roadway and tearing the vertical suspension cables from their moorings. In just a few seconds the unsupported deck begins to tilt down like a swinging trapdoor, held in place only by the single remaining main cable. A wave ripples down the length of the bridge at breakneck speed as the entire section of deck before the first tower crumbles away and collapses into the water below.

Bishop wriggles frantically out from beneath the truck, scraping his ass across the glass-strewn asphalt without a care for the pain. I look back towards Long Island and see the main cable catapult into the air. At this distance it appears as slender as gossamer, but I know I'm watching a couple hundred meters of three foot thick steel spring high into the sky like it's weightless. When the sound reaches me I immediately abandon the jack. There's no time to raise the truck higher. I run around to the side and grab Bishop by the scruff of his neck, leaning back and dragging with all my might to tug his weight clear. He twists and struggles in my grip, fighting to free himself, and the moment his feet clear the truck the road bucks and rolls wildly. The jack tips and the back of the truck collapses, closing on the asphalt like a bear trap.

"Come on!" I yell, pulling Bishop to his feet. "We gotta get the fuck out of here!"

He doesn't need any more encouragement. As we start to run we both hear the tortured snaps as each vertical cable in turn breaks under the load, unable to support the weight of the deck without the help of the broken cables before it. I'm running as fast as my legs will carry me, but if I could see the chain reaction catching up with us my legs would be a blur.

The trembling deck of the bridge collapses piece by piece, dropping a twenty yard section at a time into the frigid black water of the Narrows. The vertical support cables snap from their moorings like cut tendons, springing upwards with the release of tension. The deck beneath each broken section tilts, listing towards the south, straining on the opposite cables until they too collapse under the strain, sending the deck tumbling down into the churning waters below.

The collapse only accelerates as ever more cables fail. The first few sections fell slowly, holding the strain for several seconds before plummeting, but now they fall like a row of dominoes as each remaining section strains under the weight, not only of itself but of the thick, heavy cable sinking to the bottom of the Narrows.

The noise is deafening now. Each tumbling section adds yet more force to a rumble I can feel resonate through my body. It's barely even sound any more. It's so loud it's become almost a physical presence surrounding me. Beneath my feet the deck of the bridge shakes so much I feel like I'm trying to run across the surface of a bounce house. My knees buckle with every step, and beside me Bishop is doing no better.

"We're almost there!" he yells above the roar, pointing towards the tall gray archway on which the suspension cables rest. It's less than fifty meters ahead of us, and Bishop believes that's the finish line.

I know better. I wish I didn't.

A few years ago, stuck in a cramped aisle seat on a late night Aeroflot flight from Ulaanbaatar to Moscow, I found myself so bored that I spent an hour watching a Russian language documentary about marvels of engineering. I drifted in and out for most of it, but I remember paying close attention when a simulation of a bridge collapse showed up on screen. The image creeps back to the front of my mind now, bringing me little comfort as it dredges up half forgotten facts I'd set aside as useless as soon as I heard them, never imagining it would ever matter to know exactly how a suspension bridge works.

The fact is that reaching the tower won't ensure our safety. Nowhere near, in fact. Beyond the tower there's at least two hundred meters of bridge remaining before it ends in the cable anchorage, and that means there's at least two hundred meters of three foot thick, immensely heavy cable on that side of the tower. I look up, and wish I hadn't. I see four cables, two on each side, along with at least a couple of dozen vertical support cables holding up the bridge. Once the bridge collapses as far as the tower all those cables will go slack, sending the rest of the bridge to the bottom of the Narrows. The cables don't just hold up the center span of the bridge. They hold up the whole thing, all the way back to shore.

No, the only safe place here - and 'safe' is hardly the word - is the tower itself. The tower is the only part of the bridge that's properly grounded, and can stand without the support of the cables. Once this is over there's at least a slim chance it will still be standing.

Bishop tries to accelerate ahead of me, panicking at the sound of approaching collapse. I don't dare look behind to see how close it is, but I know running beyond the tower won't help. We need to find— ah, there it is.

"Bishop!" My voice barely carries over the noise, and he only hears me on the second attempt. "Follow me!" I turn towards the north edge of the deck, terrified that the next big shake will flip me over the edge, but I know there's no choice. The edge is where the only hope of salvation lies.

We finally reach the tower, and I vault clumsily over a railing onto a steel grated walkway probably built for service staff. Through the grating I can see the lower deck of the bridge, surrounded by the thick steel support structure that I'd swear could withstand an asteroid strike if I hadn't already seen it torn apart like wet tissue paper. I feel the grating rattle as Bishop lifts his bulk over and I grip the railing, suddenly afraid that his weight might be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

I don't even try to yell this time. The noise is just overwhelming, and I can see the collapse is only fifty meters from us. I grab Bishop by his collar and point to the steel stairwell running around the outside of the tower, heading down towards the lower deck. I don't wait to see if he understands. I just run.

The steel rattles wildly as the deck collapses around it. I grab hold of the railing for dear life, and my stomach flips over as I feel the stairway break away from the concrete wall. All around me the deck of the bridge tumbles away down to the water far below, and I just cling to the railing and squeeze my eyes closed, praying to be saved by a God I don't believe exists.

The torture goes on for another minute before the noise finally fades. The sound of shattering concrete and rending steel was so loud that its absence sounds even louder. As the last of the bridge hits the water the silence that returns sounds deafening. Alien. Bizarre.

