Harry Styles and the New York Apocalypse (12 page)

Sabrina was becoming more and more clingy towards Liam, something which he decided that he quite liked. She was there, holding his forearm, as they squatted in one of the entrances to the shopping mall, with the glass doors smashed behind them. He had insisted she stayed to his left, leaving his gun hand free. He smiled at Sabrina’s beautiful, fragile face, then looked into the darkened, litter-strewn mall, all ghostly quiet. Mr Manning was next to him, aiming his shotgun over a low wall, back the way they had come, while Allison sat on the floor, glaring at the old man. They had heard something echo on the street as they stood arguing, so had rushed over to the comparative safety of the mall entrance.

‘Atlantic City?’ continued Allison. ‘
Really
?’

‘Not now, Allison,’ Liam rebuked her.

‘It’s like a magical mystery tour. Where next? Disneyland?’

Mr Manning looked at her. ‘I’ll take you to New York as promised. But I’ve come for my wife first.’

‘Nice of you to tell us.’

Liam nudged Mr Manning. Shapes were coming through the mist, still quite a way off. ‘The people who took a shot at us?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Maybe. They could have followed us down this way.’

‘Shall we go through the shopping centre?’

Mr Manning indicated windows that were blackened and blown out by fire. ‘Fire inside. May be a death trap in there.’

This was it, thought Liam. No avoiding confrontation now. The three figures were coming straight at the mall, evenly spaced, dressed in dark clothing, long weapons out in front. But they were not military-trained, clearly, as they strolled on, their conversations now able to be heard by Liam’s group. Liam disentangled himself from Sabrina and made her get down as low as possible.

Mr Manning took charge, looking straight into Liam’s face.

‘We wait,’ he said. ‘Until as late as possible. Then I’ll take out the middle one. That will be your signal to go for the one to the right, and I’ll then turn left. Understood?’

Liam struggled to swallow, so nodded clearly.

Stressed beyond belief, his knees quivering, Liam realised, bizarrely, that one of his old crowns was aching in his jaw. Maybe his nervous system was so focussed on what was about to happen, his body had given up masking the trouble in his tooth. His mind managed to wander briefly in that moment, onto dentists working without electricity. He shook his head and watched the men come on. They were saying things about options for their next meal, comparing what they could each add to the pot. By then, Liam could see how criminal the men appeared, with long, dirty hair and long beards from well before the crisis. Not that anyone should be shot down without warning, but they really did carry a sub-human menace to them, and he was not letting them anywhere near… Boosh!! Mr Manning let one of his barrels go, flinging the middle man back to the floor. Deafened, Liam finished his thought, that he was not going to let them anywhere near his lovely Sabrina, who was howling at his feet. He fired his gun at the man to the right, who had only reacted by turning to look in astonishment at the downed man. Liam’s one bullet took the man in the side of the head, dropping him comprehensively. So astonished with his accuracy, Liam just stared, and missed Mr Manning standing to fire at the other man.

‘Missed!’ cursed Mr Manning, already reloading.

Liam checked on Sabrina, her black eyes imploring him to protect her. Allison was still in the same position, with her hands over her ears. Mr Manning was tugging at Liam’s arm, telling him they were to go while it was clear.

‘The third man?’ Liam asked.

‘Fled! Get the girls.’

Liam went for Sabrina first, then yanked Allison to her feet. Running after Mr Manning, Liam didn’t even look at the man he had just killed.

Mr Manning randomly chose a shoe shop for them to hunker down in and gather themselves. All the communal seating was overturned, so they got down on the floor behind one of those. Liam had two hysterical women on his hands. He didn’t want to slap Sabrina’s face, so he slapped Allison’s instead. The stinging shock made both girls stop wailing, and cry silently.

After a moment, Liam conferred with Mr Manning, deciding with their eyes that it was done with now and they were okay.

‘Liam, I know we’re close to where my Zahira was staying, attached to the conference hall.’

‘Shit, Mr Manning. I hope she’s there, and that this works again in New York.’

‘It will, son. It will.’

‘Why don’t you three wait here for me?’

Allison was instantly back on form. ‘Fuck that, you bastard! You’re not leaving us here.’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Mr Manning. ‘Stupid of me. We’ll rest a while.’

Liam went into his backpack, passed around bottled water. Allison selfishly used some to wash her face, but he was beyond telling her off. He put the safety on his pistol and put it in his belt. Then he found he was sitting next to a pile of trainers. He rooted through and came up with a nice pair of pink Nikes which he offered to Sabrina. The gesture made her smile and she stretched up to hold him round the neck and kiss him.

‘Soon be in New York,’ he whispered to her. ‘After we find my sister we’ll sit down and decide what to do for the best.’

‘I just want to be wherever you are. I love you. I love you so, so much.’

‘I love you too. I’m sorry I dragged you through this.’

‘No, no, I wanted to come. Please don’t think that.’

They stayed hugging until Mr Manning wanted to move on. They hit the street, still shrouded in mist, probably made worse by the fires in the city. Mr Manning knew the way. Liam assumed the Atlantic City conference was a regular event for the Mannings. They walked in a line, snaking between abandoned vehicles. A particularly butchered corpse made Sabrina look away sharply, and had Liam thinking about disease. They shouldn’t be in the cities with dead bodies lying around, and yet they had maybe three days until they started walking around Manhattan. Despair flooded through him momentarily, thinking that no-one would stay in a city like this, that these two missions were bound to fail, before he girded his resolve, checked on the girls, and pressed on.

They passed under a road bridge, with iron girders holding it up. On the concrete face was written:
e11 was an inside job
. They all saw it. Liam certainly figured it out, but he didn’t compare notes. Someone had leant off the bridge and while hanging upside down had spray-painted an E instead of a 9.

Out from under the bridge, Mr Manning became agitated, in a good way, pointing across a square to a massive building, with limp flags from all the countries in the world hanging in front of it.

‘That’s the conference centre,’ he said to Liam.

‘Should we pass it by and find the hotel?’

‘I don’t know. No, let’s see who’s there.’

Who was there came out to meet them: an Atlantic City cop with his firearm levelled on them, ordering them to drop their weapons and kneel down, linking their fingers behind their heads. Behind him were several civilians. Mr Manning placed down his shotgun and Liam did likewise with his pistol, then they all knelt and placed their hands as instructed. The cop approached and kicked the weapons clear, which were then picked up by two of the male civilians. The cop retreated, still covering them.

‘And the novelty continues,’ said Allison, sarcastically.

‘What do you people want?’ asked the cop.

Mr Manning explained the reason for their arrival, giving all their names. The cop, a large, white man, consulted with the civilians. Some shrugging took place. Finally, the four of them were taken into the foyer of the conference building, sat down on sofas and kept under guard by Officer O’Sullivan (as he introduced himself) while someone went off to enquire about a Mrs Zahira Manning being with the hairdressing conference.

Mr Manning considered engaging Officer O’Sullivan in conversation, asking if he knew anything, but the cop seemed to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown; probably with the stress of being a figure of authority in a world no longer with any rules. One of the female civilians did offer tea, which was gratefully accepted.

Liam sat with Sabrina against him, sometimes resting her head on his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her, but restrained himself. They had just finished the hot beverages when a small, grey-haired, Asian woman hurried across the foyer and threw herself into Mr Manning’s arms. It was touching to see the desperate reconciliation - Liam imagined something similar with his sister. They all got to their feet. A group of civilians followed across, seemingly taking over from Officer O’Sullivan, who was happy to move away.

Liam felt the need to sit again, fatigue grabbing him. He took Sabrina by the hand and returned to their sofa. Then he gave her that passionate kiss.

A waiter brought sandwiches and coffee onto the patio for Ferguson, which Michael was invited to share. Michael wondered if there could possibly be anywhere else in the world he would less like to be, but he was famished, so he accepted.

Then, after they had eaten, Bill was waved over; it was time for Michael to meet his crew, his team, his fellow survivors who for some reason he was thought suitable to be called leader of. It was so bizarre that he found it difficult to comprehend, as he thanked Ferguson and traipsed off behind the fat gunman again.

‘Your people handle laundry,’ said Bill, over a shoulder.

Michael just let that go right over his head. Whoever they were, these people, he would just be friendly, explain his circumstances, find out what they knew, discuss the best way to get the hell out of there.

He smelled the laundry before he got there, with that dry heat in the air. It was a wide doorway, probably for laundry baskets, so he and Bill entered together. Three men of mixed ages immediately jumped to their feet. They were in white shirts and black trousers, and appeared hot and bothered, as if they had just decided to take a break.

‘They’re expecting you,’ said Bill, before turning on his heels and departing.

Michael looked from one face to the next. Was this his team? A spotty teenager, a twenty-something man in glasses, and a thin man in his fifties? He got a “hello, sir” from the twenty-something, and then nods and two more “sirs”. He didn’t want anyone calling him sir, least of all a much older man. Plus, he wanted to ask “are you taking the piss?” because they all knew this situation to be ludicrous. He was about to pull them up about it, explain himself, when the rest of his group came through from the main laundry area. First came a middle-aged woman, followed by a gorgeous teenager, and then another equally pretty girl of about sixteen. All three females were dressed exactly like the waitresses from the day before, in white blouses, tied with a black belt, and the sexy socks over the knees. Michael felt a terrible feeling of foreboding. Was this some kind of cult he had wandered into?

The older woman stepped forward. ‘Hello, sir. My name’s Jane. Would you like some refreshments?’ Michael’s mind was still in a whirl, so he neglected to pick her up on the “sir”. ‘We have your quarters ready for you, if you’d care to see them.’

‘Jane, did you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She went on to introduce the men, but Michael didn’t pay attention. ‘Phillip, Nicolas and Jerry. And this is Sienna.’ That was the younger girl, who attempted a kind of curtsey. ‘And Taylor.’ The older teenager nodded. Michael detected that she was keeping her disgust of him hidden. Taylor, thought Michael, was the archetypal all-American girl, the leader of the cheerleader squad, although her unhappiness and pale, drawn demeanour dulled the impression.

‘Yes, I’ll see my quarters.’

‘Follow me, sir,’ said Jane.

Michael scanned the group one last time. His dark sense of humour came out again when he left them with, ‘Carry on.’

Jane led him along a warren of corridors until letting him into a suite of rooms, which were five times better than the one he had spent the night in. He looked around as if he were a valued hotel guest. He actually put his hands in his pockets and found one of his five dollar bills as a tip, but did not bring it out. He looked out the window, and beheld the spot where the helicopter had crashed. The blackened mess was pretty self-explanatory so he didn’t ask Jane about it. She was telling him about the useless mini-bar, but that cold drinks could be brought to him at any time. When she started to discuss his dirty clothes he stopped her.

‘Jane, sit down. Yes, sit down.’ She sat in a chair while he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

‘I’m Jane, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, but before the world got screwed up. What’s your full name? What brought you here?’

‘My name is Jane Flynn. I used to be the Food and Beverage Manager here.’ Michael prompted her to continue. ‘Since the situation came on us, I’ve been happy to play my part in whatever way I can. Mr Ferguson has been very good to us, organising everyone…’

Michael noted that she said the name Mr Ferguson the same way a resident of North Korea might feel obliged to say Kim Jong-un.

‘Do you know why I have been put in charge of this group?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Who was in charge before? Who am I replacing? Oh, God, not the man I shot?’

‘No, that was Mr Fassbender you shot, the former General Manager. Our group leader was called Mr Kellogg, but he died of a heart attack. We buried him two days ago.’

So, there it was, thought Michael. A name to the man he had killed. Mr Fassbender.

‘Why would Mr Fassbender want to kill Mr Ferguson?’

Jane paused. ‘We believe his mind must have been disturbed at the time.’

‘Why are there groups here?’

‘Mr Ferguson felt it better, as a way to avoid chaos. Mr Ferguson owns the Country Club, you see.’

Michael looked at the way Jane was dressed, but decided not to ask who decided on the attire.

‘Is your husband, partner here with you, Jane?’

‘No, sir, my partner is in New Haven.’

Michael stayed away from his group that day. He went for a walk in the sun, looking at where the armed guards patrolled. He was thinking about the best way to leave, keeping in mind the way he was quickly hunted down after killing Mr Fassbender. He certainly didn’t want to fail to get clear at the first attempt, and then become less than a revered guest of Mr Ferguson. Michael bumped into one of Ferguson’s men, a thuggish individual called Wade, who took Michael into a kitchen where he knew there was soup on. Wade was not a man for small talk, especially as he was slurping his soup, but Michael did manage to glean information on which way the nearest town was, and what the local situation was regarding the crisis.

Getting away from Wade, Michael came into contact with more of the normal people. Half a dozen men were working on a vegetable patch. Two women were cleaning windows. Michael couldn’t stop himself admiring the legs in the thigh-high socks. He wandered by a creche, which looked perfectly normal, apart from the nannies wearing the same get-up. He found a nice sofa to recline in, and must have nodded off, because he woke up with a start. He hadn’t realised how tired he was. Then he noticed his reflection in a glass door - never one to grow a beard easily, he certainly had one now. He got up and set off for the laundry, only taking two wrong turns, then he knew where he was and carried on to his room. The young girl stood up as he entered. What was her name? Sienna.

‘Sir. We’ve been taking turns waiting for you.’

Michael noticed fresh clothes on the bed.

‘Would you like a drink, sir? Coffee or tea? Something else? Would you like a bath, sir? We have to boil a lot of water in the laundry.’

‘I could do with a shave.’

‘Jane has put that kind of stuff in the bathroom.’

‘Good. Coffee would be great. Thank you. Sienna.’

Sienna excused herself.

Michael must have fallen asleep. He suddenly sat up on the bed, and remembered sitting there earlier, waiting for Sienna to bring his coffee. Night had fallen but there were three candles set about the room. Then he noticed, very perceptively, the coffee ring on the bedside cabinet where the coffee cup had been. He was clearly being fastidiously looked after. He was about to have a wash when Taylor knocked and came in. He looked at her quizzically, so she introduced herself, and he nodded in recognition.

‘Is there anything you need, sir?’

It was all becoming a bit old now, the sir business, he thought.

‘No, thank you, Taylor.’

‘Will you be requiring company this evening, sir?’

He looked at Taylor. ‘Sorry? What?’

‘Company, sir. Female companionship.’

He stared aghast at Taylor.