Charges (7 page)

Geraldo slumped into the chair beside him. “Oh, man.”

Vincenzo nodded and drank some more water. “Oh, man,” he echoed.

“Months? For real, no power for
months
?”

Vincenzo wished that was all he had on his mind. He couldn’t get the image of the toddler’s broken, bloodied body out of his mind, lying there in the middle of Fifty-Ninth Street.
Oh, God. That poor kid…

“Mister Vincenzo?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, months, they said. Maybe years, even. Seems like some of those talking heads on TV were right. The entire world is pretty severely fucked right about now.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sir.”

Vincenzo thought about telling Geraldo about the boy but shoved the notion aside. There was nothing to be gained from that, and the last thing he wanted to do was put the doorman in a position of having to try and administer comfort. “I’m fine.” He looked around the darkened lobby, which was mysteriously cool. “Pretty nice in here.”

“It’ll stay cool for a bit longer,” Geraldo said. “I tell you, sir, your place is probably becoming an oven right about now.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it. I’d better get up there and crack open some windows.” There were a few windows that could be opened in the condo but not many. Vincenzo wondered if he would be able to get any kind of airflow through the unit at all.

“Maybe you can get some of the other owners to open their doors,” Geraldo suggested. “Get some air flowing along the floor. It’s going to be tough for everyone, I wonder how the older residents are going to be able to handle it.”

“I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know how
I’m
going to be able to handle it.” He looked at the slight doorman. “When are you leaving, Geraldo?”

“Huh?”

“When are you going home?”

Geraldo stirred uncomfortably. “Well, I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard from the building super, and—”

“There’s going to be a curfew at dusk. Citywide. You don’t leave soon, you might not be able to make it home before dark.”

“Oh. Thanks for telling me, sir.” Geraldo looked around the lobby, obviously torn between his desire to get home and his instinct to stay at the Metropolitan until he was officially relieved. Outside, Manhattanites were already succumbing to self-centered, selfish acts. In the lobby of the Metropolitan Tower, though, a man from the Bronx was almost having a crisis of faith.

“You have to get home, Geraldo. Come back if you can, but get home and take care of things. We’ll be all right here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for that, Mister Vincenzo. I’ll be hanging out for a bit longer. Listen, you know the elevators are still out. Are you going to be able to make it all the way to your floor?”

Vincenzo sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be able to make it.” But he knew he would hate every moment of it.

###

The climb through darkness, and in mounting heat and humidity, left Vincenzo exhausted and out of breath. By the time he reached the landing on the seventy-second floor, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and his entire body ached. His thighs burned as if on fire, and he felt light-headed with the sound of his pulsing blood loudly in his ears. The climb had been much more grueling than his earlier descent, and if he’d known how tough it was going to be, he might never have left his condo.

The entire seventy-second floor was essentially a giant sauna. Some residents had already propped open their doors, but the weak breeze flowing through the hallway did little to dispel the heat. Vincenzo entered his condo and immediately likened it to stepping into an oven. He’d failed to lower the shades before leaving that morning, and he would be surprised if it wasn’t at least ninety-five degrees in there. He propped the front door open with a chair from the dining room then went around raising the few small windows that could be opened. The airflow picked up a bit, but it would take some time for the condo to cool, if it did at all. He remained hopeful, even though he wondered if retreating to a black glass tower on a hot summer day was in any way wise. But after what he’d witnessed on the streets below, he had little choice.

Vincenzo made his way to the master bedroom and found it was a bit
                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                                                                
cooler. That side of the angular building hadn’t been exposed to direct sunlight. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water from the bathtub, and placed it inside the shower stall. After stripping off his sweaty clothes, he stepped into the shower, bringing the Beretta with him. With the front door hanging open and the city going to hell in a hand basket, there was no way he was going to let the weapon out of his sight. He parked it on one of the ledges inside the stall, grabbed a washcloth, and gave himself a quick rubdown with the tepid water. He decided then that one of the things he would miss most over the coming days and weeks would likely be running water. He dumped the bucket’s remaining contents over his head. The warm water did little to cool him, but at least he felt a bit cleaner.

Momentarily sweat free, he returned to the bedroom and opened his backpack. He stuffed some shirts, socks, and underwear inside then went to the walk-in closet. Fumbling about in the dark, he found a leather messenger bag and tossed it onto the unmade bed. Reaction, by Kenneth Cole. Just the kind of trendy bag that would come in handy in New York City. Vincenzo hoped it would hold up over the coming months. He transferred some of his supplies into the bag—water packets, food, bandages, Tylenol, ammunition—all the things he might need to get to in a hurry while out on the road.

###

The night was riven by violence.

The condo had cooled as the day slowly died, and starting in the late afternoon, Vincenzo heard the echoes of gunshots reverberating throughout the city. He ate some of the food he had prepared the night before and chased it down with some still-cool bottles of Anchor Steam beer. Sitting in the living room, looking out over the southeastern edge of Central Park and the glass façade of the One57 tower across the street, he watched flames dance against the darkening sky. An entire block in Manhattan’s Upper East Side was burning. The power hadn’t been out for even twenty-four hours, and the upper reaches of the city were already being engulfed by a miasma of black smoke. He wondered if the flames had started in Harlem and moved downward, or if some dotty old blueblood had inadvertently set her posh townhouse on fire.

