Survivor (10 page)

It was a dangerous feeling.

“H
uh?” Something had woken me. The fire glowed and crackled. Rachel was a still form under her quilts. The fire sparked again, its coals shifting. The log still had a few good hours of burning ahead, which meant it must only have been an hour or so since I'd nodded off.

I'd been entering that nightmare again, the soldiers on horseback, and to be away from it now, to be awake, was a relief; I was able to bear the reality. I should remember this scene—the crackling fire, Rachel peaceful in sleep—and this moment, for it was full of possibility, full of happiness. I watched the fire until I felt my eyes closing. A noise jolted me from my semi-lucid state. From downstairs?

The hallway.

I opened my eyes wide, my heart racing, my breath short. It was a tapping or a rattling, faint; there and then gone again. Just the wind seeping into the old building? Then silence . . .

I was alert, on edge, but overwhelmed with exhaustion and soon felt myself start to drift off, my body heavy. I rolled onto my back, looked up at the ceiling.
Stay awake.
The whitewashed timber paneling, the knots and grains forming patterns and shapes.
Stay awake.
I picked out a car, a mountain range, a fox, a face.

A louder bang. I sat up, wide awake now.

“Rachel?” I whispered. I looked across the room at her sleeping form. She didn't move. “Rachel?”

I got up fast, pulled on my jeans and coat and went over to Rachel; she was sound asleep, breathing slowly and rhythmically and smiling against her pillow. I reached for her shoulder but stopped:
let her be
. Part of me thought that if this was it, I should let her go like that. Most of me wanted to prove something.

I put on my shoes, pulling the Glock pistol from my FDNY coat pocket, making sure a round was loaded and ready to fire, and took a battery-powered flashlight from the bookcase.

My hand rested on the brass doorknob. Just a moment. I took a deep breath, then turned the handle, inched the door open, felt the cold air flood in.

The hallway was dark, quiet. I closed the door behind me, the faint glow of the fire just visible beneath it. We needed locks on these doors. What if someone got inside the building? It was quiet, not a sound or creak. Had I imagined those noises?

I shone the light ahead of me, down towards the stairs, to the left and into the bathroom. Nothing untoward.

I inched my way forward, the floorboards creaking under my weight. I reached the far end of the hall, where the noise had come from. The bright shaft of the flashlight beam illuminated the shadows. How I wished for a light switch; power and the security that came with it, freedom from the unknown, freedom from the surprises. The bathroom was empty, unchanged, silent, the buckets of water still lined up, just as they had been earlier. I went back out to the hall; so long, so dark, hoping the beam of bright light would scare away more than just the shadows.

The door opposite the bathroom was a little different from the others, the bottom corner black and charred, leaving a gap that let through a constant draught.

I watched that door, hesitating before opening it, not wanting to be reminded of another closed door back at 30 Rock—some doors should not be opened. I resolved that I had to check it for Rachel's sake. Inside, I found myself in some kind of lounge or reception room, burned out by fire some time ago; from the attack, I supposed, though Rachel had said nothing of it. Black soot surrounded the hearth and spread out along the floor before it and the timber wall paneling surrounding the door was blackened too, as if the flames had spewed forth to consume the room.

I felt as though I'd seen this image before, in the charred corpses at a road tunnel. There was a hole in the floor where it had burned clean through, a blackened beam and the topside of a plaster ceiling just visible below; a desk by a window with a burned-out antique globe, another skeleton of what had once been whole. It was so cold in here, spookily so, and quiet. I left, shutting the door behind me.

At the top of the stairs I waited and listened, a hand on the banister to steady myself. Maybe it had been the wind or an animal outside in the zoo? Maybe I had imagined it? I turned off the flashlight and sank down on the top step and sat there. So dark and so quiet. If I heard someone come up these creaky stairs I'd flick on the flashlight and blind them as they turned at the landing, shoot if I had to. What if there was more than one? I glanced back at the glow under the door to the room where Rachel was sleeping. I waited in silence and darkness.

Rustling. Another rattle-bang from downstairs.

Then behind me.

My mouth dry, I twisted on the flashlight, but couldn't see anything in either direction, just my fogging breath swirling through the beam of light.

The sound again, downstairs, then again a moment later only fainter, from behind me. I let out a breath; it was the original noise, reverberating and echoing around me.

It sounded like it was coming from
inside
the building. Someone walking, feeling their way around in the dark? More than one person?

I squeezed the pistol's grip, tiptoed cautiously down the stairs. I paused on the landing; crouching, looking. There was nothing for it. I descended.

My boots clamored, announcing my presence on the tiled floor of the lobby that linked the front and back doors of the building. There was a cold breeze, like a window somewhere down here had been left open. The narrow shaft of my flashlight beam pierced the shadows. I imagined that whatever was here was hiding in the shadows beyond its reach, retreating to another place, another world.