I risk opening my eyes, and when I see where I am my knuckles whiten on the steel railing. The staircase is at least ten feet from the wall of the tower, disconnected at the top and hanging on at the bottom by just a few bolts driven into the concrete.

"Bishop?" My whisper sounds like a yell in the sudden quiet.

"Yep?" The voice comes back muffled, and I look over to find Bishop with his arms wrapped around a steel bar, his face buried in his chest to avoid having to look at the ground fifty meters below.

"You still alive?"

"I don't know." He finally looks up at me and wrinkles his nose. "Does heaven smell like people who've shit their pants?"

I manage a soft laugh. "I don't think so, buddy."

"In that case I'm probably alive. And I need a bath."

"Do you think you can work your way down to—" The staircase creaks ominously, and my heart skips a beat at the sound of a bolt pinging from the concrete. "Move, Bishop,
now.
" I try not to sound panicked, but there's no concealing it. I can feel the staircase swing in the breeze, and I know it won't support our weight much longer.

Bishop reaches the foot of the staircase first, sliding across the steel on his belly like a snake, moving nervously from one section of railing to the next. I follow quickly behind, and when I catch up I find him frozen in place, unwilling to cross the yard wide gap between the foot of the stairs and the thick support girder still firmly fixed to the tower.

"Come on, man, you have to climb over there. This thing's gonna fall any second now, understand?"

He clings to the final railing and looks back at me, shaking his head with tears in his eyes. "I can't. I've got a thing about heights, Tom. I can't move."

"Bishop, you have no choice. If you don't get out of the way I can't get across. Either move now or we'll both die.
Move
!"

His mouth just opens and closes silently, and he shakes his head once more. I can see every tendon in his chubby hands picked out like taut violin strings as he clings onto the railing for dear life. There's nothing for it. I reach forward, stick my hand between his legs and squeeze his balls until he cries out in agony. He lets go of the railing and brings his hands down to protect himself, and I yell as loud as I can. "
Goooooo
!"

By some miracle it works. He's so distracted by the pain he scrambles to his feet and steps across the gap onto the girder, sending the staircase shaking loose as he goes. I shuffle forward as he drops down to hug the steel, and just as I stand to step across the chasm I feel the world give way beneath me.

Time seems to slow to a crawl. It's a strange feeling. My stomach flutters as the support beneath my feet simply stops being there, and for a moment it feels as if the world has forgotten about the laws of gravity. I hang unsupported in mid air, a gap of air between my feet and the rapidly accelerating staircase, and I feel a strange, brief rush of dizzying elation before time comes rushing back with a vengeance. Gravity returns, and I feel the ground far below sucking at my feet, pulling me down to meet it. The last thought that passes through my mind as I begin to fall is simple:

What the fuck is that?

And then I feel myself yanked to a halt. I look up and find myself safe in the meaty grip of a bizarre angel. An angel with a mullet, a scruffy beard and a T-shirt with Kevin Bacon's face painted in bacon strips.

Bishop strains with my weight, shifting himself on the girder to steady me. "Promise me one thing, Tom," he growls, "or I swear to the Lord God I'll let you fall." He takes a deep breath and lets out an angry sigh. "You will
never
touch my balls again unless I damn well ask you to. Is there an understanding between us?"

I can feel my sanity slipping away. Maybe it's the height. Maybe it's the fact that I just watched a bridge collapse around me. Maybe it's the sight I just saw far below. For whatever reason I can't help myself break into a fit of the giggles. I can barely catch my breath, but I finally manage to get it out. "It's a deal. Pull me up."

Bishop lifts me easily with one arm, depositing me on the wide girder where I lean over and hug it for dear life, terrified that I'll laugh so much I'll fall off.

"What's so God damned funny?" Bishop demands, holding a hand over his balls and scowling at me.

"Look down, Bishop. Look at the water," I manage, gasping for air. "Tell me God isn't fucking with us."

Bishop peers nervously over the edge of the girder and finally sees why I've lost it.

Fifty meters below us thousands of tons of shattered concrete, steel supports and the few cars that remained on the bridge have plunged to the depths of the Narrows. Most of the wreckage sank straight to the bottom, but on the way it hit something that doesn't belong.

It hit a net.

Fifty meters beneath us the black, cold water of the Narrows churns and froths like a scene from the end of Titanic. In the darkness countless infected thrash about in the water. Many are tangled in the remains of the net. Many more were crushed by the falling bridge and buried beneath tons of concrete on the riverbed. I look downriver, and in the fading light I see the churning white foam kicked up by thousands of struggling bodies. Thousands of infected floating freely, released from their prison. Many of them will be carried out by the current, I'm sure. Many of them will bloat and rot far out to sea, without ever setting foot on land again.

But some of them won't. In the dim light I can already see dozens of bodies struggle from the water. Maybe hundreds, dragging themselves to shore like rats.

Bishop plants his forehead on the cold steel girder and closes his eyes. "It's not over, is it?"

I shake my head and watch the land. The power is still running on Staten Island, and as the automatic street lights flicker on street by street they cast their glow on the heaving, wriggling shore, the narrow beach hidden beneath the dark crowds of infected crawling to land.

No, Bishop." My laughter has gone now. "I think this may just be the beginning."