He checked his watch. Self-winding, the Rolex Submariner’s automatic action would keep going for as long as its bearer kept moving. It was ten minutes past eight, and the sun hadn’t yet fully set. But a gloom had descended over West Fifty-Seventh Street, as if someone had held a mirror up to Vincenzo’s heart. Alone in the dwindling heat of his apartment, he couldn’t think about anything but his wife and son, separated from him by the entirety of the continental United States. He’d never thought they would be so far away. In the era of jet travel, Los Angeles was only a little under five hours distant. But without transportation, they were months of travel away, maybe years if he got caught in the winter.

Back in California, he’d always thought the full-on survivalists and preppers were a little bit nuts at best, and dangerous radicals at worst. With disaster upon them, the survivalists were the ones who would rule the coming years. They were prepared, they were ready, and a lot of them had been eager for some massive, catastrophic event like the one that had befallen the world. A good many wouldn’t be nice after suffering through years of ridicule and ostracism. There was probably a lot of
schadenfreude
out there among the prepper communities at the moment, and Vincenzo couldn’t outright blame them. He wanted to
be
one of those fringe radicals he and his California friends had always derided and held at a contemptible arm’s length.

Vincenzo knew he had a lot to learn, but the first thing he had to do was get out of the city. The George Washington Bridge, located ten miles to the north, was his escape path. He could walk west on Fifty-Seventh Street to where it intersected the Joe DiMaggio Highway, then he would walk those ten miles northbound. The Joe DiMaggio would turn into the Henry Hudson around West Seventy-Ninth Street. Eventually, he would come to the George Washington, a two-level bridge spanning the Hudson River that connected the island of Manhattan with New Jersey. He had never cared much for Jersey, but he found he was suddenly quite eager to put foot on soil in the Garden State.

Eventually, he would have to leave New York City.

###

He sucked it up for two days, hanging out in the tower while clinging to the hope the lights would come back on. During daylight hours, he struck out for the rumored aid stations and found huge lines, a combative crowd, and far too little in way of supplies. By the second day, three of the distribution points had been bled dry. Signs directed people to additional sites, so Vincenzo walked to the closest one, all the way over on Twelfth Avenue. The area was a mob scene, and the NYPD and other emergency services personnel were having a difficult time maintaining order. It was a powder keg situation, and Vincenzo didn’t stick around. He returned to the Metropolitan and spent a lot of time in the lobby, talking with other residents and Geraldo.

That night, Vincenzo didn’t get much in the way of rest. Not only was there mounting commotion in the streets below, but odd noises seemed to come from the building itself as it cooled—creaks, rumbles, and cracking sounds that finally prompted him to close and lock the door. He stretched out on his bed, his pistol close at hand as he dozed fitfully.

Finally, when he sensed a brightening in the eastern sky, he got up to brush his teeth then went into the kitchen. Through the open windows in the living room, he heard the distant screams of a woman. He felt he should do something, but he had no idea what that might be. The NYPD was on the streets; it was their job to keep the peace. He still felt guilty, but he fumbled in the semidarkness as he set about grabbing some breakfast. He helped himself to some pumpkin spice cupcakes, chased down with two kid-sized containers of orange juice he had bought for Benny. Since the chances of his son visiting New York in the near future were remarkably dismal, Vincenzo elected to drink them. By the time he finished his brief breakfast, the screaming had stopped.

He walked through the condo, checking all the rooms to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything useful behind. He was certain the place would be looted, so anything he didn’t take would likely be lost forever. He found nothing. Everything he needed was already in his backpack and the leather knapsack.

He went back to the bathroom, brushed his teeth again, and took a long piss into the bathroom sink. After gathering his bags, he slipped on his StealthGear holster and seated the Beretta into it. He headed for the stairway on sore legs, Mag-Lite in hand.

###

The walk down the stairs was as dreadful as it had been the day before. The emergency lights were completely exhausted, their batteries drained. The fluorescent tape that marked the boundaries of the steps had likewise lost its effectiveness. With no illumination to recharge the chemicals that made the strips glow in darkness, the applications had been rendered inoperative. As an added discomfort, the stairwell was still warm, full of thick, humid air that couldn’t be dispelled. The vague stink of old urine tickled Vincenzo’s nostrils. Clearly, someone had been using the stairwell as a toilet. He shined his Mag-Lite around, looking for any puddles of piss that might be in his path. The last thing he wanted was to slip and break his ass, especially since medical care would be a long way away. He found nothing, but the stench increased the lower he went.
Shit rolls downhill.

By the time he made it to the first floor, his legs were on fire, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He was exhausted, and sweat poured down his body, leaving his shirt soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. The door to the lobby was propped open, allowing dim light to reveal the stairwell landing. Vincenzo heard voices, and he crept toward the doorway. He didn’t know who was out there, and he didn’t want to step into the middle of a robbery or invasion in progress. He slipped his Mag-Lite into the retainer ring on his backpack then reached under his shirt and gripped the butt of the Beretta with his right hand.
Just in case.