Times had changed and who knew what went bump in the night anymore? The attack on this city had brought out a kind of monster in all of us. I'd seen a smashed-in tunnel out of Manhattan, where thousands of people had been claimed by fire in a death worse than anything I could have imagined. There was still some heat coming off the smoldering plastic and rubber and fuel, and the smell sent me away faster than the sight. I'd run away fast, blindly south, the gun held high, wishing I could confront the people responsible for all this. In that moment, given the chance, I would have killed as many of those responsible as I could—and what did that make me?

Alone, standing here in a cold, dark, silent hallway.

The barricaded front doors held fast, but a chair I had stacked up had fallen over to the floor. The flashlight beam bounced off the glass and lit back at me, showing me nothing of outside. The wind tonight was strong and whistled through the broken window, rattling the mass of furniture. I pocketed the pistol and put the flashlight down on the ground to illuminate the scene before me. I walked forward to pick up the chair—

Stopped. Something, a noise or movement, a presence . . .

I waited for what was next, my hand searching in the coat pocket for the grip of the pistol. My finger found its way into the trigger guard.

I pulled the pistol from my pocket.

Waited.

Nothing came. Not even a noise.

At least a couple of minutes passed while I didn't dare move, frozen in fear and expectation. I was prepared to scream and fight and shoot, but still nothing came. I could hear my heart slowing, my shoulders relaxing just a little—

Something moved into the shaft of light; a rat, sniffing, bumping, making the flashlight spin again, giving me a quick 360 snapshot of the scene. Nothing else. Nothing but a rat. I almost laughed. I was alone down here.

I followed the animal out of the building and through the back door. As I inched it open, I was confronted by dark nothingness. The flashlight beam was lost out in the inky zoo grounds so I twisted it off, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the night's gloom.

Clouds hung low, hiding the stars, but eerily backlit by the moon.

The animals. The cold wind. The unknown. The creak of a tree and the scurry of a critter. I remained in the impenetrable darkness, and walked a lap around the central pool, itself another level of black nothingness. There were perimeter fences here, made of stone and steel; I could just make out the ones that branched away from the arsenal building, but they were little more than a cursory deterrent. Still, I felt oddly safe out here, as if being surrounded by Rachel's flock of animals provided some kind of extra security; all those eyes and ears alert, ready to raise the alarm should someone enter their enclosure. But then what?

No Chasers had come in here yet, over the fences, so why would that change now?

Because they were getting smarter? Better at hunting? Better at getting at their prey?

I suddenly felt wide awake and full of purpose. I felt as though I could see better than any other night; farther, clearer, with more confidence.

I sat down with my back to the rear door of the arsenal building. It was my sentry and I was Rachel's. The animals too. We were a family, in this together. I pulled on my hood and felt warmth slowly spread around to my frozen face. I sat there for a long time, watching the scene before, waiting for dawn.

 

“Up early,” Rachel said as she joined me on the steps, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Couldn't sleep,” I said; another lie. I could sleep, given the chance, forever. My legs and butt were numb from having sat out here for so long, but after all this time listening to the city's lonely beat, my mind was clear.

“Noises woke you?”

I looked up at her, suspicious. “Yeah,” I replied.

“It's the building,” she said, adjusting the brightness of her lantern. “It has a life of its own—tormented by branches against the windows, rats in the walls, possums in the ceiling, the heat and cold. And that's just the usual fare.”

I nodded wearily.

“Come on in,” Rachel said, wrapped tight in her blanket and her bed-hair tucked behind her ears. “You'll freeze to death. I've got some water on the boil.”

I followed her inside. It was just before 7:30
A.M.
Inside the bathroom I washed, using a bucket of warm water, savoring the heat and the steam. Through the bathroom window, I could see the bleak beginnings of dawn through the bare trees, whose branches shook in the breeze.

Rachel was stirring a pot of porridge on the fire.

“Thanks,” I said, as she put a bowl of porridge with honey on the desk in front of me, juice and tea already laid out. I poured the pot of water into the teapot, jiggled the teabags.

We ate by the gray glow of the early morning light that spilled through the windows and Rachel sat quite straight while I tried not to slouch too much. The sounds of her sipping coffee, swallowing, her spoon against the bowl; all distractions from what I wanted to say.

All I wanted to ask right then was what it would take for Rach to leave. But I feared her answer. I'd either have to give her a good reason to leave, or this place would.

“Look, Rachel . . . let's leave soon, yeah?”

“We've got enough food for the week,” she said, before reading my expression. “You mean leave New York.”

I nodded.

“Jesse . . . you know I can't do that—I can't leave them here alone like that.”

“But if I could find someone to take over?” Knowing that would be impossible.

She laughed. “Who? Who would you find?”

I drank my tea. “How about I bring Caleb here, to help out for a while—he's pretty handy, I think. Seems to know a lot about survival.”

“He's just out of high school!”

“Well, I'm still in high school, and you're practically not far out of it.”

“I mean, what, he's learned some stuff from computer games? From what you've told me he's a typical well-off New Yorker, probably never got his hands dirty in his life. You expect him to come here and shovel animal crap? Work all day in the freezing cold?”

“He'd help. I know it.”

“We'll see,” Rachel said, eating the remainder of her porridge in half-spoonfuls. “But . . . look, I know how you're feeling. I feel it too; overwhelmed, freaked, worried—about home, about family. But right now, my home's here. Maybe this is—you know . . .”

I stood.

“Jesse, I'm just being realistic. Have you thought that maybe this is all there is left?”

“I can't believe that, not after all that I've survived.”

Her expression said that I should consider it.

“Somehow, Rach, no matter how I get there or what I find, I'm going to see home again.”

I
t felt good to be up so early. I'd always felt so tired back at 30 Rock. Once or twice I'd tried sleeping more, getting up at the crack of noon instead of dawn, but it didn't help; I'd still felt weary. What helped was people—being around survivors like myself.

I packed my gear, dressed for outdoors, and took my backpack with me. I'd go to Rockefeller Plaza. I'd be on time, and I'd see if Felicity showed. Had she found my note? Maybe she was like Rachel, afraid now of leaving her home. The idea made heat rush up my neck. If she didn't show at the rink, I would swing past her apartment on the way back to the zoo. If I found her, maybe I'd ask her to go up into the tower at 30 Rock with me. We could scan the routes north and I'd get a chance to say a proper good-bye to the place, for good this time.

Caleb
would
help, I knew it. Maybe he wouldn't come here and shovel shit in the snow but I couldn't imagine him
not
wanting to help me persuade Rachel to leave. Maybe he'd resist the idea at first, for fear of the trek and the risk of venturing into unknown territory, but I had to persuade him so he could help me persuade Rach.

What else could we do? How long could they sit and wait for someone else to come help them?

My bag was empty against my back, reassuringly light on my shoulders. Everything about the day felt . . .
different
. It was the reassuring feeling that came with making choices and deciding my own fate.

I found Rachel in the Tropical Zone. So warm in here, a few degrees making such a difference. I passed her a walkie-talkie. She took it, looked at it strangely, flicked the switch and heard it crackle to life.

“I charged them at Caleb's,” I said. “I'll take the other one.”

“Take one?”

I nodded.

She knew then that I was leaving. She looked sick, sad, disappointed. She watched the river otters in their shelter. “Range isn't that far . . .” she said, distant.

“I know,” I said, “but I'll take it, just in case. I'll turn it on each hour, say hi, just to see if you can hear me.”

“Make it every two,” she said, clipping it onto her belt, more sorrowful than angry, “on every even hour.”

“I won't be too long, I just have to see if Felicity turns up.”

“And if she doesn't?”

I followed her outside and looked at the sky, trying to get a read on the gray weather.

“Then I'll just collect some food and come back.”

Rachel took off her coat, warmed by her work, perhaps signifying she was going to set herself into a higher gear now that it was about to be just her again.

“It's dangerous out there.”

“I'll be okay,” I said.

“Weather might get bad—you might get lost.”

“I know my way around.”

“You might not come back.” She dumped some full buckets of water down hard and they splashed on the snow.

“Of course I'll come back.”

But that hadn't been what she meant and we both knew it. She meant I might not
make
it back, that something might happen.

“You don't have to go,” she said, looking down at the wet ground. “You can stay here, with me.”

“Or . . . maybe you could come with me?” I countered, knowing she'd refuse but hoping otherwise. “Just a couple hours away from here?”

We stood there for a moment, the rhetorical question hanging.

“I've got work to do.” She turned away and started preparing fruit and vegetables for the animals, her eyes wet.

 

At the synagogue on 62nd I turned off Fifth, walked east a couple of blocks and then south. It was nearing ten o'clock. I'd go to the ice rink then come back to the zoo. I'd bring more food; I'd cook for Rachel again—find a recipe and make her something good, work on convincing her to leave with us. She would love it.

I heard the distinctive flutter of birds in flight as I passed a smashed-in storefront. Pigeons, flapping out. The ceiling in the shop had collapsed, the hole going up through several stories. Remnants of what was.

A light dusting of snow covered Park Avenue. I walked faster, wide awake with hope and purpose, but knowing this feeling would fade. How it sapped you, this destruction, seeing death up close, always being on edge. Hope was a hard thing to maintain in the face of all that.

I stopped at East 59th to catch my breath and noticed footprints in the snow. I examined them closely. They were varying in size, and had obviously been left here earlier today. I counted them: at least a dozen people had traveled through here. They were divided into three distinct groups and seemed to be heading east. Maybe there was some kind of refuge, hundreds or thousands of people packed into the Bloomingdale's department store? I squinted against the sun, so bright against the snow, watching and waiting. I couldn't see anyone. I couldn't explore today; I had enough to do.

Rachel's words and their meaning rattled around in my head, with a kind of amplified guilt that came from thinking about her when not in proximity to her. It made me wonder if it were almost easier
not
knowing anyone. There was a burden in that kind of obligation. My mom had felt that, which was why she'd left Dad and me.

I pushed on, south, aware that if it really came to it, I may have to make a call on whether to try for the north on my